I spot my friend CK from half-way down the block. He’s smoking a cigarette and glaring. “What the hell are we doing out here at 10:30 on a Sunday?” he asks. We’re on Second Avenue in the East Village, which requires at least a 45 minute journey on both our parts. Obviously, we’re very dedicated to our political ideals.
“Hey! I said we should go at 1:00 PM. 10:30 was your idea.”
I’d found out about the Manhattan Libertarian Convention when an acquaintance mentioned it on our community board. The convention business/election of officers didn’t capture my interest, but the speakers sounded quite passably interesting. And I have never passed up the opportunity to meet other Libertarians.
“I have to tell you, I’ve been here 10 minutes and I’ve only seen two old white guys go in, and one of them looked like Mr. Monopoly,” CK says.
CK and I met through work three years ago, and discovered our mutual political affiliation over beers my first Friday on the job. He’s had me wrapped around his finger since the minute I heard he’d voted for Michael Badnarik. We have exchanged political rants and caustic banter ever since. I convinced him to attend the Manhattan Libertarian Convention with me by promising that if it sucked, we would just ditch it for Ukrainian food and beer.
The restaurant where the convention is being held seems vaguely familiar. “Hey, is this the place we went after I dragged you to that Libertarian message board gathering a couple summers ago?”
“Yeah it is, and you were trashed.”
“That was your fault,” I insist. “You started feeding me shots.”
“I figured if you were drunk you wouldn’t be able to protest leaving when I wanted,” he says with a shrug. “Because you didn’t mention until we got there that you knew these people from a message board“
Mr. Monopoly – a small man in a suit with a bowtie and a bowler hate — exits with another man. The other man is wearing ill-fitting clothing and looks vaguely like John Goodman. CK gives me a look to say “See, I told you.” The other man notices us lurking.
“Hi! Are you here for the meeting?” he asks. He is smiling far too much for 10:37 am.
“Um…yeah,” I say tentatively, because one sentence from Mr. Enthusiasm has immediately made my interest wane.
“I’m Jeff!” He goes on to list his accomplishments in local political office. It’s telling, in an unfortunate way, that he ends the list with the admission that he’s nothing now. “Have you ever been to one of these meetings?”
“No,” CK says. “Let me ask you: is there anyone actually here?”
“Of course there is! There are lots of people back there. You should come in; they’re all just waiting for you.”
“Right,” I say, managing to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “We’ll be in.”
“Great! We’ve got lots of literature. A few Libertarian presidential candidates will be showing up. I definitely hope you join us.”
“Ooh, a Libertarian presidential candidate!” Jeff either misses CK’s sarcasm or, more likely, is used to rude dismissals of all things Libertarian.
“Alright, well, I’ll see you inside.”
After meeting Jeff Enthusiasm, CK voices a plethora of skepticism, and then lights up another cigarette. “I don’t know about this Rachel,” he says. “This seems like a cult to me. It’s too early in the morning to deal with cults.”
This devolves into a discussion of Scientology, because I’m trying to distract CK from the fact that that little encounter was a pretty uncomfortable exchange. CK isn’t the only one who’s skeptical. When I talk politics with my mother, she refers to Libertarians as “your people,” as in “We’re donating to such and such organization this year. But I suppose your people don’t do that since you’re against charity.” At U Chicago, a girl remarked, with disdain: “Or, you know, the Libertarians who don’t believe in global warming.” And it was always a strange moment to explain to fellow Government majors that I did not consider myself a liberal. A Libertarian Convention, at least, would mean a room full of politically like-minded people. As long as it was a really small room.
“Do you really want to go to this? Because I’d be fine with ditching it. I’ll go home and go back to bed. That guy was wearing a bowler hat Rachel. A bowler hat.”
“It can’t be too terrible. Besides, the speakers sound kind of interesting.”
“Do you know what it’s going to be? It’s going to be a lot of old white guys!” As he says this, a rather young couple enters the restaurant. CK reads my look. “They’re not going to the meeting!” He scoffs. “They’re just a couple of Ukrainian kids, looking for some brunch.”
Finally, after I promise to buy him a few beers later, CK rolls his eyes and follows me in. This is why Libertarians aren’t good at politics; you have to promise them alcohol and then you’re just left with a roomful of drunk people waxing poetic about their political ideals that are so great they attract a few dozen voters.
“Okay, I really don’t know about this,” CK says when we enter the room.
A quick scan confirms exactly what CK predicted – its bunch of middle aged white guys. There’s a table full of books. I can’t read most of the titles from here, but I recognize “The Libertarian Reader” by its cover. Another table is blanketed with typical political pamphlets and leaflets.
The young couple we saw before are both holding a stack of various Libertarian literature, and listening to one of the enthusiasts. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but they are both blinking in bewilderment. “See, they’re here,” I point out to CK.
He laughs. “They’re not here for this! They probably got accosted because they don’t speak enough English to say ‘I don’t want to join your cult.’”
We’re trying to blend in – as Libertarians, we kind of just want to be left alone — but as a woman, it’s pretty hard for me to blend in at a Libertarian ‘convention.’
“Hi! Are you here for the meeting?” Caught.
“Yeah…no,” CK mutters and tugs at my arm.
“Shut up,” I hiss, and then put on my receptionist voice, and smile to reply. “Yes, but we’re both registered in New Jersey. We’ll just be here later for the speakers.”
“But you can register in New York right here!”
I lie and say we both live in Jersey.
“But you should participate in convention business! We would love to have you, we always like new people.”
We make our way to the registration table. The guy in charge of the registration is probably 45 and dressed like he’s twelve. He wants to tell us all about his experiences volunteering for the Libertarian party. “We have monthly meetings,” he explains. “And those are free. Anyone can come. You should come to our next one.” Maybe he just really believes in the party of principle but he’s more used car salesman than political activist.
CK makes snippy comments under his breath and I chastise him to behave. We run into Jeff Enthusiastic again. He’s very excited we’ve decided to join them. He wants to know how we found out about the convention! He wants to introduce us to the Libertarian Presidential candidates! He’s wearing a really ugly shirt!
Luckily, the official meeting is about to start and he has to run off to take care of things. I’m not being fair; I’m sure there’s important business to conduct. It’s hard to choose leadership when there aren’t enough people to choose from. I feel like a traitor for thinking these thoughts, but these people are…odd. Everyone has been very nice, but they’re…odd.
“Do you really want to stay for this?” CK asks. “Because these people are creeping me out.”
“There’s something very off about this whole thing,” I admit.
“They’re sad and desperate, and this whole thing is really depressing.” We whisper back and forth. Then I hear my name, and cringe.
I really don’t want to turn around. “Hi Tim,” I say meekly.
The look on CK’s face is similar to the one he wore when he realized I’d dragged him to a message board gathering. I will never live this down.
“I’m so glad you showed up! I was telling a few people that you, and Bill, who’s also an Astorian, were going to come. Always good to see new people, especially Astorians.”
This, I can forgive him for; I always consider it a bonus to find out someone I’ve just met lives in Astoria. But he keeps talking.
“You should talk to some of the people I know. We’re going to have some really interesting meetings in the next few months.”
This is officially strange. I know Tim, sort of, he’s the boyfriend of an acquaintance of mine, and we have a lot of mutual friends. I’ve hung out with Tim. He doesn’t talk like this. He’s shy and quiet but now he’s babbling enthusiastically about some fundraiser he went to last year, and what candidates he’s met, with no idea that half his audience (CK) is rolling their eyes.
“You know what,” CK says. “I’m going to go outside for a cigarette.”
“I think I’ll have one too.” I don’t smoke.
As we’re walking out, the guy at the “literature” table calls after us. “Are you leaving already? Would you like to take a newspaper or a pamphlet?”
“We’re just going out for a minute, we’ll be right back.” I don’t know yet if this is a lie, because I’m out of convincing things to say to CK.
“So take a newspaper outside!”
“Um, no thanks, that’s okay,” I say. I have to be the one that speaks, because CK will not be polite.
We start walking again. “Won’t you at least just take a newspaper?” he calls after us.
“Oh. My. God.” I say when we’re outside. The good Libertarian in me thinks it’s ridiculous you can’t smoke anywhere inside, but today I’m glad for the draconian laws that push us outside.
“Yeah, if you want to stay, you can stay, and I don’t mean to ditch you, but that was…weird.”
“It’s too early for Ukrainian food and beer.”
“Look, this is your thing, so stay if you want. Otherwise, let’s go get brunch. I’ll buy”
“I don’t know.” I’m still mildly fascinated in learning just what goes on at a Libertarian convention, but from our short time there, I really can’t think of any to stay.
“If you want to stay, stay! We’ll hang out some other time, no big deal.”
I think that it’s not that I’ll feel awkward walking into a room full of strangers, which would have been my fear a few years ago, but walking into this room full of strangers just might make me feel hunted.
Twenty minutes later, we’re picking at mediocre brunch, drinking Bloody Marys, and doing what we should have done in the first place – arrogantly waxing political about libertarian ideals to an audience of one.
“You know what’s sad? That something So. Based. In. Common. Sense, attracts so few people,” CK says.
“We’ve had this conversation before. About a thousand times
“It’s still sad.”
“You know how everyone tells you that one day you’ll get over being a Libertarian? Do you think if you don’t you wind up like one of those guys?”
“I think those guys wind up like that because they’re creepy and can’t get laid. I’m sure you could go back there and pick up someone,” he says. I give him an evil eye. “Don’t give me that look,” he says. “Those are your people. You’d have stayed if I hadn’t dragged you out. You’re one of them.”
“I am not!”
“You belong to a Libertarian message board.”
“Everyone I’ve met from there has actually been pretty cool and…”
And I don’t need to finish my sentence because in his mind, I’ve proved his point.
I may have found the over enthusiasm of a bunch of middle aged white guys a little bit off putting, and the whole environment a little bit uncomfortable, but how many people have found me a little off putting when I’m pontificating about some political phenomenon (or just ranting inane)? How many times have I been wary of bringing new people to hang out with groups of my friends because I’m afraid the new person will find the situation a little bit uncomfortable? I like groups of Libertarians, because I’m never the weirdest one there. I fit in.
And so I was reminded why people are so turned off to Libertarianism. We all want to be left alone because we’re arrogant enough to think we know best. But maybe it comes from many of us having a degree on loner-ness. And if you’re left alone…maybe it’s for a reason, and you may as well develop some political principles around it.
“I dragged you out of there for your own good Rachel. Your own good!” CK insists.
“Okay, okay, it was for my own good.”
Because who knows? Maybe those guys were so weird because they’ve just spent too much time around other Libertarians. Maybe that’s why there aren’t many of us: no one else can stand us, which is a fantastic way to keep away people we probably wouldn’t want in the first place, without any complicated rules or regulations. As much as many of us wish Libertarianism attracted more people, when it comes down to it, I think we’re more likely to say “That’s alright. We don’t want you anyway.”
