This has been the battle of my life.

As I write, votes are being counted. As you read, the outcome should be known. (If not, that too is an outcome, ominous to contemplate.)

In this battle I played a negligible role, the equivalent of a tuba player in the marching band, thumping ta-dums. Since July 2015 – think! – ta-dum, ta-dum with such wretched regularity readers begged me stop. He would never be nominated, I was assured, never elected, never re-elected, he wasn’t fit, everyone agreed, and on he tromped with an inexorability that made me feel a stranger in a strange land. “Grab them by the pussy,” veteran-bashing, Putin-hugging, Congress-mugging, inveterate lying, bragging, grifting, nothing stopped him as he trampled our ideals and self-regard. Might he and his plutocrat platoon end America’s experiment with self-government? Or would we the people wake to our obstinate folly? 

Endless, exhausting, excruciating the crescendo to this climax: that’s the way with wars. The events of July 4, 1863, for example, passed in an eyeblink, but when they were done, America remained one. Will we survive November 3, 2026 intact?

Other battles involved me more – medical, marital, material – my seventy-five years haven’t been serene. This battle mattered more – to me, America, mankind. The loss of America might mean the loss of what we know as freedom. No more freedom of action, expression, thought. Tyrants loathe the scrutiny of honesty.

This battle commandeered my attention when I had the most to devote. Retirement freed me to write – and this danger daunted. How could humans make such a mistake? Were we too stupid, callous, indolent, ignorant to realize our risk? Was I a meathead to believe leadership meant character – and morality mattered?

Reams of these syllables wrestled my confusion and recorded my disgust. Then gradually, it seemed, my torpid countrymen seemed to be waking. We the people began to ask who we wanted to be. Reformers and idealists stood for office; some won. Might we save ourselves? 

Not knowing the battle’s outcome, I’m almost hilarious with hope, so high I half wish not to face tomorrow’s headlines. All will not be well, it never is. Some heroes on the podium will prove puny in power. There will be wrangling, outrages, injustice. Human vileness will resume its scheming.

The rescue of America, if possible, is far from done, but mightn’t we rejoice a moment buoyed by that possibility? For too much of this decade, I haven’t dared to hope: to avoid disappointment, kept my expectations dismal. Now, together, maybe, mightn’t we dream of reshaping America into a great idea; envision a nation decent, generous, honest, humble, strong, an inviting example to the rest of earth? 

“Once in a lifetime,” wrote Seamus Heaney,

The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.

That’s what this evening feels like before refutation by tomorrow’s facts. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me, the feeling’s too fine. How I’ve hated hating America! How it’s hurt for my nation to represent the basest instincts of mankind! How I’ve blushed with shame!

Does any joy rival hope? “Hope,” wrote Emily Dickinson,

              is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all – 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Onward.