Under the baobab: Win or lose on Election Day, we will all need healing

2012 was the last time I became seriously entangled in national politics. I was the Democratic Party’s candidate for Congress in Pennsylvania’s 5th District. I had two objectives: 1) to win, 2) to support President Obama’s run for his second term. The 5th was the second largest district east of the Mississippi River — 15 counties. We made a commitment to campaign in each of them, traveling to literally hundreds of county fairs, parades, church bazaars, fundraisers, pig roasts, barbecues, and every senior citizen event on the calendar. Sometimes we would be the only avowed Democrats in the county. Often, I was the only African American.

One morning at a fair in a county “far, far away,” I was invited to a senior breakfast. On my way to the pavilion, I saw an elderly white man sitting on a bench. As I walked past, he gave me a nasty scowl and a dirty look. As I came closer his scowl got meaner. We didn’t know each other. I wasn’t wearing anything that said Democratic Party. So, I figured his attitude and revulsion must have been because I was Black. Sometimes in my life, to be respectful or empathetic to older people I have chosen to ignore their gestures of white supremacy. This was not going to be one of those times.

I approached my frowning fellow citizen fully prepared to expound on the virtues of diversity and the evils of institutional racism. I was intercepted by two middle-aged white ladies. They explained that they were trying to get their father to their car. They had been at the breakfast. He had an accident. He had messed himself. He was embarrassed and trying to avoid contact with people.

I was stunned. At the time I was recuperating from recent prostate surgery. I had several similar embarrassing public incidents. Looking into his eyes, I saw a man who was hurting, not looking to hurt. I knew his pain because I was suffering from it myself.

I introduced myself as a candidate for Congress and put out my hand as I had done a hundred times before. I told him I knew about the shame he was feeling because I had been there. I asked if I could help. He graciously accepted my assistance. With some difficulty, one of his daughters and I managed to get him to the car that the other daughter had retrieved. They all thanked me. I went to make my breakfast campaign pitch.

Did I get his vote? I doubt it. It was a heavily Republican county. But that day we were relating to each other on a human level, not a political one. We were two vulnerable old men, both hurting. We could and did help each other. By that Election Day I’m sure he had changed his mind.

On Tuesday, we will have another Election Day.

Today, Sisters and Brothers, we are all hurting. Our media reads like verses from the Book of Revelations: fires, floods, pandemics, economic depression, social unrest, death and despair. During this apocalypse we are not even permitted to embrace each other, to comfort each other. We have been wounded to the quick and hemorrhage through unbandaged scars.

Tuesday, we as a nation will elect a new government or continue with the old one. Millions will celebrate; more millions will mourn. Whichever side wins, we will all still be hurting. Win or lose, we will all need healing. To become whole, we must reconnect with each other. When you look into the frowning face of a man or woman understand that beneath that scowl there may be a brother or sister in real pain.