Open Letter To My Ex-Boyfriend(s)
by Ellen Finnigan
again: a perfectly good relationship torn asunder by a difference
of political opinion. Oh why cannot the flower of love bloom on
the border of the ideological divide? I thought love conquered all.
Ex-boyfriend, what happened to us? Oh what aridity, what corruption,
of soul, of culture, of country caused these delicate flowers to
shrivel and die? I say "flowers" because, yes, this has
happened to me more than once. Perhaps my standards are too high.
Instead of picking the petals off a daisy and saying "he loves
me, he loves me not," I pick the petals and say, "he loves
liberty, he loves liberty not" and if he does not love liberty,
I find him hard to love.
it could have been so beautiful. You were tall. You were well-educated.
You cooked me dinner. You loved your mom, you loved your dog. You
read my crappy writing and told me it was good. You said you were
tired of the bachelorís life. You wanted to get married! You wanted
to start a family! All you wanted was to find someone who would
share the mortgage, not get fat, read your terrible writing and
tell you it was goodÖwas that too much to ask? According to all
those chick-lit books, those ones with the shopping bags and high
heels and sparkly martini glasses on the covers, all of this should
have been enough for us! But alas, it wasnít.
going swimmingly until that one night Ė you know the one Iím talking
about Ė that first time I used the "L" word. I saw you
bristle, and then you became cold and distant. It made you nervous;
I could tell. Perhaps it was too soon. Perhaps I should have waited
until the third or fourth month to tell you I was a libertarian.
I just didnít want to hide anything from you my pet, my lover. You
were everything to me. And I wanted to be everything to you.
"agreed to disagree" and rarely spoke politics after that,
I could tell it annoyed you when, last summer, I put a Ron Paul
sign in my window, prominently displayed above the townís most popular
coffee shop, where everybody, including your friends, could see
it. When you noticed it, you scoffed and said, "Heís not going
to win." Then, you went and put that Obama button on your coat.
For the record, my sweet, I thought you sounded like an idiot when
I asked you why you liked Obama, and you replied, "He just
sounds soÖpresidential." However, I tried to stay cool. I tried
to look on the bright side: Wasnít it Shakespeare who said there
must be some mystery in love Ė and there can be no mystery between
all the red flags were there. But what can I say? I was a woman
in love. Women in love are so full of excuses. I told myself what
every woman tells herself when she is falling for someone with a
worldview that clashes with her own, in other words, when she must
confront the bleak prospect of incompatibility: "WellÖmaybe
weíll balance each other out!"
to stay together, but eventually, I had to start looking for ways
to fulfill my needs outside the relationship. I started sneaking
around. Iím not going to lie. Do you remember when you would call
on those Sunday afternoons or on those occasional weekday evenings
and I always "missed the call." Well, I was with my Ron
Paul meet-up. Iím sorry, baby, but they understood me in a way you
never would. I could actually talk to them about things. Iíll never
forget that day you stopped by my apartment unannounced and found
50 people in my living room poring over county legislative maps,
planning a coup of the local precinct committee. I finally had to
come clean. I hope youíve forgiven me.
that no matter how bad things got, I couldnít let you go. For one,
itís hard to find a man who knows how to dance, and you were the
best two-stepper in town. I finally had to admit to myself that
we were incompatible, but I had a plan B. I believe it was Mencken
who said it is the unique talent of the woman to always believe
she can succeed where others have failed. I thought to myself: "I
can change him!" I thought surely you must be prone to reason.
Like you, pie, I am often too easily seduced by the idea of change.
I gave you
brochures. I sent you links to articles on Lew Rockwell. I made
you read Rothbard. I told you everything about Ron Paul. For a while
there, it seemed like you were coming around! I even convinced you
to read Mere
Christianity, by C.S. Lewis. Then we discovered more things
we had in common, like hating Republicans. Remember all those lazy
afternoons we spent lying on the couch, holding each other and talking
about the different ways we would like to murder and torture the
President? "Poison him with depleted uranium!" "Waterboarding!"
"Make him read a book!" Indeed, it was in those moments
that I saw a gleam of hope.
forget the first time you agreed to come to church with me. It was
Easter and you had just purchased a new suit for a wedding you were
going to be in. When I drove by to pick you up, you came strutting
out of your house, a peacock in sunglasses.
Once you were
in the car, I said, "Are you only coming to church with me,
because you want to wear your new suit?"
You said, "Yes.
Do we get a free pancake breakfast?"
Oh funny ex-boyfriend,
my little liberal cockatoo.
had our bumps in the road, but overall things were fairly copasetic.
The Ron Paul group had managed to win the county for Ron Paul on
Super Tuesday, and I think after that you thought my obsession would
die down. But it didnít. I think you thought it would just be a
phase. But it wasnít. You soon tired of hearing about Ron Paul.
Then, when he came to town in April, I stood you up to have dinner
with him. I even had the honor of introducing him when he gave a
speech at the University! (Yes, ex-boyfriend, this letter has largely
become an excuse to gloat on the Internet about the time I met Ron
Paul.) You werenít too happy when you came over later that week
and found that the framed picture of you and I had been replaced
with a picture of me and him.
You said, "Why
do you care so much? Donít you get it? He isnít going to win."
I punched you in the face. After that things just sort of fizzled
out I guess.
I would just like you to know that I do not blame you for the problems
in our relationship. I blame libertarians, with their ideas about
sound monetary policy, non-interventionism, free markets and peace,
ideas that seem to make some kind of logical sense and are based
on some kind of truth, not on what people want to hear. It isnít
right that ideas, mere ideas, should come between me and those that
I love. It seems ideas, mere ideas, are condemning me to a life
of solitude and lovesick misery. For the record, if I end up alone
at the age of 90 with 37 cats, shuffling around the public spaces
with grocery bags on my feet while ranting and raving about the
government, it will be all the libertariansí fault!
Finnigan [send her mail]
graduated from the University of Montana in May with an M.F.A. in
Creative Writing. She currently teaches writing online to Catholic
homeschooled kids and was the organizer of the Missoula for Ron
Paul meet-up group.
© 2008 LewRockwell.com