O P I N I O N

TINY WHITE BOX

Prelude

January 27, 2004. It’s morning. I’m in the front seat, hands gripping the wheel. Best political advice of my life, it comes from the back seat, right behind me, where my daughter Libby’s strapped in. She’s seven.

Primary day in New Hampshire. I was registered Democrat then. The Bush administration is lying its way through Iraq, bleeding it out after bombing Afghanistan. Kerry’s leading the polls. I’m planning to vote for him. Get that momentum going, increase the odds he’ll take down Bush in November.

Libby leans forward, her tiny voice cutting through the air and straight to the bone.

“Who are you going to vote for today, Dad?”

I tell her.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Is he the best person?”

Cue fumbling. “Well, it’s complicated.” My lame excuse: “He’s got the best chance to win.”

“But who’s the best person?”

I start giving her this convoluted, way-too-long-for-a-seven-year-old explanation about Joe Lieberman. Guy’s polling fifth in a five-man race, but I admire him. And she doesn’t care. Doesn’t need the noise.

“If he’s the best person, you should vote for him,” she says, all childlike wisdom and clarity. “You should always choose the best person.”

I stare at the road. “I will,” I say, like it’s a vow. 

And I do. I walk into that booth and cast my vote for Lieberman. He finishes dead last. Kerry wins. Loses to Bush later. Doesn’t matter. I kept my promise to my daughter. Voted for the best person. 

And I still do.

“When I was a boy…” —kill me. That phrase is like a slow-motion guillotine. My dad, leaning back, about to drop another endless story. “Kids back then respected their elders. We didn’t waste food. I shared a bedroom with my three brothers. Kept it neat as a pin. Christmas? Church at midnight, then an orange in a sock. Then we wrote Santa Claus thank-you notes.”  

Bullshit. All of it. 

“When I was a boy” was just code for “You’re about to hear how spoiled you are.”

But still, yeah, when I was a boy, I wanted to be a hero. Didn’t everybody? First, I wanted to be Carl Yastrzemski, swinging a bat like a god. Then Bill Freehan, unsung catcher, solid, reliable. But even at ten, twelve, I knew. I knew I wasn’t that guy. My throws to second? They’d bounce halfway, or drift like a goddamn beach ball. Hero status: DENIED. Before I’d had my first real kiss.

Still, I wanted to be the guy who did the right thing, no matter what. The guy who says, “No, I’ll stay in this POW camp because the other guys were captured first. I follow the Code of Conduct—even if my father is an admiral.” Or later the guy who, when his own supporters spreading lies about the opponent, steps in and calls it out. Who works across the aisle on immigration and disability rights, even if it hurts his career. The guy who walks into the Senate, sees the repeal of healthcare, knows he’s dying and kills the bill with a Roman thumb’s down. Ten years earlier Obama beat him for the presidency. John McCain saves ObamaCare.  Just because it’s the right thing to do. 

Yeah, when I was a boy, I wanted to be a John McCain. Senator. War hero. Republican from Arizona. A man who actually walked the walk.

I’m not a hero. Not destined for heroism either.  Four years in the Army didn’t make me a hero. No medals. No grand gestures. No life-saving votes. I’m just some guy who admired McCain from a distance. Held him up like this glowing, unreachable ideal. 

Then came late 2015. I’m running this housing program for homeless vets, guys like the ones I served with. Except they didn’t get the breaks. Zigged when they should have zagged. No wine with dinner. Wine for dinner.  Good place. Way more human than the place I lived when I first got off the streets.

Anyway, I get invited to pitch the house at some local GOP event. Lindsey Graham, back when he had a spine, was running for president, and he’s dragging McCain around. Along with Kelly Ayotte, who wasn’t there, they were a maverick trio. Did what needed to be done, whatever the cost.  They’re doing a meet-and-greet at Newick’s Lobster House in Dover. Five o’clock start. I’ve got two minutes at the beginning to talk about veteran homelessness. Just two.

And of course, I get lost. Four miles from my own hometown, and I get lost. Roll in at six, and I think, “That’s it. Game over.”

I walk inside, and there’s McCain. Freaking John McCain, up at the front, cracking jokes about Graham. I feel like the world’s biggest idiot, so I sidle up to this woman, all business. Introduce myself.

She gives me this icy smile, like I just spilled a drink on her. “We waited for you. We kept Senators Graham and McCain waiting for you.” It’s that same voice, that same tone I’ve heard since I was a kid. When Dad would say, “When I was a boy…”

But then McCain looks over. He sees her chewing me out, and in that loud, no-nonsense voice, he goes, “Is this the guy who was supposed to introduce me? Send him up here!”

So I go. And McCain, the man I’ve admired for years, introduces me like we’re old friends. He’s warm, he’s gracious. Throws in a few details about me someone probably fed him an hour ago. He’s everything I thought he’d be. A real hero.

When I was a boy, there was another kind of kid. The one I never wanted to be. I hated cowards. Loudmouths who talk big but duck when the heat’s on. Run when things get real. Guys who hide behind a microphone their daddy bought them. Take cheap shots at the ones who did the fighting. Loudmouths. Spoiled bastards. People who inherited everything and still pretend they earned it. Gutless pissants.

Donald J. Trump.

“He’s not a war hero,” Trump said about McCain. “He’s a war hero because he got captured. I like people who weren’t captured.”

Donald Freaking Trump. Alligator mouth, hummingbird ass.

When I was a boy, I despised people like that. I still do. So when Trump opened his mouth, insulted McCain—John McCain—I thought, “That’s it. Game over. America’s gonna see through this clown. They’ll drop this gutless bastard. Especially veterans.” 

But they didn’t drop him. They ate it up. Some still do.

When McCain died in 2018, I’d just started a new job, wasn’t even running the show yet. Barely had a title. But I told the board of directors I needed time off. Flew to D.C. on my own dime to pay my respects. And while I’m doing that, Trump refuses to lower the White House flag for McCain. Petty. Gutless. Has to twist the knife, even when the guy’s dead. That’s his style, if you can call it a style.

McCain spent five and a half years getting tortured in a POW camp. Trump? Donald “Bone Spurs” Trump? He spent those years dodging syphilis and gonorrhea. Called it his “own Vietnam.” You can look it up.

Just as with John McCain, I’ve only met Donald Trump once. End of October 2016. Because of the veterans’ program and because I’m public about being a guy in recovery from drugs and alcohol, I’m invited to a small private meeting with Trump. A dozen people maybe. As I remember it, it was me and 10 parents whose kids had died. Overdosed. Supposedly, Trump wanted to hear about the opioid epidemic. We were herded backstage an hour before a rally. Kept in a small room. If Trump was supposed to meet us at 10 in the morning, he showed up around 10:45. Big beefy guy. Looks at his watch. Says he doesn’t have much time. 

As soon as he sits, he pulls out his iPhone or Blackberry or whatever he uses and looks down. All we see is his balding head. One mother starts talking. Her daughter had died six weeks before. Trump continues studying his device. Mother starts weeping. Big wracking sobs. Trump looks up. Looks toward her. Frowns. All the empathy of an iguana. Reptiles don’t offer the milk of human kindness. His head drops again. More balding scalp.

Another parent starts talking. More death. More tragedy. Trump holds up his hand to stop the dad. He’s got to cut the meeting short—something about Hilary Clinton and the FBI. Trump says opioids are bad and he’ll solve them. Like death and addiction are just a McDonald’s order that lacks large fries. Says he’ll invite us all to the White House when he’s president. Yeah. Sure.

Libby’s words come back. “The best person.” Trump’s the opposite of that. And the worst part? Everyone knew it, and they didn’t care. Many still don’t. He was not then, he is not now and he never will be the best person.

Heartless. Gutless. Lacking a true moral center. Donald Trump.

I don’t know Kamala Harris personally. Don’t have any anecdotes about her. When I was a boy, Harris seems like the kind of girl who’d laugh at my jokes and make sure she never sat near me.

She’s smart. Strong. Funny. Seems kind. And she’s got a backbone. I think John McCain would have enjoyed arguing with her. They’d find some kind of compromise or creative way out.

I honestly believe John McCain would have voted for Kamala Harris.

She’s the best person.

I am voting for Kamala Harris for President of the United States.

And that endorsement? Worth exactly one vote. Mine.

For most of his first 48 years, Keith Howard lived with various addictions, believing a chemical makes life worth living. In 2007, he found recovery and served as executive director of Liberty House and then Hope for New Hampshire Recovery for 12 years, alongside a year of solitude on the Canadian border.

Now retired following a 2023 cancer diagnosis, he keeps busy pestering friends, mentoring people who ask for it and cooking dinner.  His dangerous yet occasionally amusing writings can regularly be found in the InkLink and on his website tinywhitebox.com. Howard lives in Manchester with his accomplished wife. For more information, contact [email protected].