On November 8, 1960, I voted for Richard Nixon. I had turned nine the week before. According to my fourth-grade report card, from that September, I stood four feet one and a quarter inches tall and weighed fifty-five pounds: small enough to be permitted entry into the curtained voting booth in the Stewart Manor School, on Long Island, where my father let me pull the lever for Nixon and Henry Cabot Lodge. It was a reach: during Nelson Rockefeller’s long Albany reign, the Republican ticket occupied the top row on New York State’s mechanical ballot.
Hottest New Novels to Buy at the Airport
No Longer Driving a Cab, a Syrian Writer in America Focusses on His Fiction
Marine Le Pen’s Memoir: a Dutiful Daughter’s Sanitizing of Far-Right Politics
Source: newyorker (MALE SLIKE)
Trying to Remember J.F.K.