Post-election plan: look for Utopia

Though
the stakes aren’t as high as they were in 2000 and 2004, I won’t be able to handle
bad news on Election Day. Do you remember when Kerry lost? Do you remember the
sick, crawling-around-the-kitchen-floor, not-answering-the-phone horror of it
all? I might have a flashback if we don’t dump the Republicans, those
power-bloated ticks tainted with Iraq blood who shove bricks of cash down their
pants as more Americans lose health care and more families slide below the
poverty line.

The
Dems have a good shot at gaining control of the House
and possibly the Senate next week — even some Republicans are admitting it
— and I’m getting waaayy too invested in the
outcome. History and habit are, after all, against us. In 2004, for example,
more than 96 percent of incumbents were reelected to Congress. True, today
several Republican congressmen and cronies are being investigated, have been
led out in handcuffs, or have ducked into rehab, but that doesn’t ensure a big
Democratic win on Election Day.

I’m
also banking on the large number of women who are running for state offices.
This year 2430 women are vying for state House and Senate seats. This isn’t a
record, but it’s up a reassuring 10 percent since 2004, when 2220 women ran for
those slots. Also, women are running for many statewide executive offices. Ten
are running for governor, including incumbent Jennifer Granholm
of Michigan. What if they don’t do well? I’ll admit I’m fragile.

I’m already coming a bit unglued. Months of
bad news has had me pulling away from reality and taking refuge in the idea of
utopias. What if I lived in a place where none of this — the politics, the
policies — mattered? A place where my values matched my peers’ and we all
happily toiled — or discussed toiling without actually doing it — together.

This
escapist fantasy started last summer when fictional utopias like“Animal Farm” and “Brave New World”topped my reading list. I love exposing
my kids to disturbing literature, so this summer’s reading theme was “You Think
You Have It Bad? Wait ’til You Read This Shit.” We started with Kafka’s “The
Metamorphosis” and Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” and moved on to such
uplifting tales as “The Lord of the Flies” and “1984.“

Current
events also reinforced my fascination with insular communities. Witness the
tantalizing glimpses into North Korean life, where images of workers in
gleaming uniforms contrast with dissidents’ accounts of scavenging for bark to
eat. The Pennsylvania schoolhouse murders brought the Amish community — and
their astonishing willingness to forgive — to my attention.

Since
I’m too tall to be Kim Jong-il and am in no way as
nice as the Amish, I’m forming my own private Idaho. At the first sign of bad
news on Tuesday, November 7, I’m pulling up stakes and moving to Jennitopia. Of course, I won’t base Jennitopia
solely on those fictional dystopias (the opposite of
utopias, places characterized by poor standards of living and often tyranny).
I’ll look to the great 19th-century innovators who, in reaction to the
industrial revolution, formed real-life utopias. Two Massachusetts examples —
Brook Farm and Fruitlands, which was founded by
Louisa May Alcott’s father — come to mind.

Because
the news is depressing and driving me into the pantry where I miserably inhale
leftover candy corn, Jennitopia won’t have media
access. I’ll strive for Amish generosity and Brook Farm self-sufficiency.
Toward that end, I’ve been making bread and soup like a human squirrel stocking
up for the winter.

If
Vice President Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld kneaded a
loaf of oatmeal-brown-sugar toasting bread or sautรฉed chunks of Hubbard squash
for soup, the world would be a better place. Making something small and vital
dissolves the urge to conquer and kill. Trust me on this.

Other
models for Jennitopia include those cults where the
leader has multiple partners. I’d be willing to give this a go (for the greater
good, of course). If my husband has any objections, I’ll show him the sign
hanging over the compound entrance. (Note to self: remember to ask him to make
the sign.)

“Honey,
look at the sign,” I’ll say, my golden robe glowing in the red New Mexico dusk.
“It says ‘Jennitopia,’ not ‘Jennifer’s Husbandtopia.'”

As in SollaSollew, where they never have troubles, at least very few,
there is one problem. Jennitopia is supposed to
reflect my ideals and values, right? A cornerstone of my belief system,
however, is to follow the news. Closely. (Cue Star-Spangled Banner music;
initiate waving-flag graphic.) It’s my duty as a citizen to know what’s going
on and to be part of the solution.

But
my anxious surveillance of the news is what got me here in the first place.
Even if I could locate Jennitopia off the grid, I’d
still obsess. If a plane were to fly overhead, I’d wonder who’s on board. A
greedy, soulless lobbyist, perhaps, giving a handjob
to a Goose Orange-soaked senator in exchange for fat contracts? Or maybe
celebrity-besotted media whores rubbing their nipples in glee as they disrupt a
singer’s adoption instead of covering Africa’s AIDS epidemic?

Jennitopia or no Jennitopia, I can’t
run. I can’t hide. I guess I’ll scrap my plans and make damn sure I’m there
early on Tuesday to vote. Maybe we’ll win. If not, maybe my husband will make
me the sign anyway and let me wear the golden robe around the house.

This article appears in Nov 1-7, 2006.