The things we do for love! 1 road trip, 2 bus rides, 3 Obama House Parties; scores of phone calls, hundreds of doorbells rung, too many emails to count. Boots on the ground, finger on the dial. I have worked my heart out for Barack Obama.
Last Saturday, as I took my seat on a DC for Obama bus headed for Newport News, Virginia, I was overcome with pride. Every seat on the bus was occupied by someone whose passion for this candidate transcends the demands of every day life. There we were, lattés in hand, bundled up for stormy weather, headed to the battleground of battlegrounds – Southern Virginia – to knock on the doors of undecided voters. Ten days to go!
I recognized some of my seatmates from a February bus trip to Columbus, Ohio. That weekend, we left DC on an icy Friday afternoon and made our way up the Pennsylvania Turnpike through a snowstorm to the Columbus YMCA which hosted us for two nights. Driving through that snowstorm was like living in a snow globe for 8 hours. Most of us sat quietly, contemplating the work ahead. Occasionally, one young man flung himself out of his seat into the aisle to exhort us in a call and response: “Fired up….” “Ready to go!” “Fired up….” And so we made our way to the YMCA where we spread out our sleeping bags and slept on the gymnasium floor under overhead lights timed to stay on all night.
The next day we canvassed in neighborhoods slick with ice from a recent cold snap. Very few people were home, and most who answered their front doors declined to name their candidates. We knew we had an uphill battle in Columbus -- and not just because we were slipping on ice, but because polls favored Hillary Clinton -- but we labored on.
Last Saturday, riding the southbound bus through the early morning streets of Washington, DC, it struck me anew that I am part of something important. As our bus drove down Constitution Avenue, I was moved by the grandeur of my city. Past the OAS, the Mall, the Museum of Natural History, and then I caught a glimpse of the US Capitol. Is there any grander city in this country? Pulling out of DC on to the 14th Street Bridge, there on the hill to the right stood Mount Vernon, perched atop the Potomac River, framed in fall foliage. I am living my history.
Once on 95 South, my gaze turned inward. I heard a conversation behind me. Someone had been to Ohio. “You were in Ohio?” I asked the young man. Turns out he was but on a different weekend. This is why I am here. The shared experiences. The community. Faces of every color. People who look too young to vote, and people who are old enough to have had their hopes dashed and dashed again in past elections. We are united in purpose.
My canvassing partner and I knocked on more than 100 doors in Newport News. We spoke to 19 strong Obama supporters and a handful of McCain voters. I hope I changed the mind of one undecided which made up for the snarled, “We’re McCain people,” uttered as one front door slammed on us.
After a long and soggy day which had us out in Newport News neighborhoods from Noon to 6 PM, we boarded the bus home. If the ride down in the morning had been quiet, that was because no one was quite awake. Now, fatigue had settled in and we rode back in silence. My thoughts returned to two doors that opened to reveal first-time voters. One was Joseph who shyly told me he would probably vote for ‘the Democrat.’ I said, “You mean Barack Obama, right?” Yes, that is what he meant. I asked him if he knew his polling place. Yes, the school down the street. Did he know that the polls are open from 6 am to 7 pm? No, he did not, but he figured it didn’t matter, because he knew the polls were open for a week. When I explained that the polls are open only one day unless he voted absentee, he looked puzzled and said, “No lie?” I wrote down the date, time, and place for him on a piece of campaign literature and asked him to promise me that he would vote. “Yes, Miss,” he responded. And reached out his hand to shake mine and said, “If you didn’t tell me it was just that one day, I would never have known.” My heart leapt. That first vote is a precious birthright. Please don’t forget to vote, Joseph. It’s November 4.
Coming up on the 14th Street Bridge, homeward bound. Mount Vernon is a mere twinkle in the night sky, but the Washington Monument is lit up from below and radiating its two red eyes to keep wayward aircraft from straying into its path. Driving by the Tidal Basin, there is Thomas Jefferson, keeping watch on our liberties. He must have shed more than a few tears these past 8 years. On past the Kennedy Center and there is Abe Lincoln, maintaining his eternal vigil. What must old Abe think about the prospect of our first African-American President? Rest well, Abe. We will be in good hands.
Last Saturday, as I took my seat on a DC for Obama bus headed for Newport News, Virginia, I was overcome with pride. Every seat on the bus was occupied by someone whose passion for this candidate transcends the demands of every day life. There we were, lattés in hand, bundled up for stormy weather, headed to the battleground of battlegrounds – Southern Virginia – to knock on the doors of undecided voters. Ten days to go!
I recognized some of my seatmates from a February bus trip to Columbus, Ohio. That weekend, we left DC on an icy Friday afternoon and made our way up the Pennsylvania Turnpike through a snowstorm to the Columbus YMCA which hosted us for two nights. Driving through that snowstorm was like living in a snow globe for 8 hours. Most of us sat quietly, contemplating the work ahead. Occasionally, one young man flung himself out of his seat into the aisle to exhort us in a call and response: “Fired up….” “Ready to go!” “Fired up….” And so we made our way to the YMCA where we spread out our sleeping bags and slept on the gymnasium floor under overhead lights timed to stay on all night.
The next day we canvassed in neighborhoods slick with ice from a recent cold snap. Very few people were home, and most who answered their front doors declined to name their candidates. We knew we had an uphill battle in Columbus -- and not just because we were slipping on ice, but because polls favored Hillary Clinton -- but we labored on.
Last Saturday, riding the southbound bus through the early morning streets of Washington, DC, it struck me anew that I am part of something important. As our bus drove down Constitution Avenue, I was moved by the grandeur of my city. Past the OAS, the Mall, the Museum of Natural History, and then I caught a glimpse of the US Capitol. Is there any grander city in this country? Pulling out of DC on to the 14th Street Bridge, there on the hill to the right stood Mount Vernon, perched atop the Potomac River, framed in fall foliage. I am living my history.
Once on 95 South, my gaze turned inward. I heard a conversation behind me. Someone had been to Ohio. “You were in Ohio?” I asked the young man. Turns out he was but on a different weekend. This is why I am here. The shared experiences. The community. Faces of every color. People who look too young to vote, and people who are old enough to have had their hopes dashed and dashed again in past elections. We are united in purpose.
My canvassing partner and I knocked on more than 100 doors in Newport News. We spoke to 19 strong Obama supporters and a handful of McCain voters. I hope I changed the mind of one undecided which made up for the snarled, “We’re McCain people,” uttered as one front door slammed on us.
After a long and soggy day which had us out in Newport News neighborhoods from Noon to 6 PM, we boarded the bus home. If the ride down in the morning had been quiet, that was because no one was quite awake. Now, fatigue had settled in and we rode back in silence. My thoughts returned to two doors that opened to reveal first-time voters. One was Joseph who shyly told me he would probably vote for ‘the Democrat.’ I said, “You mean Barack Obama, right?” Yes, that is what he meant. I asked him if he knew his polling place. Yes, the school down the street. Did he know that the polls are open from 6 am to 7 pm? No, he did not, but he figured it didn’t matter, because he knew the polls were open for a week. When I explained that the polls are open only one day unless he voted absentee, he looked puzzled and said, “No lie?” I wrote down the date, time, and place for him on a piece of campaign literature and asked him to promise me that he would vote. “Yes, Miss,” he responded. And reached out his hand to shake mine and said, “If you didn’t tell me it was just that one day, I would never have known.” My heart leapt. That first vote is a precious birthright. Please don’t forget to vote, Joseph. It’s November 4.
Coming up on the 14th Street Bridge, homeward bound. Mount Vernon is a mere twinkle in the night sky, but the Washington Monument is lit up from below and radiating its two red eyes to keep wayward aircraft from straying into its path. Driving by the Tidal Basin, there is Thomas Jefferson, keeping watch on our liberties. He must have shed more than a few tears these past 8 years. On past the Kennedy Center and there is Abe Lincoln, maintaining his eternal vigil. What must old Abe think about the prospect of our first African-American President? Rest well, Abe. We will be in good hands.
1 comment:
I applaud you for getting out to get the vote. Living in a "blue" state means that almost everyone I know is voting for Obama but that doesn't negate the anxiousness that we all have so there is still a great deal of talk, blogging etc.
When I lived in DC back in 64-65 it is was so energizing just to walk around and be part of the civil rights movement, women's rights, stop the war etc. I miss that energy sometimes and am saddend that the generations behind us have taken so much for granted and have not had to march, scream and yell for anything.
Here's to waking up Wednesday morning with a smile on all of our faces but then again who is going to sleep until we find out the results.
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