When I first entered the democracy wars, I didn't know a lot about American history outside of what most American citizens know. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Inalienable rights. Consent of the governed. If they mean to have a war, let it begin here.
Random catch phrases out of history that were embedded in my being as much as the desert democracy that I carry within my tribal DNA as a descendant of Aaron, brother of Moses our Teacher, giver of Holy Law.
I am an American girl, born and raised in the little town of Lexington, where the Revolutionary Battles were fought. The Birthplace, as they say, of American Liberty.
It was with these nominal credentials that I walked into the Halls of Power, the New Hampshire State House, the Governor's office, and the Congressional Office Buildings.
At the Office of the New Hampshire Secretary of State, I met old Yankee blue bloods; pedigreed politicos whose genealogies extended back into New England history, whose flat "a's" and cool demeanor marked them as much Yankees as my olive skin and brash discourse marked me the child of first generation American Jews.
I began to understand that my Jewish blood was as steeped in the battles for freedom as any Yankee's. Mine ran red, theirs ran blue, but I staked my claim on freedom and liberty with as much merit as they may have staked theirs.
I got to know the inner workings of state government from those who, at its highest levels, cranked its gears, oiled its wheels, and kept its machinery running. I was tutored in Yankee history, tradition, and law. I studied and became indoctrinated in the founding laws and principles of our nation, which had been planted and nourished and which blossomed here in the New England soil as they had not in any other place in this nation of ours.
I soaked up all of this Yankee fare like a thirsty sponge. Freedom at all costs. Live free or die.
And then I met the Insider. The Insider was an odd but intriguing politician who skittered around the edges of my inquiries like someone accomplished in the act of invisibility. The Insider remained quietly off to the side, hiding behind round owlish glasses and a humble voice, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and never publicly offering a personal opinion that might differ from the party line of the Insider's political station.
The Insider was the perfect Political Operative.
All I wanted to do was to take back our elections from the corporate interests and their computerized voting systems, from their concealed vote counts that they alone programmed, serviced, and controlled.
I had gone to the State Capital first to make inquiries, and then to make demands. But the powers that be kept directed me to The Insider. I was the outside agitator, the citizen watchdog, the Activist. And it seemed as though The Insider had been given the job of "handling" me.
That was okay with me; I wanted information and the Insider had it. I had information and the Insider wanted it. The flow of information on both sides was intentional and controlled.
But over time, The Insider began to reveal very specific information to me. Not so much about the politics of my own state, which information was carefully tucked away from view.
The Insider wanted me to know more about what was happening on the national level, leading me to information that was not so much classified as hidden from public view. Hidden, of course, in plain sight.