Politics, like an Instagram filter, enhances nearly every memory I have of my father and me. He and my mother stuffed envelopes for Goldwater’s campaign; he painted soda bottles with elephants just like the GOP symbols I saw when we watched the Republican Convention. One year, to his great delight, I trick-or-treated as “a Republican,” draped in patriotic bunting. But what I remember most is watching his face as he watched the Watergate hearings. I tried to arrange my 8-year-old face into his, mirroring the squinting eyes, the brows pushed together. He chewed on his right thumb, an indicator of his anxiety; I bit mine, too, glancing at him sideways to keep checking.
“This is a damn witch hunt,” he said, disgustedly. Which left me wondering why Samantha from Bewitched, the only witch I knew at the time, would be involved.