I’ve loved Steve Kornacki.
Loooved Steve Kornacki
As the MSNBC election numbers guy, he’s one of the most amazing talents on television. He can recite more about American counties and voting habits than Google can spit up.
Well, this Election night, I started to hate Steve Kornacki.
As the results grew desperate for my cause, instead of listening for his numbers, I started to mute him.
No sound needed. The margins paraded before us, the slivers of swing-state voters that added up in the wrong way, the story told over and over with one dagger of a word from Kornacki: “but.”
“Harris leads in this county by 13 points – but that’s one point shy of Biden’s ’20 totals.”
“This county is close, but Harris underperforms Biden’s again by a point. These add up.”
“But” landed until my ears hurt.
One point below in this county, one below point in this county. One, one, one.
Elections are won at the margins. Even so-called landslides like Barack Obama’s 10 million advantage in 2008 and Joe Biden’s 8 million in 2020. We all know – or should by now — that razor-thin margins in key states almost always tell the tale.
Well, OK. That tale is told.
The first election that mattered to me was Kennedy-Nixon. I was 7. I have no idea why I was pulling for Kennedy. My parents voted for Nixon. Their affection for him was short-lived, to say the least.
Since the early-morning word that JFK would ascend, I’ve lived and died with a procession of candidates. The investment across the decades has yielded ecstasy and excruciating pain in almost equal amounts. Count them yourself.
This is the price of giving a damn.
On the morning after 2024, I felt pain. I patted around in bare feet without intention. No checking the news for me. No CNN, HuffPost, WaPo, NYT, Denver Post, or any online standby.
And so, shortly, I strapped on sturdy shoes. I announced I was taking a drive in the mountains. My wife suggested I take our little dog, Penny Lane. She never shirks a car ride.
Such a good call. Poudre Canyon was spectacular – its river energy, its jutting rocks and resolute pines, its adornment with newborn snow. Penny and I tromped around a favorite campground that’s closed for the season.
We were gone for less than two hours, but what a palate cleansing.
Later, when a depressed phone caller mentioned the election, I had to admit: After that ride, it seemed like days ago, not the night before.
(Note to those without a scenic canyon 20 minutes from their front doors: You know where beauty is near you. Go there.)
Inhale. Exhale. Feels affirming.
At that point, with a charge of purpose, I decided to get back on the horse.
I don’t have a horse, OK?
I have an analogy.
I also have a laptop.
It sat there – steady, sturdy – exactly where it was before all the news turned cold, the winds battering causes and amazing candidates I championed.
Paint my horse with many pastels, like a political party that stands for a world of difference.
I am back on that horse. The metaphorical stirrups snug to my heels won’t take us away from but right into the fray again.
Whatever you did to promote your hopes and dreams in this election, do it again. Do even more.
Don’t forsake the cause for which you’ve fought.
Don’t let the bastards get comfortable.
Look for a multi-colored stallion along the way, and a little dog that insists on coming along.
John Young is a longtime newspaperman who now lives in Fort Collins, Colo. Email jyoungcolumn@gmail.com. See johnyoungcolumn.com.
From The Progressive Populist, December 1, 2024
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