I came here to write about scarves.
That was the plan. It’s the first real sweater morning in Johnstown. The fog is still sitting on the hills, and I have my good mug, the green one (I own three, please don’t ask). This week’s column was going to be about the plaid scarf my aunt gave me, the one that comes out on the first cold day like a houseguest who knows where the spare key is.
Then the man at the next table asked if the chair across from me was taken.
It wasn’t. I’d put my bag on it, the way you do when you want a little elbow room. I moved the bag, he sat down, and I went back to my scarf paragraph. But his question stuck to me like foam on the side of a cup.
Is this seat taken?
This week I learned that in Congress, the answer is usually yes before anyone even walks in. (Some of you saw the thread about the senator who mixed up the Atlanta Hawks and the Iowa Hawkeyes. I laughed too. Then I kept reading, and here we are.)
A member of the House speaks for about 760,000 people. That’s nearly six Cambria Counties riding on one voice. When a seat is called “safe,” it means the person in it can count on winning because of the letter after their name. This year the Cook Political Report rates 361 of the 435 House seats as solid for one party. Both parties spent last year redrawing district lines so fewer races would be close, and by spring Bloomberg reported that more than 400 races were effectively decided.
The election is November 3rd. In roughly eight out of ten districts, somebody’s bag is already on the chair.
I sat with that for a while and got a refill. The barista asked how the column was going, and I told her it had changed.
Here’s what I keep coming back to. The United Way counts households where people work, earn more than the poverty line, and still can’t cover rent, child care, groceries, a car, and the doctor. They call these families ALICE, short for Asset Limited, Income Constrained, Employed. In New York, 48 percent of households fall below that line. Oklahoma is at 43, Tennessee 41, Iowa 34. Red states and blue states alike, it comes to about four in ten families who are one flat tire away from a bad month.
I know some ALICEs, and you probably do too. The girl who makes my latte works a second job on weekends. My neighbor stretches her prescriptions to make them last. A friend from college moved back in with her mom at 34 and laughs about it in that way that means it isn’t funny.
Meanwhile the country is at war with Iran. I’m a mug-and-scarf writer, and wars make me want to pull a blanket over my head. Still, I saw reports that the military is running low on munitions, and I thought about who pays to restock them. It’s the same kitchen tables.
So how does a seat stay safe while the people around it are this tired? I’d think a seat should feel safe when the folks in the district are doing okay and the person holding it helped make that happen. Instead it stays safe the way my bag held this chair. It didn’t have to do anything. It just had to get there first.
This goes for both sides, and I’ll be gentle about it, because I know you have feelings about yours. I have an uncle who would vote for a houseplant with an R on the pot, and a cousin in Philly who would do the same for a D. They hug at Thanksgiving. They’ve also both told their representatives, ahead of time, “Don’t worry about me, I’m covered.” A person who knows you’re covered spends their worry somewhere else: on the donor, the party, or whoever might run against them in the primary.
Loving a party is a little like loving a coffee place. You have your spot, your usual order, and a punch card with nine stamps on it. That’s sweet when it’s coffee. Your coffee place can’t raise your rent or send your nephew to the Persian Gulf.
So here’s my small question for the week, the kind I’d usually ask about cleaning out a closet: who are you saving the seat for? The party, or the people you know by name?
If it’s the people, try a simple test. Ask whoever holds your seat what they’ve done for the folks on your street. They have a record, and you can look it up over something warm. If you can’t name one thing that made life easier for someone you know, that chair shouldn’t come pre-reserved.
If you live in one of the locked districts, don’t let it stay locked. Vote against whoever’s sitting in that chair every chance you get, in the primary and again in November. One vote won’t move it. But when enough of us get fed up and do the same thing, the lock gives, the way a stuck jar lid finally turns after the whole family has had a go at it.
The man across from me finished his coffee and thanked me for the seat. I told him anytime. He asked, after all. Make them ask.
Next week: scarves. Probably.
Stay kind, stay caffeinated, and check your registration.
