whistling in the dark

We have this little schtick, the boy and I, when we go into public restrooms together: I remind him not to touch anything and he, to keep himself from touching anything, holds his hands up near his chest and sort of twiddles his fingers together. It's not something I told him to do or demonstrated to him, it's just a little motion he came up with on his own. It makes sense, he keeps his hands busy without fiddling around with door locks and toilet paper dispensers, even if the movement looks funny and doesn't really *do* anything.

It's the not really doing anything part that I am thinking about right now.

I hate to admit it. But I kinda feel like this election is fingers twiddling in a public restroom. I don't want to stick my hands where they're especially likely to pick up germs, but I'm compelled to do something, because what else can you do, so I waggle my fingers around and hope maybe I'm, at least, not causing more harm.

Hope. The word has been used so much this electoral season I'm beginning to wonder what we expect from it. And I worry we expect too much.

I've been driving around with that poster in my back window for weeks now, as much as a reminder to random readers as to myself. Not just a public admonishment but a personal insistence that I am not, cannot be, entirely cynical.

A person totally jaded, someone so fed up and disgusted and comfortable comparing politics to the choreographed pomp of a wrestling match, wouldn't, couldn't possibly, scotch tape that sign in her front window. (could she?)

I believe in the democratic process. I believe in the power of the people. I believe voting is important. I believe we have to do something. And I hope that it matters.