Tag Archives: lesbian

A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH

Six Weeks in Nevada Divorce CourtsI was once sued by the Town of Huntington, NY for 7 million dollars, plus interest since 1797, and a sentence of one year in jail for refusing to surrender documents to the town historian, Rufus B. Langhams, who alleged, under oath, had been stolen from the Town by a colonial-era employee and kept hidden by his ancestors for 195 years until I was consigned to auction the papers off along with the contents of the family estate.

Prior to the lawsuit being heard before New York State Supreme Court Justice William L. Underwood, Jr., I was vilified in print by The Long Islander and Newsday, shunned by former friends, slandered by candidates and their political operatives, chastised by churchgoers, and kept under surveillance for nearly a year — only to be threatened by an assistant town attorney hiding in the bushes of my front yard after midnight, incessantly meowing until I ventured out, then backing me up against my front door while brandishing a knife-like object in order to serve me with court papers.

I share this to demonstrate my profound respect for Christine Blasey Ford’s anticipated testimony before Congress pertaining to Brett Kavanaugh’s nomination to the Supreme Court of the United States.

She is courageous.

Few can imagine the resolve it takes to risk one’s life and livelihood in order to ensure justice be done on behalf of the majority who will not seek it for themselves, nor for the benefit of another, nor for the good of a nation — because the fear of retribution makes stepping up perilous.

I suspect Ford does not want to testify. But as a competent citizen with a conscience compelling her to intervene, she knows her freedom of speech is denied the moment she chooses to silence herself, and — like all rights guaranteed by our constitution — free speech was granted as an individual’s responsibility to protect.

It is not an entitlement.

The fact that her testimony involves exposing intimacies secreted by shame engineered by patriarchal societies to silence women for centuries makes her testimony all the more ominous — and her decision to testify all the more valiant.

Our demand for her to be heard should be deafening.

Our cry should be, “Can you hear us, now?”
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They sent three lawyers with the Huntington town historian to admonish me for costing the taxpayers nearly a million dollars to wage a year long war against me, arguing the merits of their action of replevin. They called for my incarceration, demanded to be rewarded all the original Town documents in my possession, urged that I be fined, and asked that I be assigned all legal fees and court costs.

I stood alone, without consul, in Propria Persona, as evidence of my innocence.

I presented a book on special loan to me from the reference section of the Huntington Public Library, authored by Rufus Langhams. Published a decade earlier, it contained photographs of every document I harbored that he’d sworn had been stolen during colonial times, with captions confirming the originals were in his possession, kept locked in the archives of the Huntington Historical Society, to which he had sole access.

I presented letters from several museums attesting to many of those same original documents being sold to them by Rufus Langhams, while acting in the capacity of town historian as directed by the Town of Huntington.

I listed names, addresses and phone numbers of other Town residents who were coerced into surrendering copies of inherited documents to Rufus Langhams when he showed up at their homes and demanded them, citing the New York State Property Tort of Replevin as his legal right to confiscate heirlooms.

I contended the documents I held were copies from 195 years passed, not the originals of documents that Langhams sold to profit himself over his many years of incumbency as the Town of Huntington historian.

Supreme Court Justice William L. Underwood, Jr. immediately dismissed the charges against me, with prejudice, thereby barring the Town from ever bringing an action against me on the claim again, and granted me sole property rights, before assigning all expenses incurred, court costs and attorney fees to the Town.

I was then excused. The town historian and three town attorneys were ordered to stay.

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Newsday and The Long Islander never published a retraction, nor did they do a follow up story.

There was no public acknowledgement of wrongdoing by the town historian. The spurious charges in the action lodged against me were never revealed. There was no further discussion of the papers in question.

I was never offered an apology.

Eventually, a friend within Town government told me that, in lieu of no one else wanting the job, Rufus Langhams would remain as town historian, but would no longer be trusted with unaccompanied access to historic documents, and a full accounting of the archives had been ordered.

Eight years later, the town historian died of a heart attack. His obituary read, in part: “Rufus Buford Langhams of Huntington, L.I., once went to England seeking to collect $15,000 in Revolutionary War debts from the British Chancellor of the Exchequer. He was not successful.”

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I was once a force to be reckoned with.

Christine Blasey Ford is one.

Shouldn’t we all be?

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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist, author, and animal rescue activist.

Find her on Amazon. Friend her on Facebook. Follow her @ margueritequantaine.com.

A Force To Be Reckoned With © 9.22.18
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A Joy To Stand The Test Of Time

Birthday Greetings - Woman in White Dress, Flowers

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While individuals of a certain age are asked for their secret to longevity, couples remaining together for decades are urged to reveal their recipe for happiness. And even though both invitations are staged before cameras producing edited soundbites, the one thing participants agree on out of earshot of the press is that the quality of time is the essence of both.

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After learning that 60% of society is younger than age 50, we realized we’ve been in love longer than the majority of Americans have been alive. (Egad, did I just type that out loud?)

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No matter. The fact remains that the quality of  joyful longevity depends on a continuous curve following life as the lesson of the day and — like history — whatever isn’t learned is doomed to be repeated with someone else.

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Here are 48 things we’ve learned in 48 years of being in love.

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1. Sound sleep requires laughter lastly.

2. The favored parent is emulated, eventually.

3. Lose at fault-finding.

4. Compliment a meal before adding salt.

5. Whatever is collected will someday be hoarded.

6. Think romantically.

7. Please and thank you are bff’s.

8. Holding hands while arguing is a hearing aid.

9. Listen with your entire body, inside and out.

10. Fight rhymes with flight.

11. Neither caress less, nor roar more.

12. A simple touch is apology enough.

13. Lower expectations except of self.

14. Have music playing in at least one room whenever home.

15. Speak softly and turn a deaf ear.

16. Think kindly about things remembered.

17. Don’t keep score.

18. Never hurt intentionally.

19. Tears have deeper meanings.

20. Leave sentimental notes in unexpected places.

21. Be both the best of you and the best of others.

22. Always ask what is needed, first.

23. Giving what you want is taking.

24. Offer your own opinion last, or not at all.

25. Pets make us better people than people can ever hope to be.

26. A single child will never share as readily as one raised with siblings.

27. Serve coffee with a kiss.

28. It’s not life, it’s living. It’s not death, it’s dying. It’s not fear, it’s fearing.

29. Levity is imperative.

30. Two televisions are better than one remote.

31. Be of mirrored ethics.

32. One comfortable bed in a home is enough.

33. A cloth table covering, cloth napkins, and a fresh flower, nightly.

34. Gush gratitude.

35. Make here the better place to be.

36. Slow dance under every full moon.

37. Send a card by snail mail a minimum of monthly.

38. Keep a joint journal.

39. Sleep in the buff.

40. Insolence provokes anger.

41. It’s neither the lie, nor the cover-up. It’s the enabling.

42. Say what you mean the first time.

43. If in doubt, don’t.

44. A know-it-all never is.

45. Keep a path cleared down the middle of the room.

46. Love is sacred.
 Belittling it is blasphemy.

47. Yes or no questions need one word answers.

48. You’re not 1-in-a-million. You’re 1-in-7.3 billion.

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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist, author, and animal rescue activist.
A Joy To Stand The Test Of Time © 9.26.18
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I value your opinion and appreciate you for sharing this essay with others.
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IMOGENE’S ELOISE : Inspired by a true story by Marguerite Quantaine is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.  PLEASE DO NOT BUY THIS BOOK before selecting the Look Inside option over the cover illustration to read the first few chapters for FREE.

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MY LITTLE BLACK DRESS IS PINK by Marguerite Quantaine is due for release in August 2018 on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.

 

CHARITY BEGINS ALONE

Charity

Some women choose other women for support, but many of our mother’s generation behaved like perpetual damsels in distress needing a man around to help them with the simplest things, catering to every male entering a room, putting their needs first and foremost, soliciting their opinions before making a decision, giving them the larger portions, the better chairs, the greater control, and endlessly feeding their egos.

Above all, they needed to be married to a man while encouraging every female within their inner circle to adopt their medieval mindset.

Elizabeth’s mom was like that, marrying three times after Liz’s dad suddenly died (although Liz ignores the nuptial that was annulled).

My mom was just as assiduous in promoting second-class citizenry, except for getting hitched again. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop her from relentlessly urging her daughters to marry, and dragging men into every conversation and situation.

Once, while leaving a Broadway show at the Palace theater in Manhattan, she grabbed the elbow of a man trying to maneuver the crowd outside the entrance and asked him what bus we should take to get uptown.

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“How the hell would I know?” he steamed at her. “Do I look like a bus driver for God’s sake?”

“Well!” she huffed.

“That was Don Knotts, Mom.”

“Where?”

“The man you just asked for directions.”

“Andy Griffith’s Don Knotts?”

“Yes.”

“He certainly wasn’t very polite.”

Okay, nevermind that I’d been living in the city for more than a year and had, single-handedly, succeeded in getting us to the theater from my upper west side apartment two hours earlier after reminding her I knew the way because I’d been to the Palace once before.

It was shortly after I’d won the Midwest Division of the National ABC Television Talent Hunt in 1965 and was chosen to attend The American Academy of Dramatic Arts.

I arrived in New York City on January 29, 1966 as a highly impressionable fledgling from a small Michigan town.

At the time, my older brother, Kit, was working as a stagehand with the musical, Hurray It’s A Glorious Day…and all that scheduled to open at the Theater Four on West 55th Street in March. The confidence he exuded pleased Mom, so they conspired to persuade me to don my Sunday best and meet him outside the Palace Theatre at 9:30 that night.

Let me say, I don’t know why I was still trusting Mom’s judgment of Kit. As kids he’d leave me holding the bag under the worst of circumstances, and lure me into the scariest settings. We referred to these dupes as ‘Kit tricks’ — like when he locked me in the basement coal bin minutes before a delivery was to be made. Kit has always been my bad habit dying hard.

Regardless, since my ‘best’ was a blue silk bridesmaid dress worn to a July wedding five years earlier, I felt peculiar standing there, fighting the dry cold wind with him, waiting under the marquee for the curtain to come down and the audience to emerge. Once it did, Kit ordered me to “just act natural” as we slipped under a purple velvet rope guiding a small procession of people invited backstage to greet the cast.

Once inside the stage door, Kit abandoned me to look for Polly, a woman he claimed was a friend he’d made while working summer stock the year before.

The backstage of the Palace Theatre is cavernous, with grips scurrying about in headsets, scenery on brails against brick back-walls, overhead catwalks several stories high and huge fresnel lanterns suspended from the ceiling.

Alone and afraid of being caught, I stood in the center of the chamber looking like a lost soul seeking flight when the alley door burst open and down the long steel staircase came Kit’s so-called friend, Polly, making her entrance while screaming, “Gwen, I’m here, Gwen, I’m here, I’m sorry I’m late, oh Gwen, I’m here, Gwen, I’m here!”

Upon reaching the backstage floor, she began barreling my direction. That’s when the redhead standing two feet away with her back to me pivoted on her black patent leather stilettos and asked, “Would you be a dear and hold my flowers so I can get a shot with Polly?”

As I accepted her large bouquet of scarlet roses, it finally dawned on me.

I was backstage, opening night of Sweet Charity, instantly cast as the unnamed flower girl in a publicity shot of Gwen Verdon and Polly Bergen.

Naturally, Kit was nowhere to be found — but something he’d said to me earlier proved my saving grace.

“No one will ask you who you are because they’ll think you must be related to someone important — and not knowing someone important would be too embarrassing for them.”

He was right. Nobody asked.

I waited until a bevy of friends gathered around the celebrated stars before quietly leaving the roses and fading away.

When I got home I called Mom and listened to her relate Kit’s version of the evening; of how Polly was a no-show so, after “I ditched him” he joined a group of the theatre grips and went downtown to the Red Lion to hang out.

I let it pass.

Now, in reminiscence, I often revisit my introduction to New York and say, “Hooray!”

It was, indeed, a glorious day.

And all that.

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by Marguerite Quantaine, Copyright © 8.31.17
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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist and author.
Her novel, Imogene’s Eloise : Inspired by a true-love story
is available AMAZON, in paperback , and on Kindle.
Her book of essays, My Little Black Dress Is Pink,
has a planned release date of October 3, 2017.

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Please select LEAVE A REPLY at the top of the page

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LAST RIGHTS

 

 

The last three words my sweetheart and I speak to each other before hanging up the phone are “I love you.” We say the same in public places whenever going our separate ways, when exiting the house either alone or together, and before falling asleep each night. Sometimes I even say them when leaving her to tidy up the kitchen as I head upstairs to write. The words are always heartfelt. Never flung. Never forgotten.
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I learned to say “I love you” from my mom who thought we should say it to our siblings whenever one of us walked out the door. We didn’t, although the words were a given between me and her, and similarly exchanged between my kid sister, Kate, and I.
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Otherwise, I’m reluctant to express them.
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I don’t recall my father ever saying “I love you” to me or my sisters except in a tickle poem he mostly used to torture Kate. He was a misogynist when it came to his daughters and a misogamist due to our unwanted births. For certain, I neither felt, nor uttered the sentiment to him.
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It’s no secret that my father wanted six sons, having cast himself as too virile to spawn females, so I can’t speak for my brother’s relationships with him. Besides, the three boys were all older, during a period when practicing sexism thrived. They’ve remained distant for most my life. Not as antagonists, mind you. There’s no ill will. Indeed, our communications are always engaging. But we’re more like friends with certain secrets kept than family with skeletal closets closed.
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In fact, I doubt they know, immediately after returning home from a forced 48 hour stay in the mental ward of Foote Memorial Hospital (tethered to a bed by brown leather straps with gray metal buckles), I tried to kill my father with a salad fork. Where I found a salad fork is baffling, since salads were never part of any meal plan when we were young, save for the Waldorf variety when Michigan Macintoshes were plentiful. Admittedly, patricide by salad fork seems tame by today’s road rage comparison, but in 1962 small town, midwest America, even the hint of such news would knock the kid washing his duck in the kitchen sink off the front page (or at least lower it below the fold).
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I was sixteen, five-foot-one, and weighing in at 75 pounds to his five-foot-eight at twice the weight. He quickly overcame me with a grip from behind, but I chomped down on his left hand until I reached the bone of his index finger. Tossed off and aside, I spit blood when warning him to never touch me or Kate again. He never did. We steered clear of each other after that.
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I’ve never cried for my father, nor regretted my actions, remaining reticent about the motive behind my foiled intent of fifty-five years ago. I cannot talk about the details even now.
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And, really, what would be the point? My brothers, who saw no need, nor made an effort to protect their sisters from him in the past might doubt me now, as then. They have their own cemented memories of my father. My older sister grapples with hers, still.
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But no one talks, unless you count my father whose callous and cunning correspondence to my brothers bemoaned his life, made excuses for his failures, alluded to addictions, transferred infidelities, and emulated martyrdom while praising his sons before claiming his redemption. Letters that were copied and given to my Kate as — what? Proof of his greater goodness and professed regret?
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She left me the copies with a not-so-cryptic note attached, written in her own hand, confident I’d understand how it felt to be lost in a world where forgiveness is sometimes the fad, and forgetting is always the fallacy.
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No, no. It hasn’t made me bitter.
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Just weary.
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My mom said my father was watching the Detroit Lions trounce the Cleveland Browns on television when his eyeglasses fell off. While reaching down to retrieve them he suffered a massive heart attack. Before the thud, she heard him curse.
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My father’s final words were, “God damn it!”
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My mom’s final words were, “I know you do.”
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Kate’s final words were, “I love you.”

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by Marguerite Quantaine Copyright @ 2017
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I’m deeply interested in
what you’re thinking and feeling.
PLEASE SELECT REPLY
to add your comments here.
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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist and author.
Her novel,
IMOGENE’S ELOISE: Inspired by a true story
is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.
Choose LOOK INSIDE for a free read prior to considering purchase.
.
Marguerite Quantaine’s book of essays,
MY LITTLE BLACK DRESS IS PINK
is due for publication in paperback and Kindle on Amazon
October 3, 2017.

LONE STAR STATEMENT

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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist and author.

I’ve often tried to hearten authors who despair over bad reviews, reminding them that a critic says as much about herself as the book she applauds, or pans (even though no amount of encouraging words can provide solace to one whose sales figures might plummet as a result of an unmerited critique).
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Nevertheless, having recently received my first one star review since the release of my novel in 2014, I’ve decided to discuss the evaluation here, as a way to reaffirm my assertion that words reveal the nature of every writer.
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IMOGENE’S ELOISE: Inspired by a true love story
1.0 out of 5 stars
Where did all those 5 star reviews come from?
By Jxxxxxxxx Gxxxxxx
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“Thank goodness you can “Try a Sample” of every Kindle book. I have saved myself a lot of disappointment by getting the sample first.

I didn’t get very far with this book. The main character wakes up one morning and tries to piece together the events of the night before. She got a little drunk, danced with a woman, and kissed her.

I do not have a issue with this being a love story between two women. We have our gays. But the author starts her story at such a frenetic pace; the main character is in complete meltdown mode, and the author is heavy on the details of this woman’s inner life. It was just all too much. The author uses a lot of words and doesn’t say much.”
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IN ORDER TO DETERMINE THE VALIDITY of any evaluation, ask yourself five quick questions:.
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1. What one sentence stands out the most in the review of your book?
For me,  in this review, that sentence was, “We have our gays.”
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2. What does it tell you about the nature of person who wrote the review of your book?
I suspected homophobia, but condescension also came to mind.
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However, I don’t allow perceived obviousness to detract from any valid portion of a review.
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True, at first this person contends she doesn’t have an issue with the book being a love story between two women — then clarifies her assertion by being exclusively categorical. But she follows the clarification by warning the reader of the fast pace the book sets, and that the “inner life” of the main character is revealed.
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I asked myself, did the critic miss the subtitle of the book: Inspired by a true love story? Or, did she think the true story should have been tempered by alternative facts?
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Had the reviewer read the book in it’s entirety, she’d have learned the pace is purposely panicky — and that every line of the first chapter is a thread that connects to the final chapter, where the reader learns how very much was said, indeed.
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As for the kiss? It didn’t happen. Perhaps the reviewer was channeling Katy Perry, or her assumptions interfered with her assessment.
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No matter. In essence, the review (except for the kiss) is accurate.
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3. What do you think was her true intent for writing a review of your book?
Possibly, to dissuade others from reading the book. Because that happens, especially when the topic interferes with the reader’s religious beliefs, or political position.
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Also, consider that there’s a certain popularity contest associated with success, and that those who harbor resentments relish bringing down others via a misplaced abuse of power (the pen being mightiest). But being bias is a double edged nib. Those who like you are just as likely to tip the scales in your favor.
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That’s why I caution authors against either attracting the first, or encouraging the latter. Instead, let honesty prevail.
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Remember: Truth is a blessing. Deceit is a lesson.
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4. Has the critic ever written any other reviews for your genre?
J.G.’s Amazon history indicates she has not.
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5. Did the critic actually read your book?
J.G. readily admits she did not read my book, so the criticism was limited to an opinion of the first chapter which she failed to finish, as evidenced by the ‘kiss’ she inserted that didn’t occur.
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I’M NOT CERTAIN IF ALL AUTHORS take time to track their book sales on Amazon, but I do, and verified the sale of 9 more books the day the J.G. review was published than were sold the prior day.

I think that’s because J.G. drew attention to the Look Inside Amazon offer of IMOGENE’S ELOISE prior to purchase, which apparently resulted in people doing exactly that, ultimately disagreeing with her estimation.
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Ironically, the Look Inside free is exactly why I encourage readers to ‘try before you buy’ in order to prevent buyers remorse.
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ALL OF THIS MAKES MY SUGGESTIONS to writers who ask my advice fairly generic:

(A) Write well.
(B) Create a five year plan to promote each book and be diligent.
(C) Don’t expect everyone to understand, love, or agree with what you write.
(D) Learn from every review, regardless of its merit, or lack thereof.
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FINALLY, DON’T WASTE A MINUTE of your creative energy bemoaning a review you feel is unfair.

Instead, ask yourself if it’s fair that not every woman has the talent, ambition, dreams, perseverance, courage, business acumen, disposition, self-esteem and skill it takes to be a writer? (Hint: No.)
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That alone gives you license to greet each morning by patting yourself on the back — because writing a book is a prodigious accomplishment.
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This is me, standing.

Applauding you.

Brava!

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How do you handle a bad review? What advice do you offer?
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I’m all eyes and heart.

ALMOST PARADISE

Little Girl and Crying Heart

By Marguerite Quantaine

During the 27 years we’ve lived in Florida, we haven’t made any in-the-life friends.
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It’s not that ‘our kind’ doesn’t exist in small towns here. (We do.) And it’s not that we’re ashamed. (We aren’t.)
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It’s that, excluding most metro areas, if you (a) want the police to respond to your call for help in a timely manner, and (b) you want to receive the finest healthcare when you’re injured, or sick, and (c) you want to keep your pets out of harms way, and (d) you want to keep your car from being vandalized, and (e) you want to live in an area where the neighborhood watch looks out for your home, and (f) you want the person working on your teeth to be gentle, and (h) you want to be able to make a living, and (i) you want to avoid having your license plate recorded when attending a Pride event — then you don’t risk outing others whom you think are kindred spirits by drawing attention to their personal lives, even in an effort to make friends.
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That’s why The Pulse in Orlando was a Mecca for resident and visiting gays alike. It provided a safe haven for fulfilling the need to feel an instant camaraderie accompanying the demonstrative joy of others.
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Truth be told, we’ve never actually been to a nightclub because, while there was a smattering of NYC lesbian bars during the 60s when we were young, the mixed genders of nowadays nightclubs with  multiple rooms, live bands, separate stages, decks and professional disc jockeys didn’t exist.
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What we did have (aside from a Seebring juke box at one-gender venues) were summertime tea dances at Cherry Grove and the Pines on Fire Island, mostly male, but with a sufficient showing of Coppertoned women to complement the communal glee being shared as disco music blared, connecting us to every outdoor dance floor.
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Nearly fifty years have past. You wouldn’t think it’s now imperative to note, in March, Governor Rick Scott’s HB 401 bill died in committee.
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Had HB 401 passed it would have allowed doctors, nurses, healthcare providers, and hospitals to refuse treatment to lesbians and gays without fear of facing liability in Florida courts. Based on religious freedom to discriminate, HB 401 was to have taken effect on July 1, 2016.
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As a resident of Florida who’s been subjected to discrimination, misdiagnosed, nearly killed and double billed for it, I hesitate to ever seek help here.
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Which begs the question: Why do we live in Mother Nature’s perfect place among such people?
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It’s because we believe Orlando’s healthcare providers and facilities are better — so very much better — than disingenuous leaders and sanctimonious legislators.
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And because we believe the inherent good in people will always outweigh the acquired bad.
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And because we believe when vice endeavors to infiltrate, virtue counters with massive resistance.
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And because we believe, if deceit sits down on the dais, multitudes will arise to defy demagoguery.
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And, too, it’s because we know we shall weep before we sleep tonight, and intermittently weep again for weeks to come, or maybe months, or years — or through however many broken hearts it takes to prevail.
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But love will triumph.
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Because it must.

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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist and novelist.

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IMOGENE’S ELOISE: Inspired by a true story
by Marguerite Quantaine

Every Woman Should Run For Public Office Once Or Twice

Votes for Women - Suffrage“There’s never been a colored, a Jew, a Democrat, a Yankee, a queer, or a woman as Mayor of this town and there never will be!”

I glanced up from my notes to study the odd little man in his Oshkosh overalls, Penny’s plaid shirt, knee-high Frye boots and Tom Mix hat.

His cohorts called him Red. I don’t know if he was christened that, or nicknamed for the color of his neck — but it certainly didn’t stem from embarrassment by him, or any of the men at that district Republican Committee meeting rewarding him with whistles and a rousing applause as I sat alone in the far, back corner of the small auditorium, recording the  forum as a favor to the (absent) president of our local Republican club.

And, all I could think was —  what luck!

No, not because I was a committee member and could object. I wasn’t.

But I was born in the small town that hosted the first Republican convention, “Here, under the oaks, July 6, 1854” where an obscure granite rock with a bruised bronze plague once sat on a tiny patch of treeless grass, three short blocks from where I spent my most misinformative years.

Back then, the rites of passage included adopting both the religion and political party affiliation of your parents. My parents were protestant and Republican. I’m neither, but during my juvenescence, I feigned being both.

The reality is, religion and politics have never been roadblocks for me. I tend to accept that we’re all going to believe what we need to believe in order to survive our slippery slope slide from here into hereafter.

However, the pretense of politics alarms me, and is the reason I encourage every woman to run for public office.

I have.

It’s easier than you think, and more satisfying than you dare imagine.

The Suffragette

After filling out the simple forms with the Americanized spelling of my last name and paying a nominal filing fee, I learned you aren’t required to raise money, put up signs, hand out cards, take out ads, stand on street corners in inclement weather inhaling exhaust while  waving to commuters — or even to serve if elected.

Which I did not do.

Instead, I entered the citywide race for Mayor because I could.

And, because the Mayor of our town is in charge of the police force that was alleged to have created computer software profiling every resident according to age, gender, race, religion, political affiliation, marital status and coded lifestyle.

I ran because the Mayor had the power to veto city council legislation.

I ran because the personal voting records of all residents, their addresses, and phone numbers are made available to campaign camps via their candidate.

I ran because it’s possible for local elected officials to access sensitive census information about their neighbors.

I ran because I’d be invited to all candidate gatherings, lunches, forums, debates, and media interviews with equal time to speak, followed by unlimited time to answer questions. Places where I could tell the people about the alleged profiling, the veto capability, the reality of records, and the potential for both discrimination and profiteering to the detriment of the electorate should the (professed private) census information be misused by unscrupulous officials with a personal agenda to advance.

But primarily, I ran because I was told:
“You cannot.”
“And yet, I can.”
“You can’t run as a Republican.”
“Unless I’m registered as a Republican. Then I can.”
“It’s a nonpartisan race, so no one will know.”
“Unless it’s leaked.”
“You won’t have the backing of the Republican Party.”

Aye, there’s the sub rosa.

Most of us like to think we’re supporting a candidate who shares our convictions and has our best interests in mind.

Go.

Run for office.

That’s when you learn it’s the RNC (Republican National Committee), the DNC (Democratic National Committee), and corporate funding that dictates the conversation, feeds the media, and virtually runs this country in a Charlie-McCarthy-meet-Jerry-Mahoney-manner, where those connected contingents funnel all the money solicited from donors into the war chests of the candidates they’ve preselected to win.

I kid you not.

The nominees of both the RNC and DNC sign a Party platform pledge to toe the Party line, in order to receive the financial clout of the RNC, or DNC, because the chances of winning an election for those who don’t sign — even on a local level — are zip, zero.

And, get this: Those war chests can be used to funnel funds for phone banks to robo-call citizens who have a voting history of going to the polls on odd, even, and ‘off’ years.

They can funnel ‘independent’ surveys with contrived questions for the ostensible purpose of suggesting nonexistent improprieties practiced by the opposing party.

They can funnel for spamming newspapers with testimonial templates to praise one candidate, or deride the other, or push an agenda, or create confusion, or imply majority support, with each letter signed and sent by a party faithful — so it appears to the public as an original thought and legitimate concern rather than a parroted message.

They can funnel for business owners to be visited by party members offering recommendations on which candidates to support, along with a friendly suggestion of how valuable it is to have a customer base of political party members.

They can funnel for whisper campaigns, leaked to small presses, controlled by deep pocket party pleasers, linked to online sites willing to post the disinformation.

I Love My Husband But Oh You Vote - Suffragette Series 12

And, get this, too: The strategies for beating your opponent are all recorded (or was when I ran) in an instruction manual detailing how to sway an election to a preferred candidate with news stories clouded by opinion. Where the media inserts the words “could, might, alleged, contend, claim, may and if” for “is, are and will” to report a possible truth. Where newspaper corrections to falsehoods are buried in places no one reads. Where editorials aren’t required to be factual.

This old maxim still holds true: The most dangerous woman in the world is the one who can’t be bought.

That’s where running for political office serves as the American dream. Because running to lose by telling the unmitigated truth assures that your voice will be heard.

And isn’t that what we all want? To be heard?

When I ran for office, my words were so well heard — by the time election day rolled around they’d been stolen and used to further the campaigns of others running for even higher offices.

So, ladies, that’s how you make change happen. Not by sitting behind a safe screen, typing out rhetoric about what’s wrong with the country and who’s to blame. And, not by writing a check, convinced your donation will contribute to making this nation better and stronger.

Instead, run for office.

Attend every avenue available for you to get up and speak. Recognize freedom of speech for the priceless gift it is. Say what’s in your heart. Ignore naysayers. Concentrate on connecting with real people. And experience the exhilaration that comes from putting your mouth where your mind is.

In the final analysis, the financial reports required to be filed by all candidates indicated the incumbent spent around one hundred and twenty-five dollars per ballot cast in favor of him to wage his campaign against me.

I spent zero, zip, and nada + nil.

I lost by 67 votes.

No, not once.

Twice. I also ran for school board. I lost by 56 votes.

And for both losses I am truly grateful.

#     #     #

Copyright by Marguerite Quantaine, October 8, 2015


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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist and author.
Her book, Imogene’s Eloise : Inspired by a true-love story
is available AMAZON, in paperback , and on Kindle.

“… crisp…clever…unique…saucy humor…delicious writing…fabulous…funny…historically accurate…genius debut… This will be a classic; buy it now.”
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