“The art of being wise is knowing what to overlook.” ~ Henry James
Get off my lawn!
The election has been over for a month and three days (yes, I’m counting) and my neighbor still has her Trump sign up. I live in a condo development, so my neighbor’s tiny yard is just a few steps from my front door. Every morning, I wake up and look out the window – and there it is – the five-letter word that compels me to spew four letter ones.
It’s not just the sign – but that would be enough to unhinge me these days. My neighbor came to the U.S. from Cuba to escape a dictatorship and now she supports another dictator. Why? I would love to ask her, but she speaks little English, and I speak no Spanish.
Honestly, I’m more sad than mad about it. I have always liked her – she lives with her elderly mother and another woman close to her age. They keep their condo looking neat and pristine and they wash their cars more often than I floss. They are pleasant neighbors and now I think they are trolling me. For the record, I couldn’t take my Harris sign down until last week. It just made it all feel so final.
Kamala served meals for Central Kitchen on Thanksgiving Day. I am grateful for the joy and hope she offered us.
I’ve been hibernating since the election – mostly for my own protection. I have been short tempered and mad at the world, well, specifically the 49.9% of voters who elected Trump. I’ve been heartbroken and feeling hopeless at times. I’m keeping my cable news fast and finding solace in the quiet. Until I see that damn sign.
My dear wife tells me to ignore it, and I’ve tried to do that to no avail. So instead, I fantasize about pulling the sign out and throwing it in the dumpster – a perfect metaphor. But I would never take down someone’s political sign, especially if that someone had a Ring Doorbell camera.
I assume the sign will come down eventually, at least I hope so because I am fairly sure I can’t convince my wife to move. And even in my depressed state, I know it’s not really about the sign – but how the sign makes me feel differently about my neighbor. And I don’t even know my neighbor’s name. It’s not like those of you who now feel differently about folks you have known and loved for a long time. My sister is struggling deeply with two such relationships. I wish I could comfort her, but I got nothing – save for sadness and bewilderment, oh, and righteous anger on my good days.
Class dismissed
I’m taking time to grieve what might have been and reflecting on what I want my next four years to look like. I know for certain that I want them to be spent working for something rather than against someone and I know there are almost seventy-five million folks out there like me. And there’s probably a couple of you in that group that know a guy who knows about taking out yard signs.
Just kidding.
I’m going to leave you with a sweet epilogue to my recent post about my friend Will.
Here’s an excerpt from that post:
The best advice I’ve gotten as I’ve been wallowing in despair came from my young friend Will, the son of one of my best friends from fourth grade. Will is in his late 30’s and works as an accountant. He is differently abled and like all of us who represent a minority, is worried about what the Trump administration will mean for his community. We love to talk sports – especially since my wife has below zero interest in them. He told me the story of how Jackie Robinson was angry and worn down by the racism he was experiencing as the first African American to play in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s wife simply told him, “Keep showing up.”
And that’s what Will said to me at the end of our long conversation late last week when I was feeling so hopeless – “Keep showing up, Addison.”
So, I came home last night from dinner with friends and had a package in the mail from Will. Wait for it…
Home run!
Yep. Will sent me my very own Jackie Robinson action figure. Are you kidding me? And they say there’s no crying in baseball.
“First time farce, second tragedy.” ~ Bill Kristol
How it started…me, Kamala and Beth
I hate this post and I hope you hate it, too.
We’ve been here before, but this feels different – even worse than 2016 – and I didn’t think that was possible. Imagine the unimaginable – or is it the unmanageable?
This time is different. Hillary Clinton was a flawed candidate even though I enthusiastically supported her. You know what I mean – her emails and that deplorable comment – although to be fair, she nailed that one in spades.
Kamala Harris was a magnificent candidate and she ran a great campaign in 107 days. Trump’s campaign was almost two years long – it only felt like seven. Donald Trump won a free and fair election and I’m not going to take a dump on Mike Johnson’s desk to protest his victory – even though I feel shitty today. And yesterday. And tomorrow.
How it’s going… me and Dewey’s cake squares
The people have spoken, only they’re not my people – even if I’m friends with some of them or even related to them. I have always viewed my vote as an affirmation of my values and I clearly don’t share the values of what is now a majority of Americans. They chose immorality – felony convictions, sexual harassment, vulgarity, insurrection, lies, more lies, Arnold Palmer’s big putter – over decency and democracy – oh, and the reproductive health of women. But hey, I get it – the price of eggs is apparently a deal breaker for folks who don’t really believe in deal breakers.
Stuart is my people. He and his husband have been together 14 years. And he’s one of the kindest souls I know. This was his “I Voted” selfie.
In the cold dark hours of Wednesday morning, when it became apparent that we are going back after all, I sat on my couch and felt like I was teetering on the edge of the abyss. My dear wife had gone to bed because she had to go to work the next day and see a full slate of therapy clients. Silver lining – I’m feeling good about her job security with Trump’s victory. We’re going to need hella lot of therapy. And Kit Kats.
Marco (far left) is my people. He is from Italy and became an American citizen in 2016. He’s a college professor and canvassed in PA with his union. Citizenship remorse is a thing, right?
Writing is how I process the world – the good, the bad and the apocalyptic. And even though I could hardly see through my fear (not a typo) smudged glasses in the dark, I tapped out a Facebook post trying to capture my feelings. I didn’t intend to publish what I wrote, but I think I needed to connect with my people – the people who believe in deal breakers. The post went viral – at least by my modest standards. Over 40 people shared it and almost 200 commented on it. Let me be clear – this doesn’t mean I’m a great writer – but don’t let me stop you from thinking that. So, this blog post is an extension of that election night post because, well, I had more to say. And maybe you want to hear it.
It became very clear to me when I knew that Donald Trump would be president again that I could not allow him to live in my head for another four years. Enough. I’m evicting him and his rot. Think of it as an intervention on Hoarders. I’m taking out the trash. I guess you could say that I have a concept of a plan of how to go about this. Here’s what I’ve got so far:
Avoid cable news like it is radioactive
I cannot listen to his “They’re eating the cats and dogs” droning voice any longer. I cannot look at his spray tan trainwreck of a face. I will miss my TV wife Nicolle Wallace the most, but it’s time to say goodbye. Talking heads is not news – even if it is on MSNBC. I will listen to some selective podcasts and read the NY Times on my phone – until Maureen Dowd drives me to hit the cancellation button once and for all. I already ditched the Washington Post when Jeff Bezos left Democracy to die in the darkness of his billions. My gay husband suggested I subscribe to NPR’s Up First newsletter and podcast as a sort of methadone clinic for political news junkies. I might do that, but for now, I’m staying with British crime shows and Seinfeld reruns.
Become a Disinformationbuster!
I know this sounds like a fulltime position with bad hours and no benefits, but I do think that disinformation – deliberate, of course – was a major factor in this election. Let’s take for example, those ads vilifying transgender people. If you live in a battleground state, you saw them in your sleep.
AdImpact, an analytics firm, reported that Republicans spent nearly $215 million on anti-trans network TV ads alone – not including the spending on cable and streaming ads. There are about 1.6 million transgender people over 13 in the United States – representing 1 percent of the U.S. total population. And yet the Trump campaign spent more money on anti-trans ads than any other issue. Overkill? Nope, just the standard playbook for Republicans as Nancy Pelosi noted in a recent NY Times interview – “guns, gays, and God.” Once again, Republicans hammered Democrats on cultural issues to stoke the fears of conservative voters. I can tell you that being used as political collateral – again – by the GOP is not a good feeling.
Just don’t be a dumbass!
And Trump repeatedly made the absurd claim that schools are secretly sending children for gender-affirming surgeries. What the absolute fuck? And some people with a college degree still voted for him – although I’d like to see their GPAs. We have got to stop normalizing these lies because the mainstream media is not going to do it – at least not loudly enough.
So, when my friend from high school who never left the little town we grew up in posts about Democrats supporting after birth abortions and adds the prayer hands emoji for good measure, I’m going to respond with FACTS. No more free passes because you’re old or we’re related or we’ve been friends for so long. Nope. I will be respectful, but I will not ignore your participation in the promotion of these often dangerous falsehoods.
Do something!
Unlike Melania, I’ll give Michelle Obama credit where credit is due.
I’m not just going to keep howling at the moon. Now is the time for everyone to use their particular set of skills to help protect the most vulnerable among us in an even more dangerous Trump administration. I’m a writer, so I’m going to write more. Lots more. I’m thinking about starting a weekly newsletter type piece – sort of a Dollar Tree local version of Heather Cox Richardson – only without her blazing intellect and amazing context of history. The content would be a combination of pith (again, not a typo) and vinegar, but also useful information about what we can do locally as the opposition. I’m still working out the details, but the response to my election night post made me think there’s an audience – albeit a small one – for this type of content. So, stay tuned.
Jennifer is my people and she took her son to vote with her and let him put her ballot in the machine.
And I’m going to try and carry the joy and hope of this campaign with me for as long I can. I’ve worked in politics a long time and I’ve never felt anything like these 107 days. I got involved early on with my local Democratic Party and I was gob smacked by the sheer number of volunteers from day one. Some days, you could hardly find an open parking space at headquarters.
Campaigns aren’t all Beyonce and pizza. There’s a ton of grunt work that has to be done – such as assembling campaign literature and collating it into bags for canvassers. I did this several days and I saw the same group of women at the tables every time. They were mostly my age and older – retired but they showed up like it was their job.
It was like a book club sweatshop. They had all gotten to know each other and chatted away as they worked. They shared stories about their children and grandchildren and, of course, they talked politics a lot. I didn’t know any of these women – and yet I did. I knew that they had cried the same hot tears I did in 2016 when Hillary Clinton lost. And I knew that they believed that Kamala Harris would become the first US woman president. There was something so moving about their laser focus and camaraderie. They had waited a long time and they were not going to let it slip away this time. I will miss these women.
I met this woman in line at early voting. She’s been waiting longer than me for a woman president. I loved her moxieand, yes, she’s my people.
Once we had a good inventory of packets, we could start canvassing – knocking on doors for the unacquainted. It’s not for everyone, but I love it. It was even more fun because I did it with my good friend Beth. She moved here a couple of years ago from the bluest of the blue states – California. I think she had some electoral sticker shock when she started to learn more about North Carolina politics, but she was all in.
My little friend Scout and her parents and grandmother are my people. She has a chronic health condition and a concept of a plan is not helpful to her. Photo: Michael Scoggins
Yes, a lot of folks don’t answer their door and those dang ring doorbells have become a real buzz kill for canvassers. Also, you can feel pretty silly leaving a voice message for a doorbell. That said, we had a high number of good conversations with voters. I’m such a political nerd that I get really excited and often emotional about talking to voters. I consider it a privilege when they share their thoughts – and sometimes their hopes and dreams.
Canvassing with my dear wife was one of the sweet highlights of this campaign. She has never done anything like this and I was so proud of her engagement. She’s also way better at directions than me, so that was a real bonus.
These conversations stuck with me and Beth and I both thought of the same one when we met for coffee a few days after the election. We pulled up to a modest home one Sunday afternoon when we were canvassing and saw a dilapidated van parked on the grass by the side of the driveway. A Latino woman, probably in her late 40’s, was getting some things out of the van and looked up at us. Her expression was anxious and even a little fearful. I called out a friendly “Hi” and introduced myself and told her that Beth and I were from the local Democratic party. She softly said, “Democrat?” I nodded yes, and the expression on her face immediately relaxed. I explained that we were hoping to speak with the couple on our list who lived in the house. She told us they were not at home and surprised us by volunteering that they had already voted. And then she pointed to the flyer that Beth was holding and simply said, “Kamala.” We all broke into big smiles – and hers was so beautiful. She told us she could not vote because she is not yet a citizen but explained that she was here legally and hopes to become a citizen by February. [Please insert prayers]
She went on to tell us that she loves Barack Obama and that she wants to vote for his wife one day. We laughed and assured her that we all feel that way. Her face was downright beatific when she spoke of how much she admired the Obamas. I want America to deserve that face.
As I thanked her for her time and prepared to leave, I reached out to pat her arm and she gently pulled me in for a big hug. Damn. I long to live in that hug today. Beth and I both spilled a few tears in our lattes as we wondered aloud what would happen to her – this kind other from another country.
There were so many wonderful conversations – the young black student from App State who was so excited about voting for the first time, the 93-year-old man with a thick German accent who was delighted to tell us he had already voted for Kamala and shouted out, “Go girls!” as we walked away, and the woman who said her daughter was coming home from college that weekend so they could vote together for the first woman president. Gulp. Yep, those conversations stay with you, especially when so many dreams are denied.
I drove folks to the polls for early voting. My new friend Charlena was so excited to vote for Kamala, she forgot to put her teeth in. I get it! She’s my people.
I’m gutted and I’m angry and I’m scared – some days all of those things at the same time. But you know what? I loved every single minute of this campaign and I will not let the results steal my joy. I love my people and in my daily life, I am blessed that there are way more of them than those other people. So, I’m not going to participate in the post-mortems of why we lost and what we should have done. I’ve endured enough mansplaining for several lifetimes. And at the end of the day, you know you’re on the right side of history if all the worst people are happy.
Lord knows it’s hard. I find myself at the grocery store making eye contact with strangers as they’re picking up that carton of eggs wondering, “Was it you?” I know that sounds a bit like Michael Corleone, but the results of this election do feel like a betrayal of so many of the principles that so many of us hold dear. And I’ll never understand how anyone could have felt good about casting their vote for Trump and the vile and harmful malevolence he represents.
Shame on you. Shame.
The best advice I’ve gotten as I’ve been wallowing in despair came from my young friend Will, the son of one of my best friends from fourth grade. Will is in his late 30’s and works as an accountant. He is differently abled and like all of us who represent a minority, is worried about what a new and emboldened Trump administration will mean for his community. We love to talk sports – especially since my wife has below zero interest in that subject. He told me the story of how Jackie Robinson was angry and worn down by the racism he was experiencing as the first African American to play in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s wife simply told him, “Keep showing up.”
And that’s what Will said to me at the end of our long conversation late last week when I was feeling so hopeless – “Keep showing up, Addison.”
Okay, I hear you, Will. I’ll keep showing up. And when we show up, we win. Eventually.
Until then, take my advice and stay away from the egg cases.
DANGER ZONE!Kamala Harris for the People – my peopleI’m not great with directions, but I know we can get there from here.
I’ve had over 700 conversations with voters over the last month while phone banking for Progressive Project Turnout. That’s about 699 more than I thought I would have when my team was pulled out of the field in early August because of COVID-19 and transitioned from door knocking to phone calling. I mean who answers a number they don’t recognize these days? Well, as it turns out, a pandemic is a damn good time to call people. They’re at home and a lot of them are bored silly and talking to a friendly stranger like me is a nice diversion.
We’re calling you. Be nice. Please.
Now, not to paint too rosy of a picture, I’ve probably had twice that number of hang-ups, but I expected that. And then there are the Trumpers, but I’ll save that for later. For the most part, I’ve been deeply moved, honored – and often amused – listening to voters’ thoughts about this election. And best of all, I am very hopeful about November 3rd. No, really, I am. Joe Biden might not have been a lot of folks first choice, but today he is a LOT of folks only choice. Whatever gets us there.
Joe Biden. I say his name a hundred times of day – think Rain Man and substitute Joe Biden for Judge Wapner – that’s me. I recite parts of the script in my dreams sometimes. My dear wife can even do an amusing impersonation of me since she’s heard me on duty from my home office. Besides politely thanking the Trump voters for their time (grr), making the script sound fresh each time is the most challenging aspect of the gig. By the end of my shift, I’m exhausted from the sound of my own voice, but I go to bed hopeful that our democracy will prevail.
Me on a break. Joe Biden, Joe Biden, Joe Biden.
We follow a brief script – I identify myself and who I am representing and slide into the main question – “Do you plan on voting for Joe Biden on November 3rd?” And that’s when things get interesting. The good – yes – the bad – no – and the ugly – Trumpers who yell at me. There’s a half a second of suspense after the question exits my mouth and hangs there as I wait for the answer. I can almost predict the answer by the sound of someone’s voice, but that’s not foolproof. One of my early calls was to crusty old woman in rural Pennsylvania. I popped the question and there was an awkward pause and she said in a very bold voice, “I…most…certainly… (here it comes, I thought) AM!” She proceeded to tell me that the only monument that Trump’s head should be on is a statue of Larry, Curly and Moe. Lesson learned – you can’t always judge a voter by their address. See 2016.
Me when a voter tells me they are riding with Biden!
Just add one stable genius.
Our call list is weighted to registered Democrats, but no data is perfect. Almost all the Dems are happy to speak with me – like hearing from an old friend. Here are just a few of my favorite answers to the first question.
I would crawl over broken glass to vote for Joe Biden.
FUCK YEAH! Like my very life depends on it. (I really liked that woman.)
I would vote for a bag of rotten vegetables over Donald Trump.
We then ask if people plan on voting by mail or in person and this has been a disgusting indictment (there will be many more) of Donald Trump’s assault on mail-in voting. People don’t trust the United States Postal System. I spoke to a woman in Warren, MI who told me, “I work for the post office and no way am I mailing my ballot in.” And I talked to a 36-year retiree of the post office in Raleigh who lamented that she can’t trust the mail because of Trump. She said, “I’ve got a mask, a shield and some gloves – I’m voting in person.”
That said – a LOT of people are voting by mail – and many are delivering their ballots in person to a drop-box or their local Board of Elections. But the most encouraging takeaway from this question is that so many people have a plan for voting – they’ve thought it through in advance because they want to protect themselves and their vote. Americans are afraid their vote will not be counted. So much winning.
The last question I ask folks is the one that has evoked answers that have sometimes moved me to tears. What would you say is the primary issue that concerns you the most in the upcoming election? The number one answer by far is getting rid of Donald Trump. Here are just a few of the most memorable responses.
Donald Trump is a doofus and a danger to the whole world.
You don’t let someone in your house who will hurt you. He’s in our house.
Stopping the descent into Fascism.
He’s not even human. (Fascinating new birther conspiracy!)
This is where I often find myself in surprisingly deep conversations with some voters as they share their despair for the state of our union and their hopes for the future. A woman in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania said, “Oh, now you’re going to make me cry. I pray for the welfare of our nation and the heart of our country. My husband and I are voting by mail and going fishing on election day. We’ll fish and pray all day that we’ll get our country back.” Gulp. Many people tell me that they fear for the future of our democracy if Biden is not elected. One man called the last four years “the vandalism of our democracy.” These people aren’t all yellow dog Democrats like me. Some of them tell me that they couldn’t bring themselves to vote for Hillary, but they will vote for Biden. A few even confess that they are Republicans, but they can’t support Trump. It is no small thing to hear a stranger tell you how much they love our country.
We’ve been calling into battleground states except for two days of calling into Kentucky. Wow. I can’t imagine anything lonelier than being a Democrat in Kentucky. Our time calling there was as a longshot that Mitch McConnell might be defeated. Not to be a buzzkill, but we can call that race right now. The Kentucky Dems were so happy to hear from a kindred soul that it was sometimes hard to get them off the phone. It was a little heartbreaking. I felt like I was leaving behind those sweet residents of The Island of Misfit Toys. I promised them that Joe Biden would come back for them.
The other primary concern on most voters’ minds is COVID-19. I spoke with an essential worker in PA who just returned to work after being out for almost four months recovering from COVID. She is what we call a highly motivated voter. People know that this pandemic is far from over and they want to put an adult in charge. I’ve heard touching stories from older people who haven’t seen their grandchildren in six months. I can hear the weariness in their voices. I probably stay on those calls longer than I should.
Don’t worry KY Dems. Uncle Joe is coming for you on November 3rd!
I learned quickly that each state has its own personality. Maine and New Hampshire don’t suffer fools or unknown callers gladly. I got a lot of, “It’s none of your damn business who I’m voting for.” Yep. Live free or die. Both of those states are looking good for Joe, but Susan Collins’ karma ticket is about to be punched. I imagine she is deeply troubled. On the bright side, she’ll have more time for brewskies with Brett Kavanaugh. What? I LIKE BEER.
The struggle is real.
Heading to work in my campaign casual wear. It’s short for Veep!
And now for the Trumpers. I’ll give them this – they are faithful parrots of their fearful leader. I’ve heard things like Joe Biden is a pedophile and Kamala Harris is a Muslim. That’s when my superpower of lip biting comes in handy. My absolute favorite response/insult from a Trump voter came from a young, white man (surprise!) in rural North Carolina. He said/yelled at me, “I DON’T VOTE FOR DEMOCRATS. CNN IS BULLSHIT. FUCK YOUR FEELINGS.” I desperately wanted to respond, “So, that’s a hard no on Joe?” Honestly, the Trumpers inspire me because they are a visceral reminder of how toxic Trump’s presidency has been for our country.
Subtle.
Sometimes I have a hard time falling asleep after my shift. There are always a few conversations that I replay and can’t quite let go of – like the young black woman in Detroit. When I asked her what her primary concern was in this election she sighed – a heavy sigh much older than her years – as I waited for her answer. She said in a flat emotionless voice, “I’m a black person, so who I vote for doesn’t really matter because nothing ever changes for us. I hope things will get better this time, but we’ll see.” Damn. I doubt I’ll ever let go of that conversation.
I’ve been surprised and deeply touched by the voters who have thanked me for what I am doing. Hearing a “Take care, girl” at the end of a call can really lift your spirits. The truth is that I love my job. Every day feels important – like when I talked a 93-year-old disabled woman through the process of requesting an absentee ballot. Dear Lord, I hope she mails it in early.
The bad news is that I’ll get the pink slip on November 3rd. The good news is that Donald Trump will, too.
byedon. You’re fired!
46. And 47.
Go to VotingMatters.org/NC to update your registration, request a mail-in ballot, or find your voting location.
Donald Trump has been President of the United States for 1,294 years – I mean days – and I have bitched and moaned and cried and cussed about it almost EVERY single one of those days. And yet, he remains president. So, I came to a realization in early June that I needed a new strategy for getting rid of him and I applied to be a Field Representative for Progressive Turnout Project – a grassroots-funded organization with the sole mission of getting Democrats to the polls.
I do not want to go to bed on November 3rd with the devastating thought that I did not do everything I could possibly do to prevent Trump from being re-elected. I know that feeling. November 8, 2016. The mere mention of that date makes me experience COVID-19 symptoms.
And that is how I found myself interviewing for a young person’s job at my seasoned age. The pandemic mandated that the interview process be virtual – on an app called HireVue. The first interview consisted of answering five questions recorded by different people – no live interactions. It was weird, but fortunately my bestie Carla had introduced me to the Marco Polo app earlier in the pandemic, so I was used to talking to myself.
The second interview was with two live women young enough to be my daughters – that I had at 40. They were both bright and energetic and didn’t seem horrified that I was a mature applicant. Our conversation went well, and they offered me the position the following week. Yikes! I was really doing this.
Project Turnout is headquartered in Chicago and my training was three days on Zoom with about 75 folks from other battleground states. The trainer was perky and had a good sense of humor. I found him amusing until he started explaining who the organization’s core donors are and said, “You know your liberal aunt who watches way too much MSNBC? That’s our base.” Wait, that’s me! I felt like the other 74 people were staring right at me in my Zoom box.
I met some nice folks in the breakout rooms during training. They were all so young, but I found that exciting – they were smart and so politically engaged. I only felt old during the ice breaker on our third day. We broke out into smaller groups and were asked what our walk on song would be if we were running for president. I thought that was a fun question until the trainer started calling on people for their answers. OMG. I had NEVER heard of the first half dozen songs. I thought I was safe with my answer – Lizzo’s “Like a Girl” – until the person before me used it. I panicked knowing I was up next and before I knew it, “Girl from Ipanema” fell out of my mouth. Shut up. I know I choked. NO ONE in my group had any idea what I was talking about. Thankfully, the trainer moved quickly to the next person and I could melt from mortification in the privacy of my own square.
But it’s a moist heat.
My first day in the field – we call it Turf because we’re hip like that – coincided with a heat wave. A certifiable “feels like 104” heat wave. If you have known me for more than five minutes, you know that I loathe summer with a passion. I hate the heat and fear the sun. I’m a fair skinned Irish girl who adheres to the schedule of a vampire during the summer months, so I was filled with high anxiety as I hit the steamy streets.
I left my house with enough water to float a pontoon. All kinds of water – tap, seltzer, Vitamin Water. All the waters. And ice. And frozen washcloths. That’s a trick I learned years ago. Put a wet washcloth in the freezer overnight and pack it in a cooler for your day in the sun. Pull it out when you start to melt and put it on top of your head under your hat. Trust me – it can save your life.
The frozen washcloth. The ultimate brain freeze!
I was so afraid of dying from heat stroke on the streets of a foreign neighborhood that I really had no fear of knocking on the doors of strangers. I was armed with my iPad that contained the scripted questions we are to ask the registered voters we speak with. Oh, and, of course, we are following strict COVID protocols – wearing a mask and stepping back six feet after we knock on a door. So, do not whine to me about a mask making you hot, okay?
The first day went well except for our iPads overheating. Note: iPads will do that when exposed to the Seventh Layer of Hell. We were encouraged to take breaks as needed and our supervisors delivered ice packs later in the afternoon. There is simply no way to adapt to that kind of heat and I have even more respect for folks who work outside in the elements. It is damn hard, and I am damn old.
I had worried about bathroom breaks while in the field – especially in this pandemic. Not to worry – I sweated so much those first two weeks that I NEVER had to pee at work. And I was slurping up liquids like Tom Hanks when he cracks open that coconut in Castaway. It was the most physically demanding thing I’ve ever done and when those two weeks were over I felt like I had won Survivor: Forsyth County – especially when some of my much younger teammates were complaining about how tired they were.
The other thing that got me through those sultry first weeks was some of the great interactions I had with voters. I am amazed that anyone would open their door to a stranger these days – during a global pandemic. I wouldn’t – unless it was a 12-year-old girl holding a stack of Thin Mints. But so many people have opened theirs and engaged with me in substantive conversations about their voting habits and their concerns for the upcoming election.
Allyssa knows that her future is now!
People have been so kind to me. Some have invited me inside – we are not allowed to do that. Many have offered me cold water and lots of them have told me to “keep cool” or “be careful” – one very elderly man even offered to walk me to my car because he was concerned about a neighbor’s crazy dog.
Shirley and Calvin are rocking the vote!
All these people have at least one thing in common besides their kindness – they do not want Trump to be re-elected. They are deeply passionate about getting rid of him. These are my people. Funny thing – I bet I was in the field three days before I even heard someone say Joe Biden’s name. There might not be a lot of enthusiasm for Uncle Joe, but there is a freaking ton of enthusiasm for giving Trump the boot. Whatever gets us there.
These are my people.
My favorite moments have been the conversations with first time voters. I spoke with Victor – a sweet Latinx man in his 30’s who just became an American citizen and will be voting for the first time in November. He is concerned about immigration and education – he has two children. And I’ve talked to several 18-year olds who are excited about their first vote. They want to make a difference. These people give me hope.
Viva Victor! First time voter!
Our lists of contacts are highly data driven – focusing on inconsistent Democratic voters so I have only run into two Trumpers so far. Once the mark of the MAGA is revealed, we are instructed to say thanks for your time and move on. I listened, no doubt with glazed eyes, to a woman who told me that Hillary believes in abortion in the ninth month and that Joe Biden is a pedophile. My inside voice was screaming “FAKE NEWS” but I managed a wan smile as I bid her good evening. And then I remembered the grizzled veteran I met who usually votes Republican but is voting for Biden in November. My pace always picks up with those thoughts.
Knock, knock. Who’s there? Not me!
This work has also been a humbling reminder of my white privilege at times. I ended one evening speaking to three young black women in a row – all single moms with children. It was after eight in the evening and they were weary from their day, but they opened their doors and talked to me about their voting habits. One of the questions we ask is how likely you are to vote in November – on a scale of one to five – five being very likely. One of the women said to me, “I don’t really know. I’m not even sure who is running.” She seemed embarrassed and almost apologized. I told her who was running and that she had nothing to feel bad about. This woman wasn’t stupid – she was worn out – from the day, from yesterday, from tomorrow. I could feel her fatigue – she had gotten her kids fed and would soon be putting them to bed – and yet she took the time to talk to me – the liberal aunt who watches too much MSNBC.
On the drive home that night, I thought about what a luxury my obsession with politics is. I grew up with parents who instilled in me that voting is a precious right and that every vote counts. As an adult, I have had the time and sometimes the means to work for and support candidates that embraced issues important to me. I have been to endless fundraisers and sipped cheap white wine while someone droned on and on about what they were going to do for me. I have been inspired and I have suffered painful defeats. I have been afforded the invitation to participate and the arrogance to believe that my presence can make a difference.
Our field canvassing has been suspended because of COVID concerns and we are now phone banking, texting, and letter writing. When I got the news, I thought of Oscar Wilde’s famous quote, “When the Gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers.” Yes, I am out of the heat, but I miss seeing the faces of the folks I’m talking to. There is no more effective communication with a voter than an in-depth conversation in person. And besides, you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat a mature masked white woman in a bucket hat on a hot day.
I hope I’ll be out there knocking doors again soon. It is by far the hardest work I’ve ever done. And, without a doubt, the most important.
Last week was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. If a root canal and the Norovirus got together and produced an offspring – it would look like last week. I can make some tepid jokes about it now, but there was nothing funny about last week – it was the worst many of us had felt since the wee early hours of November 9, 2016.
While we were still reeling from the coverage of immigrant children being separated from their parents and held in cages, came the staggeringly sober news that Justice Anthony Kennedy was resigning from the Supreme Court. When I got the BREAKING NEWS alert on my phone I prayed it really was FAKE NEWS.
It felt like the time years ago when I hit the wrong button on my first iPhone and accidentally did a factory reset – losing all my never backed up photos and contacts. That slow motion feeling of not being in control mixed with deep sadness for what might be permanently erased.
I don’t care if we knew it “might” be coming. I’m a proud reality denier and I had put that particular item far down on my To Worry About List. Once I caught my breath, I cried. I did. It was just too much to process after EVERYTHING else. Fortunately, I was at home by myself, so my cat was the only eyewitness to my breakdown and her silence can be bought with a few extra treats.
I’ve spent much of my adult life working for LGBT civil rights – including devoting a sizable chunk of my professional life to advocating for people living with AIDS. I suddenly saw the past 25 years or so like a montage – all the meetings, all the marches, all the fundraising, all the stinging defeats, all the friends – some dead now – all the years of incremental progress – then the rush of huge advancements. I could feel it all slipping through my hands like sand. I felt hopeless.
My guy, Jeff. I guess you could say he wears his heart on his T-shirt.
And then my phone started blowing up. First one in was my gay boyfriend, Jeff. We’ve said for years that we would be the perfect couple except for the little detail of sexual orientation. He’s the gay man version of me – cranky with a wicked sense of humor. I adore him, and we have shared many hours stuffing envelopes, canvassing neighborhoods, hosting fundraisers and kvetching about the current state of affairs. Side note: We narrowly avoided a tragic accident years ago while delivering a Porta Potty to a special event. It almost tipped over in Jeff’s truck while we were placing it in a friend’s backyard. If the Porta Potty hadn’t crushed us to death, we would have most certainly died from humiliation.
Jeff basically expressed the same things I was feeling – that everything we had worked so long and hard for could be eradicated as the balance of the Court shifted. And then he texted a few minutes later to say he had gone to the men’s room to throw up. The thought of losing some of your civil rights can make you toss your lunch. My crying didn’t seem so bad then. Jeff always makes me feel better.
Then I got a Facebook message from my friend, Bo, in Wilmington. We served on the
Bo is rather shy and retiring. Said no one ever.
board of Equality NC for several years and have stayed in touch. He wrote, “I share your fear and I want to walk with you in our next right thing. You taught me that all is not lost. We have to keep teaching each other.” Damn. I was crying again – only this time the tears were sweeter.
And then I got a phone call – old school – from my mentor/Jewish mother/friend/sage, Phyllis, in DC. I worked for her years ago and we became family. She and her husband hosted my wedding to my dear wife in 2014. Phyllis is fearless and is always the first to call – in good times and in tough times. When I answered the phone, I said, “Please tell me we are moving to Norway.” She said, “Addy, I feel like someone in my family has died.” Just hearing her voice made me feel safer.
Phyllis always calls. Always.
I turned off the TV. I couldn’t bear to hear the talking heads start to circle the body like vultures, speculating on who Trump would select. I’ve barely watched any news since then. Thank God for BBC crime dramas – I find them oddly comforting. Nothing like a good grisly murder or two set against a gray London backdrop to lift your spirits.
My wife and I had dinner plans that evening with a friend from our church. She’s a delightful and smart retired woman who has hosted us for supper in her home a few times. I’m a vegetarian and she’s kind enough to even prepare some fabulous tofu dishes for us – nobody ever does that. We usually bring a bottle of wine – that night we brought two. Just in case.
We had a surprisingly lovely evening sitting around her dining room table as the sun went down. I love that time of day and the light cast a peaceful balm over us as we talked. We came home feeling a bit better.
Breaking bread with a kindred spirit was just what we needed.
I had one more Facebook message waiting for me – from my good friend Megan. We worked together for years around HIV/AIDS issues and she and her husband are two people who always seem to be on the right – as in fair and just – side of everything. She oozes integrity and her support has always meant a great deal to me. She wrote, “Holding you and many others in my heart… don’t lose hope.” I felt like I had a logjam of life rafts available when I finally fell into bed that night.
This is a typical Facebook post from Megan. All the feels.
But do you want to know what lifted my spirits the most amidst the angst of last week? I could give you a gazillion guesses, and you wouldn’t come close. Ready? A chocolate éclair. And, no, I wasn’t self-medicating. It wasn’t even my éclair. On Friday, I met my bestie, Carla, at a local coffee shop. Carla is in grad school and we’ve been taking advantage of her summer off by meeting every other Friday for a three-hour coffee date. Seriously. We always meet at 9 AM and we’re never done before noon. That’s a lot of coffee and conversation.
Coffee with Carla. The best part of summer.
Our croissants and cappuccinos were long gone by the time a smiling young Asian man put down his paper plate on the table right next to us. We both started staring – lusting really – at the scrumptious looking chocolate éclair on his plate. Clearly, we were not as smooth about it as we thought we were because he looked at us sweetly and said, “Would you like a bite?” We both giggled with embarrassment and I think I fumbled a bit and said, “Oh, no, sorry, that éclair just looks so good.”
Carla got up to use the restroom and our new pal returned to his table with his coffee and settled in to enjoy his treat. He caught my eye as he held his plastic fork and knife in his hands and said, “Really, are you sure you wouldn’t like to try this?” Seriously, I really DID want to, but honestly, I could feel my throat closing with emotion. There was something so incredibly moving about his simple but genuine kindness in that moment. I wanted to hug him, but I was afraid he might think I was going to nab that big ass éclair.
The object of our affection.
Carla returned to our table and as we headed towards the door, I told him that we would not have been so generous with our éclairs and he laughed and told us to have a nice day. I could almost hear Won’t You Be My Neighbor playing in the background.
Let’s make the most of this beautiful day
Since we’re together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won’t you be my neighbor?
I know it’s a gross simplification to imply that good pastries make good neighbors. I just know that a random exchange with a perfect stranger in my local coffee shop made me feel like somehow, we will make it through to the other side of this darkness. Together.
When I got home I reread the last part of Megan’s message:
“You just need to know you’re not alone in this. I come from a perspective, forged from coming of age in the 70’s, that we’re smart enough and tough enough to outmaneuver the bastards if we just work together.”
Mr. Rogers couldn’t have said it any better himself.
Can you say outmaneuver the bastards?
Carbs will keep us together.
This tweet saved me last Wednesday. Long live Ruth!
Bookends 