I am driving my daughter Poppy and her wispy-haired friend Emma to the Children’s Museum. Even though the radio is tuned to a local music station, I can hear the girls chatting away in the back seat. On prior trips, the gal pals have swapped slightly exaggerated stories of horseback riding and mountain hikes with their Brownie Troop. These days, however, the girls have joined the rest of the country to discuss the upcoming presidential election.
“Did you know,” Emma asks Poppy, “that whoever wins the election gets their face on the hundred dollar bill? And the loser only gets a fifty.” Poppy nods, probably having heard that fact at the mini-voter registration booth under the monkey bars.
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard my daughter discussing her views on politics. After school one day, she dropped her book bag near the front door and sighed, “I can’t believe it.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked her, thinking she failed a math test, was excluded from some boy-girl chase game at recess or they tragically changed the lunch that day from pizza to Frito pie.
“Did you know that there is a third guy who may ruin Kerry’s chance of winning?” she asked, referring to Ralph Nader being added to the ballot in our very own swing state of New Mexico.
“Who told you that?” I asked, more than a bit surprised of her partisan awareness. When I has her age, I thought an election was something that boys had after watching Ginger vamp around on Gilligan’s Island.
“My teacher.”
Don’t get me wrong. I think children should be conscious of the electoral process and government workings. I recall, while watching Schoolhouse Rock, trying to figure out why a bill would be weeping like a sissy on the steps of Capitol Hill. However, an eight-year-old endorsing a candidate she couldn’t pick out of a lineup is another thing altogether.
In the quiet hum of the minivan, Emma continues her political rant, trying to fill Poppy in on the bipartisan gossip. “Did you know that Jason’s mother is not even registered to vote?” she whispers.
Poppy gasps and throws the back of her hand to her forehead like a swooning Greta Garbo.
“It’s true. Hey Rob,” Emma calls to me. “Did you know that Jason’s mom is not even registered to vote?”
“That’s her right,” I say, trying to subtly offer another, less jingoistic view on the issue, but Emma isn’t buying it.
“She should be registered and she should vote,” she declares in tone that screams for a podium. “Everyone knows that. Jeesh.” She turns to Poppy who nods in agreement that her dad is, as always, quite clueless.
As a teacher and father, I’m worried that in this push to become a more politically active nation, we’ve swung a bit too far the other way. It seems that everywhere you turn—post office, grocery store, local tractor pull—people wearing colored stickers and carrying clipboards are intrusively demanding to know what my parents taught me was my own damn business, thank you very much. As November 2nd closes in, Poppy and Emma, instead of playing doctor will be dissecting Kerry and Bush’s stand on medical malpractice insurance.
As we pull up to the educational house of hands-on fun, Poppy calls to me. “Dad?” she asks with a genuine degree of curiosity. “If there are three guys running for President, why do only two get to debate on TV?”
Now that’s a question worth discussing.