Benedict Arnold in hooker boots

Full disclosure: I was raised in a very political family. My parents met during Robert Kennedy’s campaign. They were with Senator Kennedy the night he was shot. My mother worked for Congressman Berman. My father held elected office in Los Angeles for 16 years.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of sitting on Mayor Tom Bradley’s shoulders at the inaugural gala. I remember looking down, down, down, and feeling like I was riding on the shoulder of a giant.

Which I was. Both literally and metaphorically.

I remember holding my father’s hand when he was sworn in the first time as city controller. Even then, I understood that he had been charged with a tremendous responsibility. And I was so proud of him.

I am so proud of him. 

I remember learning how to tap-dance in the City Hall rotunda, my red patent leather shoes clickity-clacking while I whirled and twirled next to the California flag.

I remember the first campaign speech I ever gave. I was 10 years old and running for student council on a platform of “greater cooperation between students and faculty. And five minutes extra for recess.” I even quoted pieces of the US Constitution in my speech.

I remember that I was going to be the first Jewish woman president of the United States. Unless Dianne Feinstein beat me to it.

So, the questions should have come as no surprise:

“Who did you vote for?”

I could have lied. I could have made up an answer. But let’s be real: The campaigns run on enough bullshit already, and why add my own to the mix.

So, here’s the deal: I didn’t vote in the US presidential election.

Yeah, I’m Benedict Arnold in hooker boots. 

“How could you?” a relative asked.

“DON’T YOU CARE ABOUT AMERICA?” a friend typed all in caps on Facebook chat.

Oy.  

Did I have strong opinions? Of course I did.

Do I care about America? Duh. My family lives there. Many of my friends live there. My children were born there.

I was born there.

And one day, I may live there again. And if I do live there again, you can sure as hell bet that I will get my ass to the poling station and vote.

So why didn’t I?

Because, hooker boots or not, I cannot dance at two weddings with the same ass. It’s true, I will always be an expat barbie from LA (reluctantly) growing roots in Israel — but I have chosen to live here now.

I take the train from Lod to Jerusalem and back again for work. I drink hafuh on Emek Refaim. I do body shots at Jessica Bar on the Tayelet. I eat hummus at Samir’s in Ramle. I listen to Galgalatz, and have a raging crush on Hemi Rudner and Geva Alon. I pay (too high) taxes to a government in constant flux.

And reluctantly or not, I am putting down roots here: Hell, I planted a freaking pitango tree just last week.

(Score one for a cheap metaphor! WOOT!)

And while it’s true that I will always be from Los Angeles, and will probably always feel like an outsider here, voting to help determine an outcome in a country that is no longer my home feels like having my cake and eating it too.

Voting is a huge responsibility. I take it seriously because that’s how I was raised. And unless I have to live with my political choices in a very real way, voting for the president of a country that isn’t mine right now just feels wrong.  Because let’s be real: my biggest concern when voting would be the well-being of my home. A country that is not the United States. So it feels like cheating.

But as we move out of this US election season and into the Israeli one, I am learning on the fly. I’m keeping my mouth shut and listening to others who have lived here for far longer and who understand the nuanced complexities in this country far better than I. And as I walk through the kibbutz and look up into the sky, I am grateful that today there are no F-16s slicing  through the clouds.

And yet, I know it is probably only a matter of time…

So, in two months, I will be heading to the polls to vote.