In which I finally take my own advice and leave an abusive relationship

When my parents took me home from the hospital a few days after I was born, it was into a household that was Catholic, union, and Democratic, not necessarily in that order.

On election days, when the curtain of the booth zoomed shut, my mom would, without hesitation, flip one lever -- the straight ticket lever -- then lift me up so I could push the red button. My dad did the same. Children of the Depression, of steel workers and coal miners, they knew who had made their lives better. Politics were never discussed in our house; there was simply a seamless harmony between the values of faith, fair play, and political positions that my parents held, and I absorbed at least the latter two with no qualms. When I reached voting age, having been taught the value of critical thinking, I gave my choice of party some consideration. About three seconds' worth. Just as I knew I belonged alongside my folks on the picket line, and with the Vincentian Sisters in prioritizing social justice, I knew I was a Democrat.

(I did vote Republican once, in 1982, for Senator John Heinz. His positions at that time would today make him a moderate-to-liberal Democrat.)

Barbara Jordan. Ted Kennedy. Pat Schroeder. Dick Gephardt. Ann Richards. Jerry Brown. Those were some of the people who, to me, embodied what that D following their names meant. I felt honored and humbled to be, however distantly, in their company.

I wept with relief and emotion when Bill Clinton made his first inaugural address. The sense of hope, of inclusion, was overwhelming. And devastatingly short-lived.

At first the chipping away was gradual, then increasingly brutal. NAFTA. DOMA. DADT. And of course the first "health care reform" debacle.

Somewhere in the party lurks the first invertebrate, jelly-like mass passing for human who first allowed the issue to be called "health care reform" and thus be willfully misunderstood, misrepresented, vilified, confused, and finally defeated, instead of properly designating it "health insurance reform." Oh, how I would love to get my hands around the neck of that asshole.

There's no need for me to recount here the list of failures, shortfalls, and outright crimes that have been committed -- or allowed to be committed through their negligence -- by "centrist," "moderate," and Blue Dog Dems.

My own Representative, Mike Doyle, ostensibly a Democrat, lives at the infamous C Street House and is involved with the Family cult -- the same Family who have orchestrated the pending legislation mandating the death penalty for homosexuals in Uganda.

I can no longer be a member of the Democratic party. They've smacked me around for the last time. I'm not sure where I'll go, but I have to leave.

Barbara Boxer, Al Franken, Sherrod Brown, Alan Grayson, Dennis Kucinich, John Conyers, Maxine Waters, Jay Rockefeller, Tammy Baldwin, Barbara Lee, Jared Polis, and more -- there are still many champions among the Democrats, and I'm grateful for them all. In my dream they would form a breakaway party, called something like the Progressive or American Labor or True Democratic party, that would be a magnet for all of us who are tired of playing nice and kissing ass and are ready to start making change happen. Won't happen, but I can dream.

This is a painful choice. I'm sure I will be tempted to temporarily change my registration back to D every 4 years for the presidential primaries, and if I do, I won't feel bad about working the system. I mean, even though I've left the Catholic church I'm still allowed to appreciate the Pieta or listen to Vivaldi.

So tonight I will sign the divorce papers and mail them in. Listen, Democratic party, if you ever manage to get some therapy, get your shit together, and start doing some good things for people who need them, we can get together for lunch and talk. Just don't ask me for money.