American psyche
The first Walz and the last Vance
I am now entering the mildly obsessive stage of my interest in this US presidential election. And so I watched three speeches from last week’s Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which is two more addresses than I watched in the whole of last year’s UK party conferences.
If it’s analysis of the chances of Kamala Harris defeating Donald Trump that you’re after, this is not really the place to come. All you can safely say is that the disasters that might have befallen the Democrats with the withdrawal of Joe Biden have all been – almost magically – avoided. The unanimity behind Harris has been extraordinary, not least for the speed with it was achieved. Polls show the race to be tight in the all-important “why does anyone bother to vote unless they live there?” battleground states. The first televised debate between Harris and Trump takes place on September 10th. At the moment she looks a lot happier than he does, but do I have any insight into the swing voters of Northampton county, Pennsylvania? I do not.
So this is a piece about the particularities of American elections as they occur to me after watching the speeches and a few other campaign incidents from the last few days.
My first thought was what a disaster I would be as an American politician battling for high office. Not because I’m dimmer, less quick-witted or even necessarily less eloquent than the Obamas, Tim Walz or Kamala Harris herself – though I certainly am. But because – as judged by their speeches - I’m simply not emotionally qualified.
Take the inevitable rhetoric about dreams and their fulfilment. I understand that “dream” in this sense is a common metaphor. But whether taken literally as what happens in my mind when I’m asleep, or the fantasies that pass through my head when awake, none of them really have much to do with aspiration. Or, at least, of an aspiration I’d care to share with anyone. My night-time dreams consist of an awful lot of getting lost, misplacing my belongings, or suddenly discovering that I haven’t prepared for a big and imminent public event. OK, I fly occasionally. My daytime fantasies are as often about possible conflicts with pavement cyclists and red light-hopping motorists as about fulfilling some great ambition. Try constructing a winning speech out of one’s greatest imagined verbal triumphs over men driving white vans.