Dear Governor Ducey,
I was
listening to NPR after the New Hampshire primary. The hosts were discussing
Kasich, who they said is the last of the “compassionate conservatives like
George W. Bush” and I was like, if George W. Bush aka millions in Iraq killed
over false reports of weapons of mass destruction then we are in a more
Orwellian double-speak bind than I thought. Still, when I see pictures of your
face, you seem like a nice guy. I look at Wisconsin’s governor, whose face is
full of spite, and think, well, at least Governor Ducey smiles. But, it’s
possible you’re just smiling because of the big checks the Koch Brothers
deposit in your bank account. I wouldn’t write these letters, though, if I
didn’t sense a compassionate streak. Nor would I write them if I didn’t believe
in meeting compassion with compassion. My new friend John reminded me the other
day that compassion and empathy is really the only way we’re going to make any
changes.
John said
he saw you at Martanne’s the other day, here in Flagstaff. He and his wife sat
right next to you. John told his wife, I’m going to talk to him, which made his
wife walk as far away from John as possible in small Martanne’s,
understandably. Even though I write to you weekly, I think I’d get tongue tied
to meet you in person. The gap between us is canyonesque. I feel like opening
my mouth would release a torrent of insults and apologies and stammerings that
would be considered only “compassionate” when the nurses at the psych ward
process my admission papers.
But John,
possibly because he began with compassion, did not stammer or make strange bird
noises at you. He said, “Governor, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve been reading
about proposition 132 and I hope it does what you say it will do to bring
funding back to Arizona. You know, I grew up in Louisiana where we would say we
were always glad to have Mississippi next door—Louisiana always scored near the
bottom of near everything but Mississippi scored lower. We could always point
to Mississippi as the real bottom. Now, I’m raising three boys here in Arizona
where we are the new almost-bottom. I didn’t think I’d be pointing at
Mississippi from here to say, ‘they’re worse.’ So I really do hope that this
new bill helps to bring the state’s education funding up but I have to tell
you, even with that hope, you see my wife over there, paying the bill, not
looking at us? She has worked for the public school system for 9 years. And
over those 9 years she’s had a $1000 raise. $1000 over 9 years.”
John says that
the governor’s wife, over her plate of chiliquiles, puts her hand to her heart
in sympathy. The governor shakes his head. It seems like there is compassion
here. That these people understand that a $1000 raise over 9 years is $110/
raise a year. They understand how little money that is to raise a family on.
They seemed to get that teachers are the ones building Arizona’s future.
John meets
compassion with compassion. He doesn’t harp on the governor. Ducey’s kids are
with him. John doesn’t want to embarrass the governor or the governor’s wife.
John sympathizes with his fellow human, feels a little sorry that he must
encounter an unhappy populace wherever he goes. John empathizes with what must
be the governor’s family’s disappointment: because people love to come up from
Phoenix to marvel at the concept of cold and snow, he says. “Sorry there is no
snow.” To which the governor replies, “No worries. We love Flagstaff, snow or
not.”
I wish I
could have said, if I had been there, if I had been as brave, not being as
smart and measured as John. I might have added, “I hope you love Flagstaff’s
students too.”
John jokes that
he’s afraid the secret service had a bead on him the whole time. I told John
that at Rita Cheng’s installation ceremony as president of NAU, Ducey was
swarmed by secret service.
“I didn’t
have a single secret service agent assigned to protect me,” I joke.
We laugh at
the idea. People in Flagstaff don’t get, or need, secret service agents. We
have snow and compassion to protect us.
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