I lived in the U.S. for sixteen years and never voted.
Sure, I was underaged for the first several years, having moved from Ontario, Canada to East Texas when I was thirteen. But then came the years from eighteen to twenty-nine where I couldn’t vote because I was a legal immigrant—a permanent resident—but not a citizen. The rest of my family became citizens and I know they all vote (three Republican voters, one Independent). I had no say in Presidents Reagan, Bush or Clinton getting elected.
I would have loved to have voted, but I had moved kicking and screaming from Ontario. I was proudly Canadian. It was the one part of my identity that seemed fixed as I struggled to figure out and then live according to my sexual orientation.
To teach in U.S. public schools, I had to declare an intention to become a citizen. I had to show that things were in-process. That declaration gave me a year of using my Texas university degree to teach in a public elementary school. But I’d done nothing to move things forward during that time. I didn’t want citizenship to be about my job; I felt it needed to be a bigger, deeper decision.
I don’t recall that anyone was awaiting proof I’d taken a step forward, but I began to look for other options as I prepared to give up teaching. I moved to Malibu and went to law school, an excellent step for coming out at least. (Hello, West Hollywood!) There was much to like about California, a place where I connected far more than in Texas. I knew after the first year of law school that practicing law would not be my lifelong career, but I stuck it out (mostly because I didn’t have a Plan B), got the degree and worked for a couple of years as a lawyer.
I might have stayed in L.A., might have tried to get an entry-level position in the entertainment industry after touching base with a key contact, but the city wore me down. First, the Rodney King riots in April-May 1992 (during which I got shot at), killing sixty-three and then the Northridge earthquake of January 1994, killing fifty-seven. These events plus the general dog-eat-dog tone I felt in the city wore me down. I quit both L.A. and law. I moved to Canada, settling in Vancouver.
Youth won.
(The one on the left.)
The only national election I participated in was the U.S. Post Office’s 1992 presentation of two options for an Elvis Presley stamp—either a classic hip-shaking, thinner, younger Elvis or a slightly fuller-faced image of Elvis from later in his career. I can’t even recall which one I voted for. The stakes just weren’t that great.
Not like now. Not like this election, not just for president but for Senate and House seats, for governor positions and for all sorts of state and local posts.
I could say—and you could too—that, as a Canadian, it’s none of my business. It’s America’s decision. But it matters in Canada. We often dissociate ourselves from American matters, but they impact us on a daily basis. Canadian culture is not that different. We are influenced. Our neighbor to the south (along with the state of Alaska) has a population nine times greater than us. In many ways, the U.S. overshadows us.
Politically, there’s some copycat business happening based on Republican politics and the larger-than-life, can’t-mute-him Donald Trump. The province of Alberta seems to desperately want to be Texas’ cousin. The leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, Pierre Poilievre, has adopted hateful, smarmy soundbites that seem to come straight from Trump’s playbook (if Trump actually has a playbook). Trump and the MAGA movement have impacted not just the U.S. for the worse in terms of political discourse and basic civility, they’ve gained a whole lot of followers in Canada. Attention-seekers, I feel. People who like their politics to have an entertainment element akin to WWE wrestling.
I am exhausted from the lead-up to this election. Frankly, I’ve been worn down from Trump being Trump since 2015 when the media started seeing value in reporting every outrageous comment he made—increased sales, viewers and click-bait. The lies, the hate and the crassness should have led to a quick dismissal of the candidate but his brand of politicking has only become more popular. We are devaluing society while seemingly embracing the don’t-give-a-fuck mindset. Let the cesspool bubble at the top.
I’ve begged my saner Republican friends and relatives in the U.S. to back off the Trump vote. I realize the Harris campaign has rallied to get Republicans to vote for the Democratic candidate just this once—for the sake of sending a message about civility, for holding up the basic principles of American democracy—and, yes, I hope many people do this. It’s the right kind of message to send to Trump, MAGA and Trump copycats (yes, you, Mr. Poilievre).
But there is another viable option. Longtime Republicans can leave the choice for president blank. This is for people who can’t stomach Trump but also can’t espouse the Democrats’ platform. Let a vote Trump counted on be denied.
Of course, it would be a rare Republican to read my blog and heed my advice. (Heed it, please.)
If any Americans read this, a weekly post on Aging Gayly, it’s far more likely to be someone who is centrist or left-leaning. Nine hundred words into this essay, I’ll repeat the one thing you should take away from this: VOTE!
If you’ve done so, encourage those fence-sitters who don’t think it matters, don’t want to sacrifice precious time in their day and/or don’t feel Harris will be progressive enough. Surely, her positions come hella closer than Trump’s. (I’m being generous in saying Trump has positions other than using the office as a revenge pulpit.)
I’m still not American and still I care. This is me, doing my part.
VOTE.
