Campaign headquarters can be strange places, at least on the Democratic side. They seem to pop up in storefronts that can be had on the cheap, places where the plaster is falling off the walls onto floors that are unfinished. Everything is temporary, they're furnished with card tables and folding chairs, and in my experience they never have cable television.
The rabbit ears on the portable TV couldn't pick up PBS, and the networks were still airing soap operas as I tallied the numbers from my second pass in the afternoon. My only sense of how the day was unfolding was first person. Very few people answered their doorbells. I had walked past only one polling location, and it was quiet aside from a car full of college kids who were ambushing a stranger in the parking lot to take a picture of them getting ready to cast what I'd assume were their first presidential votes, instead of 'cheese' they proclaimed 'Obama'. If I had to guess, I'd say the photographer was about to cancel one of their votes. Part of me had hoped to see an unprecedented turnout, and part of me feared long lines could cause some would-be voters to have to abandon their efforts.
Earlier in the campaign season I developed a few voyeuristic habits while canvassing, nothing criminal or immoral. It started with looking for political bumper stickers on the cars in the driveway, and progressed to looking for a network logo if the news was on the television. After talking with hundreds of voters, knocking on thousands of doors, and walking down half the streets in Lakewood, I developed a pretty keen eye for picking up political leanings based upon such things as the type of Halloween decorations on display or the movies on a bookshelf. On November 4th, nothing gave me much sense of how things might be going.
As uncomfortable as we Americans can be with strangers, averting our eyes to the ground as we pass one another rather than giving a smile, there is a refreshing solidarity among the supporters of candidates or causes during campaign season. Many nights, walking home from the campaign headquarters someone I'd pass on the street, or waiting at a bus stop, would say Obama's name out loud after seeing my shirt, or a button on my jacket. Usually I wouldn't even break stride, I'd just say his name back, or clench a fist and raise my forearm a little.
On my third pass, when I saw an elderly black man walking to his car, wearing the same 'canvasser' button that I had on, I called out to him. I hungered for news, his experience at the polls, or maybe even something journalistic, though I knew that the news would be holding their exit poll results for a few more hours. What he told me had something entirely different to do with the day. As I crossed the street to greet him, a police badge clipped to his belt caught my eye, and after exchanging pleasantries, he pulled back his jacket to show me a faded blue shirt with the insignia of the Capitol Police embroidered on the left breast. Years earlier he had guarded not only the chambers of Congress, but the members, at times having been assigned to Strom Thurmond as a bodyguard.
I am not in a position, by skin color or age, to truly comprehend the realities of my parents’ and grandparents’ generations, from the Civil Rights movement to Vietnam, the height of the Cold War to the assassination of JFK. I know that November 4th, 2008 was only evidence of progress, and far from a culminating event, but when Ohio was called, and the map turned from white to blue, along with a shiver up my spine, I felt a renewed sense of pride in my country and countrymen.
