Four Days in November: Reflections From the Gut
November 6th, 2008Morning of November 5, 2008, I reluctantly crawl out of bed, extend checkout time long enough to get breakfast, and contemplate the 3-hour drive back from Hampton, Virginia to my home in Maryland. I emerge from the Holiday Inn elevator to receive the well trained – and rote – greeting from the 5 hotel staff chatting in my path. “Good morning, indeed!” I responded with a big, tired, happy grin, as I flashed the front page of the newspaper. They dropped all pretense of professional politeness, and had a quickie Obama victory celebration with me – honest, open, and human-to-human. Rather than just point me to the restaurant, one of them insisted on escorting me there, where the waitress pampered me as if she was my grandmother. Never had I thought Virginians would be so happy to have a guy from Maryland come down to mess with their politics for a few days.
The rain is letting up as the sun to works its way through to light up the fall colors lining Interstate 64 as I drove back home, Obama paraphernalia strewn around the car, but no longer demanding my attention. The strong wind, instead, rains colorful leaves over me like confetti in my parade down the road. The dramatic picture of a changing season – change I can believe in – mirrors the political change I and my family, like millions of other Americans, had just helped usher in. Maggie was the first to go. An Obama supporter from the day he announced, she went to work in Minneapolis right after graduating from college. James was next. He got his law degree, took the bar exam, and took off to Ohio. Betty and did a bit of weekend canvassing, but had to do more. Betty began calling, eventually up to 3 hours each evening, beginning with swing states on the East Coast, and on to others as the time zones changed. I cleared my schedule, told the campaign I’d go wherever they needed me most, and drove down to “the North Carolina side of Virginia,” not knowing exactly where I would end up until I got the confirmation call about an hour from my eventual destination. We were on a mission.
The night before, I had witnessed the returns on the large screen; alone among strangers packed into a huge ballroom of the hotel. I didn’t know a soul among the celebrating Hampton area democrats, but knew I was welcome, with my “voter protection” button and a shared joy serving as the only ticket to entry. Cheers, shouts and applause broke out as CNN announced one swing state result after another. Upon hearing Minnesota and Ohio were announced, and I could contain myself no longer. Leaning over to the most convenient set of ears, a woman just in front of me, I blurted out with parental pride, “My son has been working full time for Obama in Ohio, and my daughter is a field organizer in Minnesota!” When Obama’s victory was declared and the hugs started flying, this African-American woman in blue-state Virginia turned around to me, the white guy from red sate Maryland, flung her arms around me tight, and whispered in my ear an emotional, “Thank you! Thank you!” I knew she was not thanking me, personally, but rather as the proxy for millions of Americans from all walks of life, including my wife and children, who took time out from personal endeavors to make a collective contribution to the rebirth of a nation. Virginia needed help, not because it was helpless, but because the national fate rested with wresting it from predictable politics of the past. A big tear rolled down my right cheek as I was finally free to feel the impact of my experiences over the last few days.
I had been prepared to protect the vote on Election Day, but that day gave me little to do. Our legal team at Precinct 108 in Newport News was prepared for the worst, and experienced the best. There were over 350 people in line when the polls opened at 6:00 AM, and though the wait in the dark and the rain would be over an hour long, no matter where I went in the line to ask how people were doing and whether there were any questions, I was greeted with happy smiles, no complaints, and no problems. The precinct was in Obama territory, but still, about a quarter of those in line would be voting for McCain. All were united, seemingly aware that on this day, no Obama supporter would blame a McCain supporter for the vicious verbal attacks of the last several days, and every McCain supporter understood that they, too, were part of an historic moment. The lone McCain legal worker sought shelter and camaraderie under the Obama campaign tent. He asked us for information and we gladly gave it. I and my protect-the-vote legal team members spent more time holding open the door and warning voters to “watch your step” as they exited, because the most significant incident was that people tripped on their way out, distracted while affixing the “I voted” sticker to their lapel and not noticing the tricky half-step drop out the door.
The stereotypes I had harbored were dashed. One young lady was denied the vote, and I stepped into legal advocacy gear, scouring the law to push back on every reason they gave for not allowing her to vote. We would not take “no” for an answer. Someone had registered her, so she thought, but she was not on the rolls, apparently duped by some group that had conspired to deny her the vote. Despite being told by the Obama legal team experts stationed in Richmond that, unfortunately, this was one of those cases where even a provisional ballot was sure to be tossed out, I persuaded the election officials to let her cast one anyway, with full disclosure that it was certainly for naught. “This young lady, about to give birth, wants to vote for the very first time in an historic election. Don’t take that away from her.” Sherman, an old hand at this, understood, and went to the extra effort to make sure the provisional ballot was in order even though she could not check off any of the boxes needed to make it count. I helped her fill out the incident report, and in the blank for her to say whom she wanted to vote for, she wrote in “McCain”. I was floored. By all statistical indications – young, African-American, woman – it should not have been McCain. The Obama legal team runner came by to check on reports and I had to ask this young lady whether she was comfortable with me submitting her incident report to the Obama legal team. No problem. Strange day. Prepared to protect every Obama voter, and the only incident report I made was on behalf of a McCain supporter. This is American democracy at work.
The days before, I had been going door-to-door in the vicinity of Emporia, VA, a small town with more than its fair share of poverty. In one rural area, as I approached a dilapidated small house, I was called off by a couple of white guys with a pick-up truck, who told me no one lived there – the occupant had moved to the state prison. In this Bible belt, these Hollywood stereotype rednecks confessed to drinking beer on a Sunday morning (the stash was hidden under junk in the truck bed), and inquired what I was up to. I braced myself as I told them the truth – that I drove down from Maryland to get out the vote for Obama. Just us three white guys, two of them meeting the profile the pundits said were die-hard McCain supporters, and I ended up listening to a rant, “I’m a trucker, and my buddies are all saying they won’t vote for a black man, and I keep tellin’ ‘em, ‘Give the man a chance;’ ‘Give, the man, a chance!’” He rounds it out with frustration that McCain simply has nothing to offer him, mimics a typical McCain stump speech line about lowering taxes, and comes back around to Obama’s message of real change. Even as he showed his support for Obama, he seemed to be using me as a sounding board – a reality check from an out-of-state fellow white guy – to confirm that it was OK for him to feel that way. As we part, I’m warned not to stop and talk to anyone driving a pickup down this particular road.
The Emporia area has more than its fair share of trailer parks, too, and the ones I visited appeared to have been there for at least fifty years. I made my way carefully up rotting steps to one that seemed abandoned. I said “hello” to the dark image I could make out near the torn screen door. I got no response other than a non-verbal indication that I could keep talking. The African America woman, in her eighties, sitting in the wheelchair, was apprehensive but attentive. “I just came by to remind you to vote tomorrow. Can we expect you to vote for Obama tomorrow?” I told her story in an online discussion on whether only the well informed should vote – those “educated” beyond the TV punditry. The discussion had been initiated by a well-educated affluent republican who posited his theory with the implicit belief that if Obama supporters did their homework, they would vote for McCain. I responded, “I have spent the last three days in southern small town Virginia ‘getting out the vote,’ and have been humbled. In the uneducated – in the sense of unschooled – very poor, very ill, very old, very young, and on and on, I encountered informed wisdom. That 80-something woman in a wheelchair who could not open the door to her dilapidated trailer yet invited me near, assured me with pride, wisdom, self-assurance and barely a word, that she would vote Tuesday, rain or shine.” That woman had been waiting all her life for this vote.
As I seek to do my part to continue this change we can believe in, I will be guided by that look in her eyes as she contemplated the next day’s vote – she was looking off in the distance, but I knew what she was seeing, and clearer than her old eyes had seen in a while. She was looking right at the Promised Land, and she was going to vote it in.
John T. Mitchell
November 5, 2008