Dear Mitt,
The number 47 has long been
significant for me. I see it everywhere--it jumps out at me from the
license plate of almost every car I find myself behind; it leaps off
pages and screens with alarming frequency. For years, I was convinced
the recurrence of the number meant I would die at 47, but whenever I see
it now, I take it as a sign that I’m on the right track.
Others have felt the same way. There’s a whole 47
Society dedicated to sightings of the number (which the group considers
to be the “quintessential random number.”) In the 1960s, Pomona College
math professor Donald Bentley made a joke proof that asserted that all
numbers equal 47; a Pomona graduate went on to write for Star Trek: The
Next Generation and threaded the number into every single episode.
Now 47 feels even more meaningful. It has revealed
you for who you really are; it has revealed your appalling lack of
compassion, your stunning disdain for nearly half our nation’s people.
I have been a member of the 47 percent. Early in my first
marriage, my husband was going to college and we survived on extra
student loans, which covered our rent, and food stamps. At the time,
change below a dollar in food stamp purchases was given in coins, and I
would diligently save up those dimes and quarters so I could take my
kids out for a bagel after we went to free story time at the downtown
library. I babysat in our little family student housing duplex, and the
money I received went directly to diapers. Most of the people in our
community were in the same boat, and we often pooled our resources,
having communal meals in our shared yard space, giving each other hand
me downs, finding other ways to support one another. These were lean,
challenging years, but they were sweet years, and I am grateful for what
they brought out in me and those around me. We knew we were digging
deep and creating community, creating a sustainable world for our
children, but you would have seen us as freeloaders. As nothing.
47 is considered a “safe” prime, a “real” prime
number. There is nothing safe or real about you, Mitt (or perhaps you
are too safe, just saying what you think people want to hear. Let us
tell you: we’ve heard enough. Enough of your lies. Enough of your out of
touch privilege, your smirking sense of entitlement.) 47 has become a
signpost of destiny for me, and now it has for you, as well: 47 means
you will never, ever be our President.
-- Gayle Brandeis
Gayle Brandeis is the author of several novels, including The Book of
Dead Birds, which won the Bellwether Prize for Fiction of Social
Engagement. www.gaylebrandeis.com
