One
hundred and one years ago, on February 14th, a group of
dedicated suffragists in the United States founded the National
League of Women Voters. This was a mere six months before the 19th
amendment granting women the right to vote was ratified. The League
was created to help the twenty million newly enfrachised female
voters understand their new rights and their responsibilities, and to
educate them about the democratic process.
More
than a century later, LWV is still pursuing those objectives, though
it has expanded its mission to incorporate every person with the
right to vote, especially minorities and people of color. It’s a
bit depressing to realize that even now, there are forces and
factions working to deny registered, authorized voters of their voice
at the ballot box.
You
can read about LVW’s fascinating history here:
https://www.lwv.org/about-us/history
and their current concerns and campaigns here
(https://www.lwv.org/elections)
and here (https://www.lwv.org/other-issues).
The
U.S. has just experienced a bruising and brutal election which
illustrates clearly the need for the sort of non-partisan education
and advocacy the LWV advocates. So today, I’m hoping my Charity
Sunday will allow me to make a generous anniversary gift. For each
comment I receive, I’ll donate two dollars to the LWV.
Meanwhile,
I have a relevant excerpt, featuring women in politics, from
my erotic thriller Exposure. Hired to provide Pittsburgh mayoral candidate Tony
Pinelli with a private dance, stripper Stella
Xanathakeos ends up being a witness to his murder. His ambitious and seductive widow decides to run in her
husband’s stead, and to Stella’s surprise, asks the dancer to
serve as her press secretary.
This
bit chronicles Stella’s first foray into the political arena.
Together,
we walk the short distance over to the site of the press conference.
This is part of Francesca’s strategy; she wants to seem like a
woman of the people, and arriving in her Mercedes wouldn’t fit that
image. It has become a cloudy, blustery day. The wind cuts through my
jacket, making me shiver. It teases a few curls from my neat twist,
probably making me look poorly-groomed and unprofessional, but
there’s not much I can do about it.
There’s
a knot of people milling on the City Hall steps, with lights and
other equipment. I notice vans with the logos of WQED and WPXI. The
news people all have their backs to us, as if they expected us to
come from the opposite direction. Francesca’s voice rings out,
clear and commanding. “Over here, ladies and gentlemen.” We march
up the steps, through the confused crowd.
Francesca
waits quietly while the media people rearrange themselves and adjust
their equipment. Then, when they’ve settled down, she waits a
moment longer, scanning the crowd, looking elegant and serious.
I
have to admire her showmanship. By the time she begins to speak, she
has the attention of everyone, even the technicians squatting in the
doors of the mobile studio vans.
“Ladies
and gentlemen. Thank you for taking the time to join us on this raw
and stormy afternoon. I won’t keep you long.
“As
you all know, my husband Anthony Pinelli wanted to serve this city as
its mayor. Pittsburgh was his birthplace. It nurtured him, educated
him, made him wealthy and successful. It gave him opportunities and
benefits that he could not have found anywhere else. Tony Pinelli
wanted to give some of this back to the city he loved. That was his
most cherished dream.
“Tony’s
tragic death has shocked us all.” Francesca allows a quaver into
her voice. I’m impressed. She really knows how to work the crowd.
She pauses and swallows hard, as if resisting tears. Her voice is
calm and forceful when she continues. “As his wife and partner, I
am determined not to allow his dream to die with him. That is why,
today, I am announcing my own candidacy for the position of mayor. I
am determined that, even though Tony has left us, the next person to
preside over the administration of this fine city will be Mayor
Pinelli.”
The
crowd erupts in enthusiastic applause. I find that I’m clapping
myself. The hubbub continues for quite a while. Francesca holds up
her hand, asking for quiet.
“During
the remaining weeks of the campaign, I will be sharing with you my
vision—Tony’s vision—for this city. Assisting me with this task
will be my press secretary, Ms. Stella Xanathakeos. Like Tony and me,
Stella was born here. She knows the problems and the aspirations of
the ordinary people of Pittsburgh. She will help me to explain why a
vote for me is a vote for a bright, secure and prosperous future—for
all of us.”
Francesca
turns to me. “Stella, would you like to say a few words?”
Expectantly, the cameras and microphones swing in my direction.
I’m
not entirely unprepared. It was reasonable that Francesca would want
me to speak. Still, I have a moment of panic. I’m a performer, but
words are not my usual instrument.
I
pause for a moment, take a deep breath and survey my audience. They
are mostly male, though I recognize the blond bob and creamy
complexion of Teresa Kelly, the Channel 5 news anchor. I remind
myself that in this situation, my sexuality is a liability. Just in
time, I remember not to lick my lips. I clasp my hands in front of me
to keep them out of trouble.
“Ladies
and gentlemen, I’m proud to be standing here today, next to this
brave woman. When you lose someone you love, your first impulse is to
just give up. You want to crawl into a hole and die yourself. I know
this, from my own experience.” I pause, looking out over the
attentive faces. I hope that they’re not just paying attention to
my tits.
“Francesca
Pinelli isn’t giving up, though. That’s not the sort of person
she is. She was her husband’s closest aide. She understands his
goals and his plans for Pittsburgh. And she’s determined to turn
those plans into reality, regardless of her personal pain.
“As
for me, I’m just an ordinary person. My mother died when I was six.
My father was an immigrant who worked hard all his life to support
me. He had to fight against discrimination, and sleazy bosses, and
government by the rich for the rich. I’ve worked hard, too. It’s
an uphill battle for most of us in this city. I believe that
Francesca Pinelli wants to make that battle easier. What’s more
important, I believe that she can.”
I
am startled when people begin to applaud. Francesca face wears a
broad smile as she steps forward and reclaims the attention of the
crowd.
“A
few questions, Ms. Pinelli!” shouts someone from the crowd. “Don’t
go yet!” echoes another voice. “Give us a chance!”
The
crowd presses toward us, waving microphones in our faces and
effectively trapping us on the stairs. Somebody opens an over-sized
umbrella and holds it over our heads.
“Very
well, we can take a few questions. No more than five minutes, though,
or we’ll all be drenched.” A few more umbrellas open. The media
people push closer to hear us against the wind.
“Ms.
Pinelli.” The question comes from Terry Kelly. “Pittsburgh has a
reputation as a rough city. We’ve got the unions, the old industry
barons, the mob. Do you really think it can be run by a woman?”
Francesca
stands erect, looking taller than usual. “Don’t you think, Ms.
Kelly, that it is time a woman had the chance to show what she can
do?” There is scattered applause. “You probably know that Tony
was a tough guy. He wouldn’t have chosen me as his partner if I
couldn’t be just as tough, when the need arose.”
A
skinny reporter in dark-rimmed glasses steps forward with his tape
recorder. “Graham White, your opponent, has headed the City Council
for more than five years. You have no political experience. Why
should the voters choose a novice like you, over a seasoned
politician like Mr. White?”
Francesca
laughs. “No political experience? I was married to Tony Pinelli for
more than ten years, including his two terms on the council. Believe
me, I know about politics!” The audience chuckles. “On the other
hand, I don’t think this city needs a politician, as much as we
need a leader.”
“Ms.
Xanathakeos!” I’m startled to hear my name. It’s coming from a
chubby, balding guy who’s grinning unpleasantly. “I’m sure that
we all appreciated your homily to the working class. But isn’t it
true that for the past six years your primary employment has been as
an exotic dancer?”
Gasps
and snickers come from the audience. The questioner looks pleased
with himself. So there it is. I glance over at Francesca. She looks
perfectly calm and untroubled. I straighten my back, so that my tits
thrust out a bit, and look the bald guy in the eye. I know what
you like, I think to myself. You like to dress up in your
wife’s lingerie when she’s working the late shift. That’s
what I see, though it might be my own imagination. Still, as I stare
at him, he begins to squirm and finally has to look away.
“Quite
true, Mister...?”
“Rostropovitch,”
he answers reluctantly.
“You’ve
done your research, Mr. Rostropovitch. I am indeed an exotic dancer,
as you put it. A perfectly honest line of work, and believe me, not
an easy one. Do you have some problem with that?”
“Well,
it hardly seems appropriate for a mayoral candidate to be associating
with hookers...”
Now
I am really annoyed. “A stripper is not a hooker, Mr.
Rostropovitch. In any case, I am what I said I am, a woman born and
bred in this city, who knows the problems working people here,
particularly women, face. I’m also a voter. I am definitely
qualified to give Ms. Pinelli advice and insight into these issues.”
I
give him a long cold stare that I hope makes him feel naked. “In
Francesca Pinelli’s Pittsburgh, everyone will be entitled to fair
treatment and respect—even reporters!”
The
crowd breaks into raucous laughter and applause. I sense that Mr.
Rostropovitch is not well-liked by his colleagues.
~ ~ ~
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