No Matter What Happens, I Tried

Sujata Massey



As I work on this post, election returns are coming in from all over the United States. It might not surprise readers of this blog that I'm a supporter of Hillary Clinton. My home state, Maryland, has voted Democratic for many years, so I traveled to a state which is less secure (Pennsylvania) to see how I could help.

On Monday evening this past week I drove 3 hours from Maryland to Pennsylvania, a state where rural areas are bullish on Trump. However, the city of Philadelphia and its suburbs tend to support Democratic voters, and also has a racially diverse population. I intended to do all I could to encourage Philadelphia's voters to get to the polls.

It was a morning rush hour when I drove into North Philadelphia. A big transportation strike that mercifully ended, but its occurrence made a lot of people fearful voters couldn't get to polls. Lyft and Uber and the popular band Roots built networks of drivers who'd take people needing rides to polling stations. However, most polling stations are located every five blocks. This very old city has a great infrastructure of schools, the primary polling places.

Philadelphia schools and community centers are called into service on election day, and Spanish is widely used.

There weren't enough volunteers who could speak Spanish, but we had to connect with these voters if Hillary would carry Philadelphia. I was sent out not speaking a word of Spanish along with my partner, Barbara, who was fortunately studying the language. But we were certainly anxious about how communication would, or wouldn't, work.

The Democrats set up volunteer stations all over Pennsylvania. I worked out of one on W. Girard Ave. in North Philadelphia. Volunteers got assignments to canvass several blocks, house by house, at a time, to make sure people remembered to vote. Other people stayed back and made texts and phone calls to people who planned to vote Democratic.

We canvassed streets in Fairhall, a neighborhood with a high Latino voter base. The houses were old, but the people living within were full of energy and enthusiasm. People who'd voted told us the polls were busier than they'd ever seen. We began to feel optimistic.

Barbara was such a great person to volunteer with. She was friendly to everyone but really hammered in the importance of having a plan to get to the polling station.

We met this pair, who work for a PAC, on the streets doing similar work to ours.

People living in these narrow streets found ways to bring beauty and pride of place to share with others. Residents built in a delightful fishpond right in front of an ordinary row house. We saw flower-filled gardens behind chain-link fences, and cute Halloween decorations on doors.

We also were delighted by some of the him owners who sold foods from their windows. A coconut water ice was the best thing I ate (drank?) all day.

I'd never believed I could successfully canvass in a neighborhood where I didn't share the language with the people I met. However, my nerves were eased by my confident partner and all the Philadelphians were so gracious toward us. I appreciated the way they cared for their homes and kids, and how many socialized with each other on the streets. It made me feel more certain than ever that this country benefits from immigration.


This is a very tough election. At this point in the night, things don't look good for my candidate. However I feel optimistic about the situation in Philadelphia. No matter what happens, we tried.

Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton: The latest conspiracy theory

Leye –– alternate Wednesdays.

Image by Gage Skidmore

Right about now, almost every sane, rational, freethinking adult in the world is probably thinking the same one thought, 'What if Trump wins?'

I mean, I don't mean to be a writer about it and be all dramatic and stuff, but the one greatest threat facing our planet today is the very real possibility of a President Trump. It's a dangerous possibility that is as clear and present as just a few weeks away. Really, folks, it can happen. It can happen. President Trump.

Many months ago, when the Donald was no more than a comic relief side show, I hurried to share my conspiracy theory with people around me before it became the mainstream theory and I would, if I continued to share it, be by default rehashing what everyone else was saying. It was that good, that plausible a conspiracy theory. It goes like this (and I must say I came up with it independently of the million other people who came up with it):

Donald Trump will win the republican vote to run. The GOP however will decide that he is too racist, too sexist, too dangerous to associate with and they will refuse to endorse him. They'll choose the next best bad candidate and the Donald, mad as hell to be subjected to such great betrayal and unfairness and skulduggery, will announce his independent candidature, run against the GOP filler candidate and in so doing, split the republican vote and thus secure Hillary's win. Shortly after the results are announced and he tells reporters that it's a fix, and 'It's not gonna stand, folks. It's not gonna stand,' he'll use a secure line to make a call from the back of his limousine: 'Bill, we did it.'

Everybody came up with the same conspiracy theory. Everyone knew he was working for Hillary. He was friends with the Clintons, wasn't he? Everybody knew he wasn't really running for the office. But, wait, it's just him and her now, and they're both neck to neck, or so says the polls. So, were we all wrong? Was he really running to be the next President of the United States of America all along? 

A new theory of mine, now old, is that he was indeed working for Hillary, but then his false campaign gained momentum and suddenly he had a real chance and he said to his old buddy, 'Look, Bill, maybe I should really be the one in the Whitehouse, you know.'

But here is my newest conspiracy theory. It's so brand new, I bet you haven't heard it before. It came to me when I watched the first TV debate between Hillary and the Donald. 

Donald Trump did what he does; he lied, he bullied, he lied, he bullied some more, and he lied some more. And he denied everything. He interrupted everyone, even the cheering audience, anytime he felt the need to deny saying something that he's been recorded saying. 

Then, when 'Secretary Hillary' was proposing that the reason he would not release his tax records was because he had not paid any tax in...., he interrupted her to say it was because he was smart. 

Wait! What? On live TV. Presidential campaign. The Donald admitted to paying no federal income taxes, and in his weird convoluted world, that made him smart? Then, less than an hour later, reporters confronted him on the topic and, I pause not for effect but to stare at the ground and shake my head at the total lack of anything good in the man, he denied saying it! The Donald said he never said it!

And this is my new conspiracy theory:

Donald Trump IS really running for President, and Donald Trump really believes the shit he says, and Donald Trump is being 100% absolutely truthful when he denies every saying any of the shit he says, because Donald Trump has Alzheimer's. 

My Brief Encounter with Hillary

Annamaria on Monday


Here is the story behind the picture above, commemorating the day my husband and I had a five minute private chat with Hillary Clinton.

In the summer 2003, when David was a bright light in the direct marketing industry, he was invited to a special conference to be held in Aspen, Colorado for the sector's movers and shakers.  Modest and private, David was never one to glory in his own success.  But the draw of that event was more than he could resist: the keynote speaker was to be ex-President Bill Clinton.  Besides which, we two inveterate travelers had never been to Aspen, and the five days there offered a chance for trout fishing and hikes in the mountains.

President Clinton gave his speech at the banquet on Saturday evening.  As it turned out, the event offered more than that. As we entered, we got to have our picture taken with the Prez.  Everyone was pretty jazzed to be in a room with Bill.

The crowd attending were business people with their spouses and significant others from all over North America.  We held diverse political views.  Regardless of political persuasion, we all listened politely to President Bill.  His talk focused on what had happened in our country and internationally since 9/11.  The direct marketing industry had suffered quite a bit as a result of that tragedy and its aftermath.

When he asked for questions from the audience, I asked a respectfully challenging one about the evidence that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction.  (We were four months into the war in Iraq, a war David and I had marched against both in New York and in Washington.)  In answer, Bill described the Bush administration's rationale and expressed, even at that moment, his doubts about their veracity.  Later, in a small group after the dinner, he told me that "they" will say whatever it takes to get their way, whether or not it has any basis in fact.  I have thought about that a great deal in the largely unlucky thirteen years since.

Just as Bill Clinton was finishing his speech, Hillary made an unanticipated appearance.  Bill greeted her with the same surprise and delight as the rest of us.  He explained that she had been on a book tour and had been traveling for some time, and she added that she had been nearby enough to take a break and come for a visit.

Her appearance ramped up the buzz in the room to stratospheric heights. As I said, the people there were not a group of their supporters, yet I have never felt that level of excitement anywhere I have ever been.  I cannot imagine any rock stars that could electrify a crowd the way they did just by both being together in the room.

After the dinner, David and I approached Hillary, who was then our US Senator.  We told her that we were active members of the Village Independent Democrats and had handed out her campaign literature at the subway stop when she ran for the post she then occupied.  She thanked us for our support and then asked a couple of questions about local issues in lower Manhattan, things one wouldn't have expected a Senator with a national perspective to know or care much about.  Then she asked how the neighborhood and specifically our family was doing, close as we lived to Ground Zero.

I saw her in person once again a few years later, at a party for a small group of very active fundraisers for breast cancer research.  At that gathering in a private NYC apartment, she gave a brief speech on the subject.  It had all the hallmarks of her typical approach to problems: full of facts and strategies, serious and optimistic.

A Long Strange Trip

Stanley - Thursday

A couple of months ago, Pat and Gary of the wonderful Once Upon A Crime bookstore in Minneapolis suggested that I attend an event by a writer whose name was Todd Moss.  I'd never heard of him, but Gary said that Todd wrote about Africa and that I'd enjoy his books.  So, of course, I attended.

At the event, I was able to spend some time talking one-on-one with Todd, which I thoroughly enjoyed.  I learned that he had spent a lot of time wandering around Africa when he was young and was left with a passion for it.  What was particularly interesting was that Todd had been with the State Department on the Africa Desk.  So I had many questions for him, not only about his experiences, but also about where he thought the continent was heading.

Needless to say, Todd's books are about Africa.  Golden Hour (reprint, July 2015) is set in Mali, and Minute Zero (September 2015) in Zimbabwe.  Both feature Judd Ryker, a State Department Crisis manager.

Kirkus gave Golden Hour a starred review, saying “Outstanding debut . . . An intriguing cast of morally dubious characters, an intricately constructed plot, and a tantalizing cliffhanger make this thriller a page-turner of the highest order.”

These two books give an intriguing insight into international politics and a feel for a different side of Africa from the Detective Kubu or Mma Ramotswe series.

Please welcome Todd Moss.
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My long strange trip that starts and ends in Zimbabwe

Todd Moss

Twenty five years ago, I was a dumb college kid who thought he was going on an exotic adventure. I was indeed starting a journey, but not the one I expected.

Stepping off the British Airways flight onto the tarmac at Harare International Airport in Zimbabwe’s capital, I didn’t know what to expect on my semester abroad. The only Africa I knew was from reading books and watching wildlife documentaries and aid appeals on television. For all I knew, it was another planet.

The first shock was that it was chilly. Yes, August is winter in southern Africa and it can get cold.  When I arrived in the city’s downtown, I was surprised to find a modest urban skyline with tall modern buildings. It looked a hell of a lot like the downtown of Rochester, New York where I grew up.

The unexpected familiarity didn’t end there. I lived with a warm host family of two teachers and four children in a three bedroom single story house in the middle class suburb of Cranborne Park. Each night over dinner we talked about school, traffic, local sports, what was on TV, all the same stuff as back home.  The unanticipated ease of living in southern Africa helped me to adjust quickly—and to fall in love with a region that has become an integral part of my life ever since.

I returned to college at Tufts University in Boston thoroughly hooked. A few days after graduation, I was back on a plane to Zimbabwe where I volunteered for a few months, then with my girlfriend Donna spent the better part of a year traveling from South Africa to Uganda by any and all means. We worked on a yacht from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth, hitchhiked from Harare to Lusaka, took a 52-hour train across Tanzania and long bumpy bus rides through Kenya’s Rift Valley. We crossed the equator sitting on a pile of dried fish in an open canoe on Lake Victoria, days after recovering from an ugly bout of malaria. Somali bandits had attacked a road in northern Kenya, so we were forced to fly in an 8-seater from Malindi to Lamu. While this trip gave nightmares to our parents back in America, it also sealed my bond with the continent.

Tanzania, 1993

Washington D.C., 2008

Fast forward to March 2008. By then, I’d finished grad school, moved London-DC-London-DC, married Donna, had three kids, and was living happily in Maryland. Through a series of accidents (that begin with a minor role in a $30 billion debt deal with Nigeria), I found myself serving in the State Department as Condoleezza Rice’s deputy assistant secretary for Africa. I’d been working mainly on economic issues in West Africa, but this month Zimbabwe was holding an historic election. The country where I got my start in Africa was poised for a democratic revolution. Robert Mugabe who had been in power already for 28 years but was facing a tough challenge from a labor leader, Morgan Tsvangirai.

The U.S. Government had taken a modest interest in Zimbabwe and was hoping for a good election. As the human rights conditions worsened, relations with Mugabe had soured and the country was under sanctions (backed by legislation sponsored by then Senators Hillary Rodham Clinton and Joseph Biden). The State Department had invested in supporting the vote count and our embassy was active in watching for signs of trouble. As Zimbabweans voted, we waited anxiously in Washington DC for a result that confirmed what private polling was already telling us:  Tsvangirai won. 

But the hours of waiting for the official results turned to days. Nothing was announced. As catalogued by the Washington Post, Mugabe huddled with his senior military leaders and was preparing to admit defeat and flee the country. But his Generals had another idea:  instead of quitting, let them crush the opposition so Mugabe can win in a second round vote. That’s exactly what happened.  The army attacked villages, thousands of homes were burnt down, hundreds of thousands of civilians displaced, and more than eighty people killed. (Peter Godwin’s The Fear provides the gruesome details). Mugabe then “won” 85% of the next round after chasing Tsvangirai out of the race and fleeing into the Dutch embassy for refuge. Zimbabwe’s moment of democratic triumph had turned into a nightmare. Seven years later, Mugabe is still president.

That incident, watching a country I love come so close to a momentous transition only to see it slip away, has stuck with me. I wondered what, if anything, might the U.S Government have done that could have altered Zimbabwe’s history.  Was there a phone call that could have resulted in a different outcome? A quiet delivery of a suitcase of cash?  A well-placed threat?

Now jump to 2013. I’d left government and wrote my first novel, The Golden Hour, a thriller about a crisis manager in the State Department who gets his big chance when there is a coup d’état in West Africa. The plot was inspired by a real coup in Mauritania, but I set the story in Mali since Timbuktu is well known while no one has ever heard of Nouakchott. When my publisher asked for another book I said yes. But before I had even set the phone down, I knew the sequel would be about an American diplomat trying to work behind the scenes as an election is falling apart in my beloved Zimbabwe. Minute Zero was born.