Lauren B. Lentini

As a rule, I don’t talk much about politics. I figure my husband does enough of that for the both of us. But, in my own way, I’m also very political (and just as liberal if not more so). Today I’m gutted that, officially, Liz Warren will not be our next president.

(This isn’t really a political post. This is just my post of mourning.)

I was #teamwarren before it was a hashtag. I was team #draftwarren in the last election. I was already cheering her on when she was first running for senator. I was exhilarated to finally have the chance to cast a ballot for her. I have a Warren magnet on my car, and I dressed my son in a Warren onesie. I normally let Jerald handle the political donations, too, but I made a point of making my own this time and putting my name on her donor rolls (and mailing list).

So I almost cried when I read her email about suspending her campaign. I’ve been trying to come to grips with the fact that she won’t be president — this time — for a while now. Jerald texted me as soon as the news broke, and I started refreshing my email, waiting to hear it in her (or her campaign staffer’s) words.

What bothers me the most, and what compels me to write, is that it’s so much harder to ignore the sexism than it was four years ago. Hillary came with so much baggage, it was easy to blame what happened to her on something else. Her emails. She voted for the Iraq War, Jerald’s favorite reason never to vote for someone in a primary. Her husband. &c.

Warren, in my highly biased estimation, has done everything right. She waited, when myself and others were clamoring for her to jump in last time. She came prepared. She didn’t make any huge gaffes, that I could tell. I thought she even had the superficial qualities down that would get her past that nebulous “likeability” hurdle. I actually like her grandmotherly and intellectual qualities, and her no-holds-barred approach to debating. I love her cardigans. I made my mom listen to her tell the story about having to potty-train her daughter before she could go to law school. I want to have a beer with her, dammit.

It wasn’t enough. And maybe she’s too progressive, or maybe it was anti-intellectualism, but the thing slapping me in the face right now is misogyny. Disguised as some sort of three-dimensional chess about “electability.” With my incredible privilege, some days I can almost forget that the patriarchy is still alive and well. Other days it’s impossible to ignore.

Connecticut’s primary comes so late in the game that it won’t matter anyway, but I might vote “uncommitted.” Or I’ll vote for Bernie because his politics more closely align with mine. Whoever gets nominated, I’ll work my ass off to make sure they get elected, because we have an important job to do. But I sure am tired of voting for old white men. Sick and tired.