After my first day of volunteering in Ohio on October 31st--a long, 10-hour affair of door-to-door canvassing--I was heading back home when our Red Team leader said, in a kind of offhand manner, "Oh, and just so you know...you can't blog about any of this."
I stopped in the door. "Sorry, what was that?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Last I heard, they've asked the volunteers not to blog about anything."
I wanted to explain that, well, blogging is kind of what I do. That's part of the whole reason I decided to volunteer in the first place--so I'd have exciting adventures to chronicle on the World Wide Web. Before I started canvassing for Obama, the most stimulating political environment I'd been able to tap into was the local gym where women sweated out their love for Sarah Palin on adjacent treadmills. Fun.
The next few days in Akron were apt to be some of the most thrilling days of my life. And now I couldn't write about them? I wanted to cry. But instead, I nodded. "Okay," I said, feeling defeated. What could I do? If Obama didn't want me to blog, I wouldn't blog. Maybe the campaign was afraid that careless web-logging could be used against them in the eleventh hour. It's not like I'd say anything incriminating. The most shocking thing I had to report was when the 8-year-old grandson of a veteran phone-banker tried to stab his brother with a pair of scissors-and the blades weren't even that sharp.
I went to bed early that night. For the first time in my life, I didn't dress up for Halloween. I was exhausted, frustrated, beat down. Since I can't even talk about my experiences, I thought to myself, I sure hope this is worth it.
Four days later, November 4th, was one of the greatest days of my life.
And finally, exactly one month later, I'm saying so.
Since Barack Obama is soon to be the 44th President of the United States of America, I figure: what's the harm? Now we can talk about how it happened. And how I helped make history.
A LONG DAY'S JOURNEY INTO NYQUIL
I spent my first few days in Akron staving off sickness. I could feel it coming on-my throat was scratchy, I had a perpetual headache, and it was all compounded by the fact that I wasn't getting very much sleep. One day I drove to three different places trying to locate fresh-squeezed orange juice before my shift began. I was hence able to conclude that it is categorically impossible to find juice in Akron before 9 am.
Every time I parked my car somewhere, I was nearly positive that I would be robbed, since all of my worldly belongings were packed to the ceiling and quite visible. Tufts of clothing were sticking out everywhere, and random boots and papers. Not that I own much of value, anyway...but if you saw a medieval fairy costume bursting forth from a Lexmark printer, wouldn't you be sorely tempted to break the eighth commandment?
I didn't even wear the friggin' costume, anyway. The inside of my car dressed up for Halloween more than I did, damn it.
But imminent illness notwithstanding, I made do. I spent long hours canvassing the dilapidated streets of downtown Akron, streets by the names of "Amherst," "Harvard," and "Yale"--a tragic irony, since they bore little resemblance to the eponymous elitist institutions. Eviction signs littered the doors and crumbling steps led to eroding porches; everywhere the detritus of hard economic times.
In truth, though, I felt comfortable in these neighborhoods. I grew up in Dallas in the 80s when gang wars raged in the alley behind our house. I can handle beat-up front porches and their humble owners, people who are genuinely warm, friendly, and, conveniently, Obama supporters. I'll take them anyday over the trophy housewives who plaster McCain + Palin signs on their gas-guzzling SUVs before driving two blocks to get their nails done.
The magic of canvassing these streets was that I got to see a whole other side of the population. These people live in a very different world than my group of well-educated, well-meaning friends with their liberal arts degrees. The kids from Amherst College sit around, play board games, drink wine, and discuss the books we're reading. The people who liveon Amherst Street don't always make enough money to buy milk for their kids. And the passion these people expressed, the belief they had in Obama as a leader who could bring about real and lasting change...it was incredible.
There were lighter moments too, of course. Once I approached a group of guys who eyed me carefully as I balanced my slippery stack of door hangers and brochures. "You better not be canvassing for McCain, girl," one of them said. "In this neighborhood, you gonna get yourself JUMPED."
I explained to him that, not to worry: I was on the right side.
I picked up a few fans, too, out on my solitary runs. Sadly, I had to explain to several enthusiastic patriots that, no, I was not running for office. "Well, if you ever need somebody to treat you right," said a fellow who introduced himself as D-Smooth, "you know where I live."
And I did, too. Had his address right there in my paperwork.
We volunteers went through three phases of the nationwide Get Out The Vote effort. Phase 1 and Phase 2 included knocking on doors, talking to people, leaving materials when no one was home. Then the day before November 4th, Phase 3 ,we didn't knock, but just left specific information on where to vote.
Before I knew it, it was Election Day. And the real fun had yet to begin.
"MOM, THE LINE MANAGER HAD AN ACCIDENT!"
I awoke early. The house where I was staying-a beautiful, two-story affair with elegant art and a Grand piano-was quiet. I made myself a cup of tea. By 5:45 am I was at the neighborhood launch site to pick up my assortment of materials: two boxes of handouts, a 24-pack of waters, and a trash bag of bagels (literally). I had been slotted as a line manager for the day, meaning that my job was to make sure people waiting in line to vote stayed happy, enthusiastic, and, most importantly, stayed put. I was working at a polling location in downtown Akron, a senior and assisted living center.
I was the only line manager at this location, and somehow, as I struggled to balance all the materials as I climbed out of my personal-closet-on-wheels , I managed to lose my grip on the trash bag of bagels and spill them all out into the parking lot, while simultaneously dumping my tea down the front of my pants. "Great," I thought to myself. "It's 6 am, and I look like I peed myself." Thank god it was still dark.
A woman stooped to help me pick up a runaway bagel, and that's when I met my new friends for the day: a mother, her son, and a man and his wife. They set up shop with me, 100 feet away from the entrance to the polling location (a distance established by law). They weren't Obama volunteers, but were there to protest Issue 8. We started chatting and found we had a lot in common. I set up my Obama signs; they put up their "Vote No on Issue 8" signs. Slowly, the sun began to rise.
The polls opened at 6:30 am. There was no line, no mad rush. Things progressed pretty leisurely. The wife in our little party went to get Krispy Kreme donuts; when the box was empty, we used it for the bagels and arranged them tastefully (brushing off wayward pieces of grass in the meantime...but hey, it's organic!).
Around 10 am, two well-dressed women walked up to our signs and began taking them out of the ground. They didn't make any sort of announcement--just, started pulling them up out of the ground.
I walked up to them. "Hi," I said, trying my best to be cordial. "These are my signs. Is there a problem?"
"We work for the mayor," the blonde one said, with a brisk smile. "And he hasn't permitted any signs on the perimeter of this building except for that one." She pointed to the one large "Vote Yes for Issue 8" sign on the corner.
"Okay, thanks," I said.
Issue 8, by the way, was a new initiative to lease the city's water to an outside company in an effort to "raise scholarship money to preserve our children's future." What it actually meant, as my new friends explained to me, was that citizens would be paying twice as much for their utility bills; meanwhile, that scholarship money would go directly into the mayor's pocket.
When the women were gone, my friends called their supervisor. He was a short but fiery man. He came in his truck, and when he saw the signs lying on the ground in a heap, he was furious. He grabbed an "8 IS SEWAGE, BUT 9 IS FINE" sign, walked down the corner, and stuck it in the ground--directly in front of the mayor's "Vote Yes for Issue 8" sign. It was a brilliant act of defiance. We all stood there, a little awed.
"You didn't see that," he said, as he passed by us to get back into his truck.
Around 2 pm, one of the election integrity officials from inside--a friendly California lawyer who had flown in to Ohio to volunteer his time--came out to warn us to expect "Republicans in suits."
"We just got a call that they're complaining that the elections aren't fair," he explained to us. "So just know they might be coming."
We never saw Republicans in suits. But we did see a Republican in Wranglers. We didn't know he was a Republican until after he'd pulled up in his hefty truck and gone inside. Then we pieced it together--the McCain bumper stickers, the Wranglers. He was there for a while, watching the process. But he made no complaints.
Later on in the day, we gave a little boy one of our Obama signs. He held it against his smooth, dark face and waved it in the air. He was two, maybe, three at most. "If Obama wins," I thought to myself, "That little boy will grow up thinking it's the most natural thing in the world for a black man to be President of the United States." And a chill went through me.
Before I left that evening, all four family members laid their hands on me and prayed. "Please be with Bree on her journey back home," they said. "And let Barack Obama win this Election. Thank you, Jesus."
Thank you, indeed.
I stopped at a café for hot tea on the way home. As I was just about to place my order, one of the baristas pointed to a woman standing by the front door. "That woman is trying to figure out where to go to vote," he said. "I told her you might know.
It was 6:51. The polls closed at 7:00. We had nine minutes.
"Let's go!" I shouted, grabbing the woman by the arm. "We can make it!"
I threw the already jumbled mess of things from my front seat into my back seat in one fell swoop. I got the woman in my car. I got her to the library (which turned out to be just across the street).
She opened the door and looked at me. "Thank you," she said.
I smiled my response.
She hasted in to the library. I looked at my car clock. It was 6:58. She'd made it.
Two minutes later, it was 7:00 pm. The polls were closed.
Now, we waited.
OHIO GOES BLUE
We didn't have to wait long.
When I heard that Obama had won Pennsylvania, I was still at my host's house, getting dressed for a night of what I imagined to be anxious waiting. Since I had voted absentee in Pennsylvania, I leapt for joy. Then I danced around the kitchen using my hairdryer as a microphone.
When I heard that Obama had won Ohio, I was in my car driving to the Akron Victory Party. I got the news in a text from my boss that said, simply:
"OHIO!!!!!!! It's over.!!!"
I started laughing, shaking, crying...and speeding, apparently, as I IMMEDIATELY got pulled over by a police cruiser.
When he came to my window, I was beaming. He could have given me a $500 ticket and I don't think I would have cared. "I was probably speeding, wasn't I?" I said, laughing. "I'm here volunteering for Obama in Ohio, and I just heard we won it. I have no idea how fast I was going. To be honest with you, I've kind of lost my mind."
He didn't even take my insurance. He took my license, checked it out, and brought it back to me with nothing but a warning.
"Just be careful, okay?"
I was jubilant. "Did you vote today?"
He shook his head. "I did early voting."
"For Obama?" I said.
He smiled at me. "Well, of course."
I drove off, giddy with glee. Then I rolled down my window and screamed out "OBAMA!!!!!!" at the top of my lungs for the next 10 minutes as I cruised down the main strip. (It would take four days for my voice to come completely back.)
That night, as I stood in the hall watching the official announcement, I wept. I also texted people like crazy-all of my friends, in all our various parts of the country, were texting each other messages of hope, disbelief, and pure, unadulterated joy. My friend Teresa reported that people in DC had taken to the streets, honking their car horns, running wild and yelling. Bill in Virginia witnessed the same phenomenon. My uncle in Texas, who had told me I was going to hell for voting for Obama, texted to say, "Looks like I'M the one going for hell. Congratulations!" Brad in California opened a bottle of champagne. The world had gone half mad. All over, people were hugging, laughing, screaming, honking, yelling, hugging strangers in the streets and screaming. It still gives me chills to think about it. The country had come alive.
Barack Obama had won the Presidential Election. He had won Ohio. He had won Pennsylvania. I had helped--I had mattered. Never have I felt a part of something so great, so grand.
As I was driving home that night, awash in euphoria, I got this text from the Obama Campaign, one that they sent out to everyone on their nationwide contact list:
We just made history. All of this happened because you gave your time, talent and passion to this campaign. All of this happened because of you. Thanks, Barack
I will keep that message forever. For the next four years. For the next eight, with any luck. Until I can tell my children about the day Barack Obama was elected President. And the hours I spent walking, and talking, and forging my beliefs. Until the next day when apathy is vanquished, and the world wakes up and takes a chance on hope, on change, on promise.
Or until the day I lose my phone memory card. Whichever comes sooner.
President-elect Obama, wherever you are... I hope you don't mind that I'm writing about my volunteer experiences. I just wanted to say thank you for changing my life.
I never even made it to the Ballot Box, did I? Yet what a journey it's been.
Most Recent Comments