There’s a reason things, actions, hopes, dreams, schemes, plots, and plans can be called impossible.
If, by calling them impossible, you’re looking at them through an unjaundiced, unbiased eye and you’re not engaging in hyperbole, you do so because reason, reality, the twin fascisms of nature and human behavior, and a good bettor’s eye will tell you some things simply can’t be.
I can’t walk through the brick wall that separates my living room from the front yard. Impossible.
I can’t levitate and transport myself to another land. Impossible.
I can’t become a NASA astronaut nor can I become a Major League Baseball player. Impossible and impossible.
I can’t afford to purchase a private jet. Impossible.
Other things have been called impossible, wrongly so. Back in my hometown, for years and years any number of people would say, quite confidently, that the Chicago Cubs could never win the World Series. Impossible, they’d say. They were wrong. The year 2016 was their comeuppance.
That same year saw the ascension of an unprepared, incurious, self-absorbed, amoral, inexperienced, crass, mean, unread, obsessively greedy, pathologically lying, reactionary bully to the presidency of the United States. Funny thing was, the idea that such a thing might occur was never called impossible — at least accurately so. It was a joke, sure; Matt Groenig saw to that. It was unlikely, of course. All the polls leading up to the election indicated that. Political/social/cultural odds touter Nate Silver’s FiveThirtyEight told us on the eve of the election that a Clinton victory stood a 70 percent chance of coming true. That looks like a prohibitive favorite but it wasn’t. It meant Clinton stood a hair better than a 2-1 chance to win. Donald Trump, under that scenario, had a 30 percent chance of emerging victorious.
Not impossible. If you bet on Trump winning, sure, you’d be buying the long shot. But the reason people take risks on long shots is, every once in a while, they pay off.
Here’s another proposition that’s not impossible: the Democratic Party could put up a progressive, scandal-free friend of labor, an advocate for universal single-payer healthcare, a responsible environmental steward, a candidate pledged to topple the stacked economic deck that funnels ever more wealth into the hands of those who have it already, a passionate protector of the consumer, a cheerleader for renewable energies, a fighter against Citizens United, an adherent of established scientific research, and countless other attributes dear to “our side.” The party could run that person — say, a black Puerto Rican lesbian who grew up in abject poverty but worked her way up by dint of hard work and an unerring focus on what was right and fair, a graduate of Harvard who’d served as head of a global NGO that brought food, medical care, and education to poor children on every continent save Antarctica.
Could that person win the November, 2020 election for president? Y-y-y-y-yes. But the chance that might happen are vanishingly small, comparable, in fact, to the chance that I might walk through my living room brick wall, a potentiality advanced physicists tell us is…, well, actually possible. Here are some comments made by physicists on an online discussion forum asking the question, “What is the probability of a person walking through a wall based on quantum mechanics?”:
- The probability is non-zero, very small, but non zero.
- It’s a number which isn’t zero but is too small for any computer to even begin to calculate.
- It’s so low that if our entire universe were composed of copies of yourself and walls dedicated to attempting this feat from now until all the neutrons in the universe decayed, we still wouldn’t realistically expect to see it happen.
That straw candidate I described above would make a lot of people happy. Perhaps millions of people. But to win a national election, you must make tens of millions of people happy. Or at least not nauseated.
I’m thinking of Joe Biden. He doesn’t make tens of millions of people happy but he does, indeed, make that many not want to spew projectile emesis around the room. And that’s what’s needed right now after nearly four years of the Trump circus. We need someone who reminds us of gentler, more civil days.
I, for one, would vote for that straw candidate in a heartbeat. But I am certainly not the average American voter. That candidate would scare the bejesus out of too many people. I’d loved to try to persuade them that she would be the best thing ever to happen to them but it’d be a thankless and ultimately failed task. She may even be the candidate of the future, perhaps in 2028 or ’32. But not now. Not today.
We’re not going to see the “revolution” this year. For now, what Americans want is to relax. To take a deep breath and not have to worry about their blood pressure every time they go online or watch TV news. For the next four years, we want to take a break from high noon politics.
Joe Biden, that blithe, doddering, familiar, wired-in pol who’ll keep his liver-spotted hand steady on the tiller until 2024 or such time as his creaky ticker goes out, is the guy for now. And it may be that his running mate — be she Kamala Harris, Val Demings, Stacey Abrams, or whomever — will be the president seeking to be reelected in ’24. Who knows when the chess-playing wraith will challenge him to a game?
In any case, this coming presidential term will be a transition and not a revolution.
We revolutionaries have a lot of work and a lot of planning to do over the next four years in order to make our candidate’s chances a tad better than those of me walking through a wall or becoming a NASA astronaut.