When the Door Was Open

Angela Townsend recounts her own childhood fascination with politicians, embracing the clarity of a child’s innocent mind in its encounter with American politics.

I assumed every little girl loved politicians. My grandmother could not convince me to play with baby dolls with eyes that never close. My teachers at the Little Red School House couldn’t talk me into climbing the big slide.

But when the County Executive came to our house, I thanked God and all the fairies in the forest. My parents had instructed me not to open the door to strangers. This was not a stranger. This was the County Executive. He had curly caramel-corn hair, and he believed in Middletown’s families. His face peeked out between the pizzeria menus and my mother’s poetry journals, reminding us where to vote. Sometimes he was surrounded by children, and sometimes he held a funny little naked dog. His dog’s name was Buttercup. I looked that up at the library. I saw him on Action 6 news. I heard him say that sometimes he loved people so much, he was “overcome.”

Now he was here, at 18 Willow Drive. His face was even kinder in person. He wiggled his fingers, and I wiggled my fingers, and I opened the door, because he was the County Executive.

“I’m Angie! My mom is in the shower!”

“Oh, I can wait!” The County Executive leaned on the porch railing, right next to our light-up Santa Claus. “Not to worry.”

I was not worried. I left the door open and sprinted to the stairs. “MOM!”

The water shut off, and she thundered to the landing. “What’s wrong, Angie?” My mother was beautiful even when she was scared. The ladies at church said I was her “spitting image.” I was pretty sure I looked like her because she only had one child, so her face had nowhere else to go but me. That was also why she got so worried anytime I yelled her name.

But nothing was wrong. “The County Executive is here!”

My mother’s eyebrows jumped into her bangs. “Angela, you didn’t open the—”

“—it’s the County Executive!”

My mother was in a towel. My mother was not happy. The County Executive peeked in the door. “Ma’am, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’m visiting your fine neighborhood to see if you’re interested in vinyl siding. This month, everything is 30 percent off.”

I didn’t know about vinyl siding, but if the County Executive was selling it, it was probably a good idea. 

My mother’s eyebrows had a different opinion. “You need to leave. Excuse us.”

The County Executive made a little nod, closed the door, and left. My mother sent the County Executive away.

“Mom, that—”

“—that was not the County Executive.” She kissed the top of my head. “Don’t ever do that again.”

I nodded, but I could not promise. My mother was raising me to be a formidable woman. I told the teachers at the Little Red School House about that. Mrs. Fox said I was indeed a formidable woman. Mrs. Gorrie, who never put enough jelly on the cream cheese sandwiches, asked if I knew what “formidable” meant. She said she had never met anyone formidable under four feet tall before. I asked if she was being facetious. 

I nodded, but I could not promise. My mother was raising me to be a formidable woman. 

Marcel Pinche would not ask if I knew what “formidable” meant. If Marcel Pinche showed up at our house, I would let him in. He was our State Senator. He had silver hair like a dandelion and wore bow ties in all the colors. Marcel Pinche liked to talk about our “lively green world.” He talked on Action 6 about the bears in the Yukon and the wonderful walruses roaring on the shore. He wanted every child to have a favorite tree. 

I wrote Marcel Pinche a letter to tell him I could not choose between the maple in our front yard and the silly willows in the back. The willows were twins. They had hilarious hair like Fraggles and shimmied during thunderstorms. But the maple leaves turned all strawberry in September, a jammy red that glowed if you held them to the light. I thanked Marcel Pinche for loving every living creature.

So far, Marcel Pinche was the only politician I got to meet in person, if you don’t count the County Executive. He came to the Little Red School House when we put on a play based on The Lorax by Dr. Seuss. Marcel Pinche shook my hand, and I told him he looked like a dandelion. He said I could make a wish on his hair, and we laughed, because he was my friend. Marcel Pinche knew I was a formidable woman.

I knew my mother would let Marcel Pinche in the house. And I didn’t even need to ask about President Bush or Mister Clinton. Of course they could come over. My grandparents were going to vote for President Bush, and my parents were going to vote for Mister Clinton, but everyone agreed it was okay that I couldn’t decide. 

The night of the debate, Mrs. Gorrie called our house to ask my father if I knew what “facetious” meant. He said that I did, because he taught me. He did not tell her that, in the same conversation, he taught me what “feces” meant, and I could not stop laughing, and now “facetious” makes us laugh whenever it comes up, because my father likes to get slaphappy.

I wasn’t sure if President Bush ever got slaphappy, but once I saw him put all his fingers together like he was doing “this is the church, this is the steeple, open the door, and here are the people.” He said he was going to make “a thousand points of light.” He had a whole bunch of dogs with emotional eyes, and he told the whole country that he didn’t like broccoli. When he threw up on some important trip, I cried, because he must have been so scared. Mrs. Bush was a puffy white cloud of love, and I would vote for her if I could. 

Mrs. Bush was a puffy white cloud of love, and I would vote for her if I could. 

I wondered what happened to Mister Dukakis, from last time. I hoped he was okay even though he did not win. My parents voted for him. I liked his name and the fact that he looked a little bit like my uncles, because Greece is not far from Sicily. My one uncle said Sicily was a “party island,” so we are probably not just Italian, we are actually everything. I said that sounded wonderful. Now Mister Clinton wanted everyone to have everything they needed to “flourish,” so I did not know how I could vote against him. I had a dilemma.

The slaphappy people on Saturday Night Live dressed up as President Bush and Mister Clinton, and everybody laughed together.

The slaphappy people on Saturday Night Live dressed up as President Bush and Mister Clinton, and everybody laughed together. I told my parents I think they are probably all really good friends, and they take turns having Thanksgiving at each other’s houses. Mister Clinton was probably very sad when President Bush threw up. 

If they came over, I would show them the nook where I read out loud to the stuffed animals before bed. I would ask them about their favorite books. I would give President Bush the baby dolls with the plastic eyes, so he could give them to a little girl who liked baby dolls, and maybe that could be one of the thousand points of light.

Langhorne, Pennsylvania