I felt conflicted for a moment; much of the rhetoric coming from Hillary Clinton’s campaign was that any self-respecting feminist would vote for the female candidate, and I really, really wanted to. Yet, what was more important to me was voting for a candidate with principles. A candidate that could fly coach seemed more principled than a candidate who could literally wear thousands of dollars and simultaneously talk about poverty.
So, like many others, I felt the Bern. His platform was one that made the most sense to me and my family: a $15 minimum wage, an affordable college education, equality for women and the LGBT community, finance reform, and so on. He had my vote during the Indiana primaries in May; when I saw Sanders had won against Clinton that night, I felt we’d won an extraordinary fight. Yet, Sanders didn’t perform as well nationally as he did in Indiana. The more delegates and super-delegates Sanders lost, the more hope I lost. I held out for the Democratic National Convention, and believed something revolutionary might happen. I was wrong. With more dignity and grace than most are capable of, Sanders not only surrendered his delegates to Clinton, but endorsed her. I admire him for having done so, and I will be voting for Clinton myself in November, but it will not be with the same passion I had when voting for Sanders in the primaries.
Hope for Bernie was strong in my home town of Richmond, Indiana. There were those who voted for him because it was the hip thing to do. Many, like me, believed he was the most humane candidate running. Others were swayed because they didn’t listen to the news, and the least could be said of him. And there were still others who believed Sanders was their next savior.
State Route 40, the Old National Road, divides our little city in half — State Route 27 quarters it. Richmond sits on the Ohio/Indiana state line with a truck stop that was part of many people’s childhoods. The westward approach presents the interstate and then Lowes, and McDonalds, and KFC, and Walmart. There’s a revived downtown, a hook around the court building, then the "nice side" of town with a nationally recognized university, a cemetery, pawn shops, and several businesses standing empty. Richmond ends with an animal clinic and the potholed trailer-court, Green Meadows. Our Main Street was considered one of the top 10 by Huffington Post, and it is charming, but it’s traveling north on 27 that Richmond’s truth rings truer. Entering from the south side, you see the roads are cracked and breaking. Houses with long grown grass turn grey from dust off the street, and cars sit like rocks along a stream bed. 27 intersects 40 on our award winning Main Street, and gets its act together thusly — passing car lots, healthcare facilities, nursing homes, the old hospital and the new, and stretches northward past the interstate exit and sprawling suburbs.
Richmond was once an important city. Not only was it the largest distributer of roses in the nation, but it was also considered one of the largest piano manufacturers in the world. Richmond’s Gennett Records also attracted famous jazz musicians like Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, Jelly Roll Morton, and many others. Our section of National Road also houses one of the most iconic statues in our history, Madonna of the Trail. The pioneer woman’s face is stricken. She clutches a baby to her breast as another tugs at her dress. She holds a shotgun against her leg. She was commissioned by the Daughters of American Revolution in 1912 to commemorate those women who braved the westward march for expansion. There are only 12 statues of her like fashioned by August Leimbach —12 for each state the Old National Road crossed.
Our city is bleeding with history, but in the way rust bleeds down boards gone grey in the windows they’ve blocked. Walk just a block or more from either State Route 40 or 27, and you’ll see why Richmond needed Sanders. Foundations are cracked and turn to pebbles at the houses’ feet. Paint chips lay buried with humus from generations of dead plants. Panels of siding are gone. Corners of glass broken out. Litter in the gutters. Lawns of concrete grow green again with weeds. Tight streets you wouldn’t walk barefoot on if you dared walk down at all.
Poverty is also written in faces of Richmond’s inhabitants. Too many have grown fat on the only processed food they can afford; a healthy meal of fresh fruits and vegetables is more expensive than a week’s worth of frozen meals, keeps half as long, and does not sustain as well as a greasy burger patty. If they’re not fat, some are too thin and strung out on drugs because if there’s anything Richmond is not short on, it’s drugs. According to the local newspaper, The Palladium Item, there were 19 deaths resulting from drug overdoses in 2014, and 31 children born addicted to opioids.
It was due to such problems that brought an array of people to Roscoe’s Coffee Bar and Tap Room, the local hangout, to discuss a Bernie Sanders rally. It would take place the last week of April, just before the primaries. We sat in sagging armchairs and on stools around the broken sofa. I had a beer and I caught up with my old friend before the meeting. Roose (I’ll name him for the sake of this article) is a transgender man with three kids to support. He worked 60 hour weeks to provide for them and still couldn’t make ends meet. I helped him move all of his things from an apartment to his friend’s garage last summer. I saw his struggle to maintain some contact with his children when he no longer had a home to keep them safe. He needed Bernie Sanders more than he needed anything; I’d never seen the system fail someone so badly. When the meeting began, he had a notebook tucked in his lap. A pen was in his hand and a beer not far from reach. He scribbled down every idea like it was a lifeline.
The rally was to take place at Glenn Miller Park. There would be informational booths about local and national candidates. There would be food and games and face painting and music to get people amped. There would be people from all demographics to discuss why they were voting for Bernie. As soon as we confirmed the time, date, and location, we would begin advertising as hard as we could. Before we left the shop, a cheery man sitting thickly in his chair raised a finger:
“Even if Bernie doesn’t win, we’ve already won. He’s pushed Hillary so far to the left that we won’t let her go back.”
The Facebook status popped up before I talked to Roose. Upon talking to the director of Richmond’s Park and Recreation Department, he was told they didn’t support our candidate. Cut. Print. Moving on.
On one of Glenn Miller’s corners, visible from the Old National Road, Madonna of the Trail stands tall and silent.
