GODSTUFF

THIS VOTE’S FOR YOU, STUDS.

Rarely are we able to glimpse the big picture from our vantage point, mired in the details of the here-and-now.

But now, on the cusp of the 2008 presidential election, I can’t help but feel I’m witnessing history in the making.

I’ve had that feeling only a few times before, rare opportunities afforded me as someone who stands on the edge of history, at the corner of religion and politics, people-watching for a living.

I’m not surprised that Barack Obama’s message — rooted in the wholly theological concept of hope — has resonated strongly with my peers and with so many others. His character, demeanor, prophetic vision and, yes, faith, have made inroads into the hearts and minds of the millions of us who long for a more perfect union.

Last week, motivated by the profundity of this particular political moment, a friend in London — a Boston native named Alex — launched a blog called “I’m dedicating my vote to . . . ” (dedicatemyvote.blogspot.com).

“Let’s forget ‘the issues’ for a moment and reflect on something that is not debatable: If Barack Obama is elected president, we will all have the privilege of participating in one of the defining moments in modern history,” Alex wrote in the blog. “On this occasion let us remember those who cannot be here to enjoy this moment — the departed who only could have dreamed that one day a man of part-African heritage would have such an opportunity.

“Who will you be thinking of when you go into the voting booth? Whose name will you whisper when you say, ‘This one is for you?’ “

Among those who have answered Alex’s question and posted their dedications on the blog are Dana, who dedicated her vote to her aunt Liz, who worked for Bobby Kennedy in ’68 and is campaigning for Obama in rural New Hampshire now. “She helped me always remember that activism is for everyone and that everything counts,” she wrote.

A fellow named “Smokinggoat” wrote: “But one for sure is the guy — the one, lone guy — who picks up garbage on our street. Alone, driving, stopping, picking up bins, then driving 10 yards, stopping, picking up bins. When I saw the Obama poster on the side of his truck — even before Obama won the nomination — I almost cried.”

A woman called Natasha dedicated her vote to her two young children. “May they never know the impossibility of a black man being president of the United States,” she said.

“Most social change is incredibly slow and incremental, and we fight the good fight in the vague hope of ‘progress’ but rarely with the expectation that we are going to actually witness or participate in tangible change,” Alex told me. If Obama is elected, “I know it is not going to magically bring about an era of nationwide interethnic tolerance or anything, but when you just think about the civil rights struggle over the past few centuries — the unbelievable gap between the powerful and the powerless that has existed — how can you not just say to yourself: this is a moment to behold.”

Alex dedicated his vote to his grandfather, Fissel Myss: “He fled persecution and arrived at Ellis Island, in the hope that one day his family could live in a land of tolerance.”

There are many people who have gone on to the next world whose memories I carried with me into the voting booth. My friend Jack Carey, who fought injustice as a public defender and died far too young; my grandparents, Caesar and Aida, Italian immigrants who battled bigotry and intolerance when they arrived in this country; Bob Webber, my theology professor in college who opened our eyes, our horizons and our closed minds.

Still, there is only one person to whom my vote really belongs. Studs Terkel, a man whose indefatigable sense of justice was out-measured only by his immense kindness, died last week at 96. He decided not to vote early because he was determined to show up at the polls today, wheelchair and all, and cast his ballot for real, tangible change.

In his essay, “Who’s Got the Ballot? — Red Kelly, 1975,” included in his latest collection P.S.: Further Thoughts from a Lifetime of Listening, Studs invoked images from the Great Depression, of bread lines and hard times.

“Though the goose hung low,” he wrote, “there was a salubrious note in the air. Flutelike. Something around the corner. Not prosperity, no. That had always been around the corner, but never made the turn. . . . No, it was something else. There was a deep Depression, true; but an elfin air pervaded, as insouciant as Roosevelt’s tilted cigarette holder. There was an unexplained gaiety that November . . .”

I can hear the flutes today, Studs, and the elves are mustering for a dance at the crossroads.

A spirit of anticipation hovers all around, the feeling that something else, something different, better — call it hope — is just around the corner.

On this Election Day, my dear soul-friend, fairy godfather and co-conspirator, my vote is cast in your memory. And if, come Wednesday, the corner is turned and a different fate awaits us than the one you had wished for, we, born to live, will walk on.

As I’m writing this today, a song is playing on the digital jukebox. “Colors of the World,” by the Innocence Mission. It reminds me of you, Studs, as if were you still physically walking with us, still full of hope.

And I think of you in the colors of the world.
And I did meet you in the brotherhood of man
when I was traveling a long way from my home
and you are a friend of mine.

As you said, hope dies last.

So, this one’s for you, Studs.