Hill of Beans

I knew going into today’s primaries that the likelihood of success was slim, if not impossible. That didn’t stop me from hoping my candidate of choice, Bernie Sanders, would somehow pull off the upset of the decade. The results trickled in and my feelings of heartache began. I felt as though I were going through a traumatic breakup, losing an important piece of myself, so I did the only logical thing. I grabbed a glass of wine and watched the closing scene of Casablanca.

Ilsa: But what about us?

Rick: We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.

Ilsa: When I said I would never leave you.

Rick: And you never will. But I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.

Distraught, discouraged, defeated. But I would always have those good times with my fellow Berners. Those memories and feelings would carry me through the general election. I could bring myself to vote for Hillary to defeat Trump. If Bernie told me to, I could. ‘Three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.’

And then Bernie spoke. He told me it wasn’t over. Our revolution wasn’t over. Paris wasn’t behind us. It awaited us. A bit dramatic? Maybe.

All I have to say is that I’m no longer disheartened. I have hope, again. I have dreams, again. And now, Hamilton and his fellow revolutionaries elevate my thoughts with song. This is our revolution. We can not throw away our shot.

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