15. What Does Emerson Have To Do With Politics?
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
Evangeline
The lecture hall is half-filled, and I find a strategic spot in the back because yet again, I’m late. I didn’t get to hear the introduction but find myself instantly enthralled as Senator Walker stands on the stage, addressing our student senate and potential law students.
“I know you’ve probably got a hundred lawyer jokes brewing in your heads right now, and perhaps you’ll stick around after and I’ll let you know if I’ve heard them before,” Kerry says, and the room erupts into genuine laughter.
He looks so comfortable up at the podium, with his easy smile and full lips as his hands grip the edges. He’s wearing the same suit as this morning when I’d run into him – a crisp dark blue jacket, with a light blue shirt, and a striped tie.
While he tells the students about his law career, he walks away from the podium, holding the mic in hand as he casually moves around the stage as if he’s taking a stroll. For someone who is much older than me, his broad shoulders and lean waist make him seem younger, fit for his age – quite handsome. I’m not the only one in the room who thinks so, judging by the ration of female-to-male student body.
“When you stand up and take your oath,” he holds his hand in the air, “I will conduct myself uprightly, and according to the law, and I will support the Constitution of the United States,” he recites with a passionate yet commanding tone. “Support the Constitution of the United States,” he repeats, distinguishing each word to signify their importance, while walking the stage, and it’s so quiet and cavernous that I can hear my own breath and feel my heartbeat against my ribs.
“What a monumental burden that is,” he asserts. “And it is a burden, the single most important piece of history there is, and the weight of it you will carry around for the rest of your career,” he explains.
“Virtue,” he pauses as if he’s searching inside himself, pulling at little pieces of his heart for inspiration. He looks out at the students, who are sitting at the edges of their seats, waiting to hear what he has to say next. “When the Muses nine/With the Virtues meet/Find to their design/An Atlantic seat/By green orchard boughs. Fended from the heat/Where the statesman ploughs,” he recites an Emerson poem, and I wonder if anyone else in the room recognizes it.
I think I’m invisible, but he meets my eyes just before he finishes the rest of the poem. I’m unable to look away. From this distance, I wouldn’t be able to make out their color, but I know they’re a sunburst mixture of greens, browns, and gold that were made further unearthly by the intensity of the Arizona sun.
“Furrow for the wheat/When the Church is social worth/When the statehouse is the hearth/Then the perfect State is come/The republican at home.” He pauses, letting his hand drop to his side, the mic along with it, as if to let those words settle in, burrow themselves into the minds of the students whose attention he commands.
He brings the mic back up to his lips. Before he speaks again, he runs his fingers over his jaw. “Emerson,” he states, “believed in an ideal government, and to protect individuals’ rights.”
He looks around the room, finding me once more.
“You might wonder, what the hell does Emerson have to do with politics?” He gives me a secret smile. I know he’s speaking to me.
“Everything.” He pauses, and the auditorium bubbles with chatter.
Kerry motions with his hand for everyone to quiet down further until there’s only a few whispers.
“And if I had the time, I would explain it to you, but they’ve only allowed me an hour before I get the hook.” He motions as if an imaginary hook is pulling him off the stage, causing the students to laugh. “Now, I know I’ve talked for way too long and I appreciate the time you’ve allowed for me to hopefully inspire and give you some insight into the path you’ve chosen, or the one you’re still undecided on, but if there is anything I want you to remember from today it is this – the only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.”
The room dissolves into applause, students stand, some making their way out of the lecture hall, and others milling about the front of the stage. I watch as he greets eager students, shakes their hands, and even graciously signs textbooks, or whatever is on hand, as if he’s some kind of rockstar.
I stay longer than necessary, stuck between the awkwardness of making my presence known, and standing in line like an eager groupie.
When the last of the students make their way out of the lecture hall, I make my way to the front of the stage, stepping quietly and feeling a bit like a skittish deer. While shaking the hand of who I presume to be one of the university administrators, he meets my eyes and greets me with a warm smile that instantly puts me at ease.
“No coffee this time,” I reassure, holding my hands up as if to show him I’m unarmed, “so you’re safe.”
He turns his attention fully on me and it’s like being swallowed up in the ocean. “Well, if it isn’t the white rabbit,” he entreats teasingly, and in those few words is an imperceptible hint of a southern drawl that he seemed so carefully to hide during his speech.
“This time I’m not running late,” I laugh nervously.
I stand there, not sure what to say next, and not really knowing why I’m here anyway. I say the only thing I can think of. “Evangeline.” I hold my hand out to officially meet him. He smiles broadly and takes hold of my hand. It’s warm and soft, and the minute our palms connect, it feels as though I’ve stepped through the looking glass.
“It’s nice to meet you, Evangeline.” He gives me a slight wink as if it’s an inside secret, because the only other person who knows we met before is his security detail.
Suddenly, I’m aware that there are only a handful of people left in the lecture hall.
An older gentleman with bright blue eyes and a nice smile approaches us. “Great speech,” he declares, and Kerry turns, giving the man his full attention. “But I’m afraid those kids are more inspired by some celebrity than Emerson.” The man laughs, clapping Kerry’s shoulder in a friendly gesture.
“That’s not true,” Kerry disagrees, and then turns toward me as I stand awkwardly, formulating a way to leave without bringing more attention to myself. “Evangeline here is a scholar of Emerson,” he gushes, and then everyone’s attention causes my cheeks to heat.
“Is that so?” the man inquires, and intuitively Kerry takes charge of the conversation as if he knows how uncomfortable I am with the attention.
“Not all of today’s youth are preoccupied with technology and celebrity. There are those bright few who find solace in the pages of history, the birth of our country, and the hopes that were bled into those pages,” he effuses, and when he looks at me, it’s as if he can see inside to a memory of me in the library, pressing an open book to my nose, feeling the pages, and reading them like I wanted to jump inside.
It’s arresting how much his attention affects me, like I’m starved for it.
“What is it about Emerson that you find so appealing?” the man asks.
Before I can answer, a woman interrupts. “Sir, we need to leave in order to make our reservation,” she explains.
Kerry nods, and I try hard to school my expression. I’ll never get the chance to tell him how much his speech moved me, fueled something in me on a day that seemed impossible, a day I thought would be the pebble that would cause everything to topple over.
I watch as Kerry shakes a few hands, gives them an effortless politician”s smile before he turns back to me.
“I’d love it if you would indulge us in a conversation about Emerson,” he pauses, looking at his friend, “and insights into today”s youth,” he adds. “I’d like to prove to my friend here that your generation is not only interested in celebrity,” he teases.
“Always the politician,” his friend says, a ruddy smile on his face. He then turns to me. “Yes, please,” he grins. “I’d love to hear what you’d have to say about what issues your demographic faces,” he explains.
Demographic? I’m twenty, and I didn’t even register until this past year, not even in time to vote in this year”s primaries. I mean to say no, I should say no, but then Kerry smiles, showing his bright white teeth and it travels into his eyes, glinting off the harsh fluorescent lights of the lecture hall.
“I think we’d all be interested in what you have to say,” Kerry encourages.
I nod, flushing slightly and then realize I’m wearing tight faded jeans and a light pink shirt that I picked up a long time ago at a thrift shop near school.
Kerry smiles, noticing that I’m looking down at my clothes. “Your attire is fine for the restaurant we’re eating at,” he reassures me.
As if he’s already anticipating the thoughts running through my head about not having enough money in my bank account to even buy a value meal at a fast-food restaurant, he adds, “Dinner is on me.” He gives me that imperceptible wink again that floods my cheeks with heat.
“Thanks,” I beam and then he turns his attention back to the woman, has a conversation I can’t hear, but she leaves, walking ahead of us.
“So, Miss…?” His friend smiles at me, urging me forward.
“Bowen,” I say.
“Miss Bowen,” he says and holds out his hand.
“Jonathan Langley,” he introduces himself. “Senator Jonathan Langley,” he clarifies.
* * *
Ifind myself in a very low-key pizza joint near campus that I had passed by many times. It’s not a place I ever thought a congressman would eat, but Kerry looks right at home except for his expensive looking suit looking out of place at the worn wooden bench table covered by a plastic plaid tablecloth. At the center are two large pizzas, still steaming from the brick oven.
Kerry sits on the opposite side of the table from me, and I laugh when he tucks a napkin into the collar of his dress shirt before taking a bite of pizza. Mary, his aide, as I learned on the way over, stands and directs a gentleman with a camera to take pictures. Kerry smiles, and the minute the flashes stop, I notice the look he gives Mary, his brows furrowed, and shakes his head.
She seems to understand his meaning and stops the pictures, taking the man out of the restaurant, only to return alone a few minutes later.
The conversation is light, not at all what I expected, and I’m put at ease, giving practiced answers about my major and background.
“I bet your parents are proud,” Mary exclaims next to me after I had explained that I got into college on partial scholarships.
I don’t have many people asking about my background or my family, but I’ve already developed canned answers; little white lies that don’t hurt anyone but me. I certainly don’t want to explain to anyone that my father died before I even knew who he was. I wouldn’t tell them how the man my mother married looked at me with something in his eyes that made my stomach turn.
“Yes, they are,” I agree, giving my own politician’s smile as I take a bite of pizza.
“And a literature major too. Are you as big a fan of Emerson as Senator Walker?” she asks.
“I’d like to say that my professors share the same enthusiasm as Senator Walker, but they make reading him and other nineteenth century poetry feel like a chore,” I admit.
“What a shame,” Kerry exhales. “Do the other students share your same sentiment?” he asks, taking a sip of his dark ale.
I think about that for a moment, remembering the sounds of pages turning, fingers tapping against keyboards, Professor Abbot’s monotone voice, and how there never seems to be lively debates. “I think they just want to make it to the end of the semester with a passing grade,” I answer honestly.
“And you?” he inquires, and the question is so wide and vast it threatens to fill my lungs with so much potential that they will burst.
“I want to be inspired,” I blurt, and it feels like I’m giving away a part of myself, something I don’t give to anyone, because no one had ever asked.
“And were you inspired today?” he challenges, and perhaps I’m the only one who notices, but the golds and greens of his eyes are hungry for my answer, eager for me to admit that I was indeed inspired because it would please him.
“Yes,” I answer honestly, and I’m rewarded with a bashful smile; a pleased smile.
“I think you have a fan,” Senator Langley notices, and I quickly school my expression.
“If you were the literature teacher, it would be the most popular class on campus,” I insist.
Senator Langley laughs, clapping Kerry’s shoulder just like he did earlier. “If politics doesn’t work out, you seem to have a teaching career in your future.” The table erupts into easy laughter, and whatever anxiety I had felt earlier about whether I belonged here or not is ebbed away by it. It’s not often I have a table full of powerful men eager to hear what I have to say. I quite like it. It’s fueling something inside of me to want more out of life.
“So tell me, what issues does your demographic face these days?” Senator Walker queries.
I sit up a little straighter, my confidence having been stoked by their attentiveness.
“I don’t think I’m the average college student you expected,” I offer, “other than having to worry about student debt, I’m a twenty-year-old female who struggles to pay for college, and an ailing grandmother with expensive prescription medications, not to mention elderly care – good elderly care – is astronomical.”
Kerry clears his throat. “Mary, did you get all that?” he asks, and Mary hurriedly pulls out her notepad, writing things down.
“You don’t have to…”
“I asked because I wanted to know.”
I nod.
Kerry sets down his pizza, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Well, this is uh,” he pauses as if searching for the right words.
“Not very good pizza?” I offer, because Arizona is not known for great pizza.
Kerry laughs. “No, it’s not.”
“You should have asked me and I would have directed you to the best taco stand in town,” I tease.
“Well, I’ll have to remember for next time.” He pushes his plate away and then takes a sip of his beer.
Next time? Does he plan on coming back? I can’t help that the thought of it causes a thrill to run through me.
I don’t know much about politics, but I wonder why a Senator from Virginia would be visiting an Arizona University.
Is he positioning himself to run for President?
My attention is pulled away from my inner thoughts when I hear Senator Langley ask Kerry, “How is it you know Miss Bowen again?”
He offers an answer that I didn’t expect, and it comes out so effortlessly that it doesn’t feel like a lie, and even though I know it is, it feels like the truth.
“She’s a friend of my son Darren’s,” he explains without missing a beat, and I can feel something in the pit of my stomach, something wrong and hollow, but when I look up, I can see the regret in his eyes. Kerry is a Senator and I’m a student; more importantly, I’m a young, female student. There can’t be any misunderstanding. No matter how innocently we met, it would seem odd that he would invite me to dinner if he didn’t previously know me.
Senator Langley looks at me expectantly as if I’m supposed to elaborate, but my mouth is clamped shut.
“Well, hopefully she influences him to carry your torch for Emerson,” Senator Langley laughs, holding out his hand to me. “It was lovely meeting you Miss Bowen.” He smiles, kissing my knuckles, and even though it’s a polite gesture, there’s something behind his smile that doesn’t feel right. He releases me and says his goodbyes while I gather my things.
We linger on the sidewalk; Mary, Senator Walker, and his security man that waits by a black sedan at the curb.
“I’ll be a few minutes, Bailey,” Kerry says, and Bailey steps away to stand near the car.
Mary excuses herself, telling me how wonderful it was to meet me in such a genuine way that she leaves me blushing. She doesn’t get into the black sedan ,but another car I didn’t notice parked behind it. I am fully aware that it’s just Kerry and I on the street, the spring Arizona heat curling the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Thank you for indulging me this evening. You made this old man feel important,” he says kindly.
“You made me feel important, like my opinion mattered.”
“It does matter,” he consoles with sincerity.
“And you’re not that old,” I add, even though it is true he could be my father, he doesn’t act like a father, or at least none that I know. But the word old puts a line between us, one that I want to step over – one that I ache to step over, ignoring the fact that the gold wedding band on his left hand reflects the light from a nearby streetlamp.
He reaches out, taking a piece of my hair between his fingers, and I shiver as if the strands of my hair have nerve endings, and I can feel it the same as if he were touching my skin.
Tilting his head, he looks at me thoughtfully, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. Embarrassment unfurls in my stomach, turning to sadness.
“You know I can’t ask you to come back to my hotel room with me, right?” he implies, his voice laced with regret, and dare I say with a hint of the same longing I feel.
I nod, unable to trust my voice, and I feel something claw its way up my throat threatening to make its way out, something like a whine or a protest, but I know better.
“You are a very bright young woman, and you should remember that,” he insists.
I ask myself why I’m so enamored by this man that I only met today, how I feel connected to him, but the answer eludes me.
“You have to know how inspired I was today – especially today – when I needed it most,” I admit.
He lets go of my hair and it’s as if he’s released me, his words bringing me back. “You have renewed my faith in the young people of today, Miss Bowen.”
The space between us is charged like the air right before a storm, full of untapped energy just waiting to be ignited.
“My angel – his name is Freedom/Choose him to be your king/He shall cut pathways east and west/And fend you with his wing.”
“The Boston Hymn’s fourth stanza,” I observed, quietly.
“Do you know what it means?” he inquires, and I shake my head.
“It means to elect freedom as king. God’s own angel, sent to rebuke the misdeeds who sit on the throne and replace them with freedom, and he will protect you with his wing.”
I’m not sure I understand it, but I take the morsel and stuff it in my pocket for safe keeping.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
He smiles, and a soft laugh escapes his lips. “For what?”
“For renewing my faith in Emerson,” I confirm.
“Ah,” he graces me with a mysterious smile. “You were always faithful. Perhaps you just needed a reminder.”