It’s Saturday evening. I’m lounging on the sofa with my feet up. I just spent an afternoon exploring parks and forests around Olympia, and I’m beat.
My lovely hosts are in the kitchen, chatting with their housemate and her boyfriend about the latest election news. I’m half listening in between idly mucking about on Facebook and Neko Atsume. This is a Bernie house. My hosts’ housemate is always delighted to hear how much I know about the US primaries. Me? I’m torn between interest in what’s happening and a deep sense of annoyance that I have to care so much about what Americans do. I wish the US was as passing an interest as any other moderately-large country in another continent. It’s not. I have to care. And that’s not these peoples fault, so I listen and work to understand their perspectives. I even find myself agreeing with many of the things they’re saying.
Before long, the conversation turns to Hillary Clinton. They don’t name her. First she’s “her”. Then someone refers to her as “that woman”.
Housemate’s boyfriend snickers and says “that man in a dress, you mean”.