One More Night...

On the morning of Saturday, September thirteenth, a friend and I, her
husband, father and stepmother, and the three oldest of our four
children, two four-year-olds and an almost seven-year-old, set out in
two cars from Manhattan and Westport, Connecticut, headed for Bucks
County, Pennsylvania: a swing county in a swing state we fervently
hope will go for Barack Obama in the upcoming presidential election.

We arrived at campaign headquarters with no idea what to expect,
knowing only that each of us had reached a point at some time over the
course of this campaign when we could no longer be satisfied remaining on the sidelines yelling at our television sets. We were told we would be canvassing and were given as a group four manila envelopes with lists of about twenty-five households in each, providing us with the names and ages of all members of the household, as well as party affiliation.

Over the course of a very long, hot, exhausting day walking up one
winding street, then driving to another, over and over again, we were
greeted at the door by people who were almost uniformly willing to
talk to us. I had planned on writing a descriptive essay about this
experience, about how it felt to take my most deeply held beliefs to
strangers' doorsteps, to--for the first time in my life--play an
active role in an election I think could determine the world my
children will grow up in, but somehow I just can't quite do it. It is
not that I don't have enough to say; it is that I have too much.
Although I will say that canvassing itself is dense, dirty, sweaty
work, the experience itself, the day, felt sacred.

I am also not certain that the best use of my voice right now is to
tell you about the poor, working and lower middle class families we
met, the guard dogs behind chain link fences at virtually every
household, the decaying statues of jockeys or the Virgin Mary on the
front lawns, the crumbling window frames, the jaunty potted plants and
often carefully mowed lawns, the overloaded ashtrays on the front
steps, the doors slammed in our faces, the wide-eyed children behind
screen doors, the nearly ubiquitous American flags. More important, I
think, is to say that at almost every household we visited, someone
said something that surprised me. Yes, I was often dismayed. The lack
of information, education, interest, perspective and respect was
depressing. However, I was much more often, and more meaningfully,
inspired: by the seventy-four-year-old Catholic woman who had voted
Republican her entire life but was not going to let her party "take
away my rights." By the handicapped woman whose rotting porch
threatened to collapse beneath my feet who said pro-choice was her
issue, and if she had to walk to the polls come election morning she
was ready. By the African-American woman to whom we gave her first
ever voter registration form and her just eighteen-year-old daughter
who had registered the moment she could, telling her mother, You're
coming with me, we'll do this together. I think in November, when the
election results come in, I will remember her face.

When we arrived back at the campaign headquarters, universally worse
for the wear, we filled out the Canvass Tally Sheets we were given,
along with other people who had been doing the same thing, all over
the county. One woman looked up from her sheet at the young man who
had given us our morning training and asked, "I have to ask: Does this
really make any difference?" Although I was curious to hear his
response, which was that from the highest levels they were being told
that canvassing was far and away the most valuable way to contribute
to the campaign at this point in time, I didn't really need to.

Over the course of one blazing hot Saturday, we were able to tell about a hundred households just why we are convinced that Barack Obama needs to be the next president of the United States. We made personal pleas. We refuted some lies. And although we weren't really supposed to, we engaged in some arguments. I left Bucks County ready for a shower and about twelve hours of sleep. I also left thinking that if Bensalem, Pennsylvania is any indication, or if I am any indication, people in this country are angry and disillusioned. And they're going to do something about it this time.

I am not the same person who left the city Saturday morning with a cup
of coffee and a whole lot of preconceptions. I don't want to tell you
the details of my experience. I want to beseech you to contact the
campaign office in a swing state near you, and tell them you'll give
them a day.

This I can promise: It will be a day you will never forget