What I Think About Politics

All eyes were on me. Waiting. Three…four…five seconds. But I couldn’t think of

anything to say. I burrowed into my repertoire of prepared speeches but there were

none appropriate to answer this question. Maybe I could be honest and say what was

really on my mind. But that had got me into trouble before. Like the time when we

went for dinner with the African historian. He was telling us about his life in Nigeria

and I had asked if that was in South Africa. I didn’t know. That’s why I asked. But

everyone had looked at me disapprovingly and said, almost in unison, “Nigeria is not

in South Africa!” So much for Miss Duncan’s advice never to be afraid to ask

questions.

Eleven…twelve…thirteen seconds.

So here I was, mouth dry, head empty, palms sweaty, trying to think of something

sensible to say. What sensible thing could I possibly say about politics? It wasn’t my

forte. I wasn’t like Tino who actually cared that Tony Blair lied about the war. I was

sick of hearing about it and whenever Tino managed to cleverly turn a conversation to

politics, I tried to stifle my yawns. Usually, if I managed to say yes and ah-ha in the

right places and with the right intonation he was happy to go on for seemingly ever

without noticing that I wasn’t really listening. I would listen just enough to be able to

switch us back to a topic of common interest at the most innocuous pause.

Eighteen…nineteen…twenty seconds.

So what if Tony Blair lied anyway? Didn’t all politicians? He just wasn’t smart

enough not to get caught. So maybe on that score he didn’t deserve to be Prime

Minister. One had to be shrewd to run a great empire properly. I had to be careful

about saying that. It bordered on saying I was in favour of political corruption.

I wasn’t in favour of corruption or wars or anything that made the world a less

happy place to live in. Tony had to do something and he did what he thought was

best. Everybody who is complaining, what would they have done in his shoes? At any

rate, I was glad that Saddam had gone. I once travelled on a small plane from Antigua

to Trinidad. There were two men on board dressed in the long gowns. I was so uneasy

until they got off in St. Lucia. Even then I thought what if they left a bomb on board?

I was uncharitable enough to think they should not have been allowed on board or at

least stripped searched first. As it turned out, they were obviously quite harmless. But

one can’t take chances with those things.

Twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine.

Come on, just open your mouth and say something. Start somewhere. I swallowed

hard. The eyes were still watching. The tension was building in my head. I couldn’t

talk about something I knew precious little about. I had to be politically correct. I had

to really care. I had to touch the relevant issues…it wasn’t just about me or my fears.

What about all those men who died in the war? They were still important to someone

even if I didn’t know them.

Maybe Tony really was just being self-serving by going to war. Had to be. After

all, Britain didn’t interfere in South Africa against Apartheid. How come? Weren’t

black people important too? Maybe not in their scheme of things. So what difference

did it make then which one of them I voted for? But you can’t say that. That’s the

unintelligent view.

Plus, women and slaves died to give me the vote, so I couldn’t not have a view. It

was a sin not to. It was because of people like me that Jesse Jackson had to come all

the way to London the other day to tell black people to vote. Maybe I should have

asked him who I should vote for and why.

Thirty-five…thirty-six…thirty-seven.

The truth is I only ever vote twice in my life. Once in…I don’t even remember the

year…when most black people were voting Labour, I think it was, because of

something the Conservatives were planning to do that would upset ethnic minorities.

And they didn’t win as I recall, so I never bothered to vote again after that.

The other time was in Jamaica when Al Miller, a preacher, went in as a candidate.

I knew he wouldn’t win but I voted for him anyway just so that PJ and Seaga would

know that I didn’t want either of them as Prime Minister. My mother said I threw my

vote away.

Anyway, the politicians can’t please everybody. Whatever they do, someone is

going to be upset. That, at the end of the day, was what all these debates were about.

Whether it was immigration, the health service, pensions, whatever. And weren’t we

just a self-serving as the politicians because all everybody wants is to get a party in

that will give them as much benefits as possible. Go on, admit it. That’s the whole

point about voting, isn’t it?

Which brings me back to the feeling I’m trying to shake that it makes no

difference who I vote for. I mean, which group do I fit in? I’m not a pensioner, so

help for them won’t help me. I’m not a single mother. I’m not an asylum seeker. I’m

not a student. I don’t have kids in school. I’m not unemployed. After the elections, I

still won’t be able to afford a house. I’ll still have to pay council tax. I’ll still have to

pay too much income tax. I’ll still have to pay for dental treatment. I’ll still have to

pay full fare on the bus. I’ll still have to pay for a TV. licence. I wonder if there’s a

party planning to scrap that?

Fifty-eight…fifty-nine…sixty.

They weren’t going to wait forever. Joy, just answer the question. What are your

views on politics? What are my views on politics? I don’t know. Ask me something

else. Stop starring at me, all of you!

I sank back into my chair and looked blank.

“Okay,” the group moderator said. “Joy needs some time to think about it. We’ll

get back to you. Margaret, what are your views on politics?”