Yesterday I came across a report about Idaho’s June primary, trumpeting the state’s greatest voter turnout in nearly two decades.
I was encouraged.
Then I read it.
I became sad.
I became sick.
Then I got pissed off.
The percentage of this newsworthy, recently historic wave of registered voters there—was thirty percent.
Thirty percent.
Not thirty percent of the those adult residents eligible to vote, but those who are even registered to vote to begin with, which is around 16 percent.
Even with it being “only a Primary,” which many are prone to saying.
I’m not celebrating this, I’m grieving this.
It’s a flat-out disgrace.
It’s an indictment of America.
It’s the reason we’re in the unprecedented mess we’re in.
I don’t understand these people.
Even with all that we’ve experienced over the past two years; the political ineptitude and corruption and power grabbing; even with the paper-thin margins of the 2016 Presidential election, (during which, 100 million people incomprehensibly chose not to vote); even with the unthinkably close local races throughout the country—two thirds of registered voters in Idaho found something more important to do on election day, than participate in the most elemental affirmation of Democracy that any of us have.
As much as I disagree with those who voted for Donald Trump, I can respect them.
I may believe they close recklessly, that they chose reactively, that they chose poorly and irresponsibly and spitefully and ill-informed.
But they still chose.
They gave enough of a damn to take a couple of hours, to be present for one of the most important moments of our lifetimes; to bring their voices to bear in a time of such urgency.
And even though I vehemently oppose them on nearly every issue—our shared passion is our common ground.
We both care deeply.
I can work with that.
I can work with fervent, outspoken, passionate people I disagree with.
I can’t work with apathy.
Practically speaking, people who don’t vote are telling you that they don’t care, that nothing really matters: not their children’s futures or the air they breathe or the cost of their healthcare or the opportunities they have or the human rights they’ll have—or anything that happens to the people around them or the planet they’re standing on. If they do care, their inaction eclipses their emotion.
People who don’t vote, declare themselves conscientious objectors in the battle for who and what America is becoming. They may have all sorts of justifications for their silence, but ultimately they are shunning responsibility and sidestepping patriotism. Their silence may be an attempt to protest a system, but it’s actually further damaging that system by giving away their shares in it.
And what’s so frustrating, is that reaching apathetic people in times when their passions and convictions and hearts should be so easily stirred—but are not—feels seemingly impossible.
I can give them information, I can approach them intellectually, I can appeal to their faith convictions, I can show them the terrible cost of their silence, I can detail predatory legislation their abstinence has birthed, I can tell them the stories of thousands of people who are straining and literally dying to live here and to have the voice that they are not using.
But in the end, I can’t force them to care and I can’t cajole them to speak and I can’t compel them to move. That is a source of immeasurable grief.
This week, I met a longtime Tulsa nurse, who spoke about her exasperation with many of the younger staffers she oversees and mentors; about how many of them are either not registered to vote or not planning on participating in the coming election. She shared the frustration with peers, who are so intimately connected to issues of healthcare and illness, and of the financial impact of becoming sick in this country—and who yet seem content with silence.
I wish I could rouse these people awake.
I wish I could rattle them alive again.
I wish I could find some silver bullet words that would pierce their hearts and animate their limbs and restart their voices.
I wish that I could give them urgency and anger and compassion, to replace the emotional sedative of apathy they seem so afflicted with and frozen by.
I wish I could show them the beautiful country they could help make right now, the transformation they could engineer, the diversity they could protect, the life-affirming statement they could make, the glorious future they could craft—and how simple such things could be, how little it would take.
Most of all, in days when there is so much at stake and such need for good people to show up and be heard and be loud—I wish I could move them enough to move.