Jim Walsh
When a presidential candidate chooses a vice-presidential candidate to share the ticket, there are many factors that can come into consideration. “Balance” might be at the top of the list but, in the choice of JD Vance by Donald Trump, “unbalance” may be more accurate… or both. As more and more information has emerged, for many of us Vance has become a more unsettling public figure. His words first reminded me of a person I knew quite well.
She was 41 years old, living in the small town of Milford, Conn. From there, she took the bus to work at the Arcade Dress Shop, an upscale store in nearby Bridgeport. She was far from “upscale” herself, but despite her lowly origins, she was given a chance to work there by the owner, a chance to prove herself, to be a good salesperson, a dedicated employee. She had only attained a sixth-grade education, but I’m sure she didn’t bring that up during the interview. She was pleasant, articulate, and many found her charming.
She was the daughter of an unreliable father. Her mother had given birth to 13 children, eight of whom survived to adulthood. Popo, as she was known, was the oldest surviving child. At the age of 41, she lived with her mother, her youngest sibling, and a little white mongrel dog named “Spider.” In other words, except for the dog, according to JD Vance, she would have been part of that “bunch of childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made… (wanting) to make the rest of the country miserable, too.”
And just as Vance would have suspected, she was a Democrat.
A half-century later, now in her 90s, I took this woman to her doctor for a routine medical exam. As often happens in that situation, the doctor asked if she knew the name of the current president. She paused and then responded, “You know, dear, I don’t follow politics the way I used to. But whoever he is… I hope he’s a Democrat.”
When I related that story to those who loved her, we all laughed. “Yep, that’s Popo,” they would say. Clever and charming to the end.
Popo was my mother.
Growing up, the oldest of eight surviving children out of thirteen, in a family whose financial situation was always uncertain, she became aware that the mother she loved was severely overburdened and promised to stay with her until Popo’s youngest sister, my Aunt Grace, graduated from high school. Thus it was, when my father proposed marriage to her when they were both around the age of 25, she turned him down. “I love you,” she said, but she’d made a promise to her mother and she was going to keep it.
“Fine,” my father said, “I’ll wait.” And he did. For 15 years. When both were at the age of 42, they married. My Aunt Grace was the flower girl. Not too long after, they contacted Catholic Family Charities, wanting to adopt a child. I was available. They were stuck. A few years later they adopted the little girl who would become my less rambunctious sister, Margaret.
JD Vance was born into very difficult circumstances and managed to work his way out of them. He served in the Marines, got an education at a state-funded university, and was a DEI admission at Yale Law. He was truly blessed. After the publication of his book that detailed his hard life, it made him a wealthy man and he became less and less the blessed man and more and more an ideal instrument in the hands of billionaires like Peter Thiel and now Donald Trump. As Vance sought public office, the views he expressed toward women became increasingly insulting and unhinged.
Vance’s record on women became even more despicable recently, when he declared himself to be “disoriented” and “disturbed” that the head of the most powerful teachers union in the country “doesn’t have a single child.” Really?
Just a week ago, I lost a very close friend who grew up on Pine Hill. She was the youngest daughter of three. She had no children of her own. She never married. But her professional life was dedicated to caring for the children of others. Graduating from North Shore Community College, she worked in Lynn, in Boston, in Florida, and in North Carolina. My daughters, both now professional women with graduate degrees, knew my friend Mary Jo when they were young girls. They loved her.
When informed of her death, Kathleen wrote, “The experience of being in MJ’s presence as a child — a presence of such generous, deeply-informed and overflowing kindness — has echoed in me ever since.”
Her sister, Cory, added, “She thought we were ‘fun kids’ to be around. She was the type of adult who actually saw and interacted with kids as if they were real people. She played games and cards with us; asked us real questions; shared secrets… her own and ours.”
Shall I or anyone who knew them remember my mother or my friend as “miserable” women? Far from it.
That’s the problem with the frame of mind expressed by broad, sexist, racist, or other categorical labels. Well into middle age, Vance would have dismissed my mother as a “loser” (to use his boss’s favorite noun). He would have seen Mary Jo as even worse. In fact, they were both among the best of womanhood.
Who would see Vance or Trump as among the best of men?
Not me.
Jim Walsh is the former chair of the Nahant Democratic Town Committee.
