Anyone can be president

My four and half year old son Chester asks a lot of questions.  That’s an understatement.  His questions come in a near constant stream, typically increasing in complexity and leaving whoever he is assailing bewildered and exhausted, their confidence in having a rudimentary base of knowledge about anything gravely wounded. 

Chester’s preschool class recently went on a field trip to a nearby theater to see a live performance of “Jack and the Beanstalk.”  Chester settled into the front seat on the passenger side of the bus, with a perfect view of the dashboard and easy access to the bus driver.  As the teachers herded the other four and five year olds onto the bus and got them buckled into their seats, Chester started in on the poor, unsuspecting driver . . . 

“What makes the bus go?  Is it just like a car, but bigger?  Does the bus need gas to go?  Does the bus drink the gas into its tummy?  Where is its mouth?  Why is the bus yellow?  What if it was blue?  Would it still go if it was blue?  Is the steering wheel hard to turn?  How does the steering wheel make the whole bus turn?  What is that button for?  What if somebody pushed it right now?  How does the door open?  Is there a stop sign on the side of the bus?  How is it attached?  What makes it come out?  Can buses crash?  What if the bus crashed?  Would it dead our bodies if the bus crashed?  Why do people die?” 

You get the idea.  The exasperated bus driver finally exclaimed, “Kid, you ask a lot of questions!”  Overhearing this interaction, teacher Helen stepped in and made formal introductions, “Oh yes, this is Chester.  It isn’t a good day for Chester unless he learns ten new things.”  To which the driver replied, “Ten?  He’s asked me at least 20 questions already.”

I’ve answered (or attempted to answer) questions that started out simple enough but ended up leading me into realms of complex physics, biology, geology, chemistry, anthropology, religion and philosophy.  I’ve tackled “Where do babies come from?” and “Where did the kitty go when he died?”  I’m desperately hoping that young Chester soon moves on from his current fixation on mortality.  I’ve stood with him, gripping his small hand tightly, on the top level of malls, atop bridges and at the edge of overlooks more times than I can count, explaining over and over again, in excruciating detail, what would happen if one were to fall over the edge.

This morning, as we were eating breakfast, Chester launched his first question of the day, “Mommy, who is our president right now?”  I, still bleary eyed, not having consumed any caffeine yet, silently thanked my lucky stars for an easy one.  Before I could even answer, he shouted, “Wait!  Wait!  I know!  It’s Barrack Obama!”  What luck – I didn’t even have to answer!  “There is a God,” I thought.  (Well, I’m not sure about that, but you know what I mean.)  I savored the next two seconds of sweet silence before the questioning resumed . . .

“So, can anyone be the president?”

“Well . . . yeah, hypothetically, anyone can be president.”

“Could Daddy be the president?”

“Yes, I suppose it’s possible that he could be.”

“Could you be the president?”

“There isn’t anything saying I couldn’t be, but there has never been a woman president of our country before.”

“Why?”

“That’s a good question, Chester.”

I saw the next few moments of silence, while his little brain processed, as an educational opportunity.

“You know, our current president is kind of special in a historical sense.”

“He is?”

“Yes, Barrack Obama is the first black person to be president.”

“What’s a black person?”

“Well, you know Mr. Marlon at your school?”
“Yeah . . .”

“You know how his skin is darker than yours?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Barrack Obama is a black man like Mr. Marlon.”

“Mommy!  Mr. Marlon is NOT black, he’s BROWN!”

Hmmmm . . . good point.  I was wondering how to address that one when he asked, “Do you have to be smart to be president?”  I frantically scrolled through the presidents in my mind – I got flashes of brilliance (“Four score and seven years ago . . .”) and not-so-brilliant (“I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family.")  I wasn’t sure what to say.  I answered slowly and carefully, “Well . . . the president doesn’t necessarily have to be smart, but I think he or she should be.”

As it turns out, not just anyone can be president.  There are, of course, some requirements and restrictions.  The Constitution mandates that, to be eligible for the office of president, one must be a natural born citizen of the United States, at least thirty-five years old and have been a permanent resident in the United States for at least fourteen years.  There is nothing about being smart or even mentally sound.  Wow, I CAN be president! 

I suppose the lack of any sort of intelligence standard explains why our presidential history reflects a fair amount of diversity in that particular area.  I don’t see any mention of color or gender as requirements either.  So, by the same line of reasoning, shouldn’t we have had a woman president by now?    

With that in mind, I’m pulling out my old 8^th grade ASB presidential campaign materials and tuning them up.  (One of my carefully crafted campaign buttons is pictured below.  Brilliant, no?) 

Campaign contributions are greatly appreciated and I promise I won’t use them to buy shoes.  Or jewelry.  Or this fantastic Vince cowl neck blouse, even though it would be extremely versatile on the campaign trail, taking me seamlessly from daytime speechifying to nighttime fundraising events.  I promise.  And just like every good politician, I keep my campaign promises.