Have you ever heard the term “Yellow-Dog Democrat?”  It’s actually Southern in origin, from post civil-war days, and is supposedly based on an assertion from a Democratic politician that if the Democratic Party ran a yellow dog for office, he would vote for the yellow dog before voting for a Republican.

It’s not a commonly used term in New England, but this part of the country is definitely the bastion of die-hard liberals, and my family is no exception—in fact, most of them think the Democrats are a bit too conservative and lean toward the Green party in most matters.

Since being old enough to vote, the two places I lived outside of New England were perhaps the two most politically conservative counties in the country.  First, at age twenty-five, I moved to Orange County, California, where I learned the only political topic that anyone cared to discuss was taxes.   The first time I voted in a primary on Balboa Island, California, the volunteer had to break the seal on the Democratic Party ballots in order to give me one.  Granted, it was only about 8:30 in the morning, but the polls had been open since 7:00!   I remember what happened the first time I told someone at the local coffee shop I was a registered Democrat.  The woman said in an extremely dismissive tone, “Oh, you must not have any money.”

I would have argued that this had nothing to do with it, but since I had counted sofa change to buy the cup of coffee I was drinking, I kept my mouth shut.

By the time I moved from the OC, enough rich people were making enough money during the boom years of the Clinton administration that admitting to having voted for him no longer engendered disdain.  Then, I moved to Dade County, Florida.  Here, the most powerful voting block is comprised of Cuban Americans.  Their brand of highly emotional, in-your-face Republican orientation has nothing to do with economics.  Most of them still blame the Democrats for the Bay of Pigs, and the few who had softened their views changed them back over Elian Gonzalez.  When I went to Buen Noche dinner at the home of one of the few Cuban-American families I knew who were active Democrats, I saw one of the host’s grandparents make the sign of the evil eye and cross herself when she passed a framed picture of her grandson shaking hands with Al Gore.

Somehow I survived all of this without softening my extremely liberal views.  If anything, I am more liberally oriented than when I started.   Back when the coffee shop woman treated me with such disdain, I probably couldn’t have articulated precisely why.  Today I can, and I can do so clearly, concisely and, I think, in a way that will seem reasonable and not offensive even to those who disagree. 

And I’m not going to do it here.

But I just wanted to let you now that in the politically-charged, pre-election environment, it’s kind of nice to be back in New England.  It’s sort of like rooting for the Red Sox – I can cheer as loud as I want and no one looks like they’re planning to kill me.