Ginger Sorvari

Last week, as friends asked about my upcoming weekend plans, I found myself hesitating. Qualifying my response. Even backtracking a bit.

I gave answers like, “I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I’m going to a training about how to run for political office.”

Or, “I’ll be learning about how to campaign for office. But, I’m not planning to run for anything.”

After an incredible weekend spent with amazing women from around Minnesota and across the U.S., I’m still in a bit of shock about who I met, what I learned, and where it may take me.

I saw women from all backgrounds, some who hold office now, others who insist they’ll never run. Some college students, others who, within a decade, will be retiring from lifelong careers. Women interested in municipal government in their towns, tribal council in their villages, state congressional seats. And a few who long to be president.

During the weekend, these women learned how to raise funds, select staff, and run their campaigns. Most importantly, they learned to tell their stories, honestly, clearly, concisely.

This last skill is the one that still has my head spinning. These women told their stories – in heartfelt conversations, speeches, and even songs – of moments that changed them. Of personal heartache, refugee camps, homelessness,  violence. And, of survival and perseverance.

They told why they wanted to lead, why they could – and would – make a difference in the world around them.

I have no doubt that they will.

This experience has inspired me, slowly bringing me to the understanding that I, too, have a story to tell. That I want to make a difference. To lead a “political life.”

Not the politics that focuses on deceit, broken promises, and bureaucracy. But the kind that makes real change. That creates a society where  lives are better because I got involved in creating a solution for the world around me.

My story is still unfolding. I don’t have one clear mission for what I want to accomplish in the political arena.

But, I’m not going to make excuses anymore. I want to get involved. Whether this means running for office, supporting others who do, or involving myself in the issues of my communitiy, I want to lead a political life.

Like so many others around the world, the people of Iran have been on my mind this week. The Iranian elections were held last Friday, with its government claiming victory for incumbent Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, with over 62% of the vote. Over the weekend, protests alleging election corruption have grown, the Iranian government has tried to silence media reports, a partial recount has been approved, and protests continue.

In all these reports, I have noticed one striking theme in interviews with Iranian citizens: that their concern, what really drives their passion, is this “landslide” victory – not its end result which keeps Ahmadinejad in power. As I read articles, watch news reports, hear radio commentaries, these citizens comment that if the election results had been closer, more “believable,” then the Iranian people would likely have accepted the outcome, and would not have risen up in anger.

Which brings me to the question that’s been on my mind: Why would the Iranian government  skew an election to yield such unbelievable results? If the objective was to remain in power, and they were intent on a particular election outcome, then couldn’t they have achieved the same result with a closer, let’s say 52% to 48%, victory? One where challenger Mir Hussein Moussavi could have received majority votes in more than two of Iran’s 31 provinces? In short, a result that appeared more plausible?

It seems to me that this is an issue of vanity. Someone – Ahmadinejad, supreme leader Khamenei, or others in power – wanted to be part of the winning team. Not the team that just barely won, but the team that won handily. This desire may have blinded them to the fact that a landslide victory would appear implausible to the people of their nation.  And would spark protests and reactions from the rest of the world.

In stark contrast to the government’s focus, the people of Iran have reacted by showing the strength of their community. In the midst of the Iranian government’s crackdown on journalism and social media – attempting to focus attention on back its own agenda – citizens have continued to hold silent protests, to share their stories, to document their experiences.

To me, this feels like a monumental example of how society is changing: The focus and power of “one” is giving way to the voices of many. Vain attempts to focus attention on one person, one entity, one “solution” is simply not realistic. Vast numbers of people, with their ability to organize and to distribute their message, are demanding that their voices be heard.

Of course, I don’t deny that there is a societal force to create icons from individuals – President Obama being the most obvious example – but I see changes in this iconic mentality as well. In the midst of an increasingly collaborative and participatory society, the icons themselves are asking for the community to get involved. Maybe it’s self-preservation, because the strength of any one personality will never withstand the scrutiny of the world. Maybe it’s the latest fad in sociological study, as all sorts of books and academic dialogue would suggest.

Or maybe it’s because the voices of the crowd, even without forethought and organization, are simply more powerful than the vain who wish to concentrate power unto themselves.

This past weekend I attended the Edina Art Fair, always awesome because it sets a great tone for the rest of my summer, features a wide variety of fabulous artists, and takes place within walking distance of my house. I attended this year’s art fair with my mom, and it was notable for including a completely unexpected exchange.

In between booths of artists selling their wares were a few non-art vendors, including the New York Times. While my mom and I passed by, the man working this booth suggested that we sign up for a NYT subscription. I thanked him, let him know that I receive all my news digitally, and complimented his employer on their mobile subscription and iPhone app.

The gentleman informed me that these digital subscription offerings do not include the full content from the New York TImes. To this, I replied that they should; it would be great to have access to all the great Times content digitally!

Then came the line that floored me:

“You should support print media.”

Really?

That’s it? I just “should”?

In that moment, I started to understand a major factor in the crisis that the newspaper industry is facing: they just think paper is better. Why? Because it is.

The argument for print media seems to say, “hey everybody, just start buying printed newspapers again, and then we can all go back to normal.”

I do understand that the newspaper business model has been turned upside down. That newspapers are going bankrupt. That advertising revenues fell nearly 30% in the first quarter of 2009.

This is an extraordinary time, and the whole newspaper industry is changing. To say the least, it’s not easy.

But the situation garners less pity from me when I hear people defend and encourage the industry’s current state. This position implies that there is an inherent value in the print distribution of the content. Which is odd, because the paper itself is simply a distribution channel. And channels come and go with time.

Prior to newspapers, town criers just yelled out the news. Later, papers were hawked by newsies on street corners. More recently, newspaper carriers delivered papers to customers’ homes. Today, news is available in a myriad of formats, both written and broadcast. Now, distribution models for news are changing again. More fundamentally this time.

The New York Times – like every paper – needs to understand that its value is in its content. Not its medium. People like me still want news. We want in-depth reporting. We want insightful journalism. The market is there.

For my part, I will register. I’ll provide my demographic profile. I’ll read ads. I’ll subscribe.

And so, I’m confident that a new business model will emerge – whether it is fee-based, ad-supported, social or non-profit – that makes this service viable. Along the way, some news services will fail. Others will succeed.

The newspapers that focus on their content, and experiment with different business models, will survive. And thrive. Albeit, reinvented. The ones who ask digital subscribers to switch back to paper will fail.

When our lives are mobile, paperless, streaming, we need to have our journalism provided in a medium that fits our lifestyle.

In a word: digital.

This week I had the opportunity to visit an old friend. One that I met when I was 13, and had last seen about 20 years ago.  We have kept in touch annually, through Christmas cards and the like, but had not met in person since college.

On Thursday, I visited Becky* and her family, who live a couple hours’ drive outside of Minneapolis, on a communal farm. Hers and four other families live in a “fellowship,” where they live simply, share what they have, homeschool their kids, and spend a lot of time in worship.

Becky – who now goes by her given name, Rebekah – has two children. Malachi, nicknamed Chi, is twelve and little Calla is six. (Becky’s husband Greg wasn’t home so I didn’t get a chance to meet him.) The kids are beautiful, polite, sweet. They told me about their lives, and their love of the fellowship’s animals: horses, chickens, and sheep, among others.

Soon after arriving at Becky’s house, we meandered to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Becky makes many meals from scratch, both giving to and taking from the fellowship’s communal cupboard. For lunch, she used ingredients from bulk containers – a gallon of honey, a quart of mustard – to make dressing for our chicken salad. (The chickens had been raised by the fellowship last year.) Our dessert, fruit with yogurt sauce, included homemade yogurt from another fellowship member.

After lunch, we moved to the living room and continued our conversation. Becky showed off her family’s new television, a 19″ tube television connected to a VCR. Videotapes sat in a cupboard – Daniel Boone, Old Yeller, My Friend Flicka, and other staples of a bygone era. I learned that twelve-year-old Chi has already become enamored with the TV, wanting to watch it more often than his parents find appropriate.

I didn’t see much of Chi – he was outside in the barn for most of the afternoon. Beautiful Calla stayed in the house with us, often carrying one of the family’s two-week-old kittens. She talked of her favorite TV show, Daniel Boone, and showed off her homemade rifle, made from a long tree branch, with a bit of hardware fashioned into a trigger and scope.

Throughout the day, Becky talked of her lifestyle. She loves that her kids have “a wholesome life.” She learned to cook (”something I’m not very good at,” she said) from other ladies in the fellowship. She teaches her children, occasionally expressing doubt about her own abilities as a teacher. And she apologetically talked of her longtime friends’ assessment of her lifestyle as being like Little House on the Prairie.

Of course, the elements of this life are so different than my family’s. My kids are techies; each has an ipod (including the four-year-old) and they all love video games. On busy nights, they heat up Easy Mac for dinner — in a microwave that I’m sure would seem quite foreign to Calla. They participate in school activities and sports. They ride city buses.

What may seem odd is that, to me at least, Becky’s life and mine didn’t feel all that different. We agree on the virtues of a simple life. For her, this is an everyday experience; for me, this is cabin life. Our families are both strong in our faith. The expressions of our faith are very different, but our desire to serve God is the same.

Still, there is a part of me that worries about Becky. She has grown quieter, more subdued than she was years ago — probably more notable to me, as I’ve grown louder and bolder with time. Her laugh is a mere chuckle. Her smile is shy. And her voice is soft.

I pray that she has not given up a part of herself as she strives to be a good wife and mother. I pray that her passing comment about her less-than-perfect marriage is a reflection of the idiosyncrasies in every marriage and not a mournful regret. I pray that her children will grow up to be strong and ready to experience the larger world, full of bureaucracies, health insurance, taxes and YouTube.

And most of all, I pray that the last 20 years of life have given her fulfillment and joy. Because while I understand the appeal of living in a bygone era, I hope that she has received as much as she has given.

* Not their real names. I didn’t ask permission to write about them.