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Democracy is like an odd house mistress. She welcomes anyone into her home and “rent” is, simply, your vote. She doesn’t kick people out if they don’t vote, but those who do have a say in the amenities—which those who don’t are allowed to partake of equally.
Her rules change and evolve. This is often maddening to the tenants who are outvoted by their fellows. To make matters worse, different rooms in the house have different people representing their respective wishes.
Most everyone in the household is skeptical of these representatives but accept the arrangement, for it allows everyone to get on with their lives rather than fretting about whose turn it is to fix the toilet.
The west side of the home is populated by folks who bristle against anything they believe impinges on their ability to do as they please. On the east side, folks tend to take a view that they have a responsibility to care for the least fortunate among them and will sacrifice to do so.
Everyone in the house exhibits traits of both sides. Over dinner, there are often heated discussions about this, although most folks would prefer to watch football. Sometimes they just have to agree to disagree and finish the pork roast in peace.
The house mistress (she’s ageless and timeless) has seen it all before. Generations come and go. Societal mores ebb and flow. She simply smiles knowingly as her charges squabble. Occasionally she’ll let a tear slip from her eye when things get overheated, remembering that time not too long ago when the differences became irreconcilable and resulted in bloodshed.
But usually things work out. Folks cast their votes. And the representatives (who’ve always been viewed with skepticism) fix the toilet.