I shed Blood for Barack Obama

On the final day of the Organizing Fellowship's three day training, which seems like an eternity ago, another fellow commented to the room that he would die for Barack Obama. The comment garnered murmurs of assent from a few other fellows and staff, including myself. And it's true – I think I would. I don't believe that Barack is perfect or superhuman, nor do I believe that all America's problems will be solved when we elect him on November 5^th, inaugurate him on January 20^th, or even build him a library in 2016. But I do believe that he has more potential and power to start us moving towards solutions right now than I ever will, so yes – I told myself that I would put my life on the line if that is what it took to elect Barack Obama in November.

The thing is, I always thought it would happen in an epic, heroic fashion, like taking a bullet for him, tackling him to get him out of the way of a Manchurian Candidate-esque rogue Secret Service agent, or getting run off a Missouri highway in a rainstorm by a racist southern trucker. It ended up being nowhere near that exciting.

Nonetheless, it's true. I bled for our next president.

The story itself isn't all that exciting. It involved a windstorm, a flying festival tent (those folding, white-topped tents under which you set up popcorn stands and all your best photography), and a conceivably misplaced but definitely well-meant attempt to put myself between the tent and a few poor souls looking in the completely wrong direction and one very nice car. End result: before I could catch the tent, the tent caught me... in the forehead.

The thing about foreheads is they don't have very many nerves – I felt the tent hit me, but I didn't feel much of any sustained pain at all. The other thing about foreheads is they don't really stop bleeding. So, as I caught the tent and worked with a few other festival goers to hold it down and fold it up, I failed to notice that I actually had a head wound and was bleeding profusely. The gash ended up being decently deep, and I spent Sunday afternoon, high voter registration time, watching the old version of Batman from a bed in the UPMC Shadyside ER waiting to get four stitches above my left eye.

A coworker of mine (being from Oklahoma, he happens to know a bit about windstorms) told me afterwards that he hoped I learned my lesson – when large objects start flying, run away from them, not towards them. Unfortunately, the only lesson I think I learned from the experience is that if I ever really need a few hours off, the easiest way to get it is by getting injured.

I got the stitches out on Friday, and besides for a ½ inch gash healing over my left eyebrow that may or may not scar, I'm doing just fine. The experience was, however, my first real in-country experience with not knowing whether my health insurance would cover a necessary medical visit, oddly applicable to this election.

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One of the quirks about organizing is that you start to get pretty good at reading people's politics without ever actually talking to them. I've spoken with so many people about voting and the election in the last six weeks that I stereotype their political views before, or while, speaking with them. I have come to the subconscious conclusion, for example, that all black men over fifty are registered to vote. The political arguments for this stereotype are obvious: because either they themselves remember not being allowed to vote, or their parents spent a majority of their lives not voting and burned the need into the minds of their children, it is purely a matter of principle. And my experience on the street has only legitimized the stereotype.

These reads can be detrimental to my work (I must make a conscious effort to not allow my preconceptions to alter who I speak to and who I don't), but at many times they are extremely helpful: every day, I get better at phrasing questions and channeling discussions in certain directions based on the perceived political beliefs of the voter (or non-voter) I am speaking with in order to build connections that allow for discussion and persuasion.

Sometimes, however, I am dead wrong.

A few weeks ago, I attended a neighborhood house meeting, planned and run by a friend and co-fellow, of elderly folks mostly living in a retirement complex in Pittsburgh's neighborhood of Oakland. Everyone there was over fifty, and most were at least sixty-five. The subject of concern was a man who, despite his age (I would guess around sixty), was in extremely good shape. He buzz-cut kept his balding silver-gray hair looking clean and professional, and he wore white Champion athletic socks, clean sneakers, and a short sleeved shirt tucked into his shorts. Before the organized discussion, I overheard him mention to someone else that he was a long-time snowbird – he voted in Florida, where he spent every winter.

This man was clearly a Republican – I couldn't figure out why he was at the meeting. He looked like he lifted weights daily and biked on a stationary bike for two hours a day watching Fox News. He probably drove a pickup truck and owned at least three guns. (Not that any of these things would bar him from being an Obama supporter – it just made it a whole lot less likely!)

As usual, when the organized part of the meeting began, each person in the room took a few minutes to introduce themselves and tell the group why they had chosen to come. (This is an integral part of Obama-style community organizing, how we won Iowa, and why the campaign brings so many different kinds of people together.) When it finally became this guy's turn to tell his story, he began speaking intelligently and in detail about how the last eight years have deeply affected the United States' international moral standing, the misinformation that sent us into a poorly-planned war we should never have started, and the immediate need of electing Obama, someone who was already changing the face of American politics and who represented a huge step forward for the country. He didn't stop there, however: his two biggest heroes, he told us, are his own Democratic Representative from Florida Robert Wexler and Rep. Kucinich (D-OH), because of their unwillingness to stop fighting against the illegal actions of the Bush White House.

He has volunteered at least twice a week since that meeting, and will continue to do so until he starts volunteering in Florida when he moves down in October. He completely made my day, and has served as a reminder that this campaign can truly find supporters in every corner.

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As you probably know, Barack Obama has been spending the last week or so rallying support abroad, including making a quite epic speech at the Siegessaeule in Berlin in front of 200,000 people, his biggest crowd yet. (If you have not seen the 23 minute speech, you should see it or read the transcript here.) Besides for sounding amazingly presidential and giving me goosebumps as is customary, the speech was unusually symbolic for me in a few ways.

First, I got to listen to a crowd of Europeans chant, "USA! USA! USA!", something I'm not sure has happened since the end of World War II and which I didn't really expect to happen in my lifetime. And, 200,000 people!?! Last I checked, the vast majority of gatherings that large in the last decade anywhere in the European Union have been Anti-Bush protests.

Second, by talking seriously about global warming and climate change, he brings legitimacy to the issues. Climate change needs to be addressed NOW, but far too many Americans continue to believe is bad science and/or progressive fear-mongering. (to give McCain credit, he is talking about climate issues too, but as he just reversed his position to defend offshore drilling, I'm not sure how serious he is and believe he is only talking about it because Barack is talking about it.)

Third, just days after the Iraqi Prime Minister essentially endorsed his withdrawal plan, Barack spoke about fighting for democracy with food and aid, as we did during the Soviet Blockade of Berlin in 1948, and becoming again a moral beacon for the world that we once were. Believe it or not, we might actually have found a Democratic political leader who can be "strong on defense" while advocating for nuclear disarmament and peaceful diplomacy, with our enemies as well as our allies.

Finally, while he gave the speech on Thursday, July 24, I did not get to watch it until Friday afternoon. Between the actual speech and my watching it, I was offered a paid job on the campaign. For the last six weeks, I have been working full time as an unpaid "Organizing Fellow," but that commitment ended a few days ago. Don't get me wrong: ever since I first volunteered before the Maryland primary, I have felt a part of this campaign and movement. But watching that speech on Friday, I could not stop repeating to myself, "I work for that man." Let me tell you, it's a mighty cool feeling.

~m

Vignettes

Campaign life runs together into one, constant flow. In part, this is due to the massive amounts of people you meet every day, phone numbers you collect, data you report, and meetings you attend. But a far deeper (and simpler) root is simply that there is nothing to distinguish units of time from one another. I don't know what happened 'last week' or 'two weeks ago' because I haven't had a weekend with which to distinguish weeks since I got here. And while I do sleep (some), days are so long I have caught myself or been caught saying "yesterday when you…" when I meant to refer to something that happened just that morning. November 4^th is approaching so quickly (only 3.5 months!), yet November 5^th seems eons away.

I'm convinced that the first thing you lose working for a campaign is facial recognition and name memory. I was registering voters with my Field Organizer the other day (yesterday? I don't know…) when someone came up to us and shook his hand. "Kirby! I haven't seen you since the primary!" She continued, eventually saying something along the lines of, "you'll be happy to know my brother's surgery went fine and he's in recovery." After five minutes of holding his own, Kirby separated from the conversation so we could continue our registration efforts. As we walked away, he leaned over to me and said, "I have NO IDEA who she was."

Side note: If you're reading this and under thirty, I know what you're thinking. Yes, my boss' name is Kirby. If you don't know what I'm talking about, read this. It suffices to say that the irony runs deep, especially because until the fellows showed up, Kirby had no idea he was actually a bouncy, pink Nintendo bubble-creature who could suck up other Nintendo-creatures' powers.

The second thing you lose working for a campaign is any sense of chronology whatsoever. I remember a solidly good fraction of the last month, but have little perception of the order in which it occurred. Memorable moments are just that: moments, no longer in context. So, the duration of this post is vignettes, a few of the tidbits I remember from the last few weeks. The names are all aliases.

Mr. Franklin

I work in two neighborhoods, as I mentioned in my last post. The Hill District, a poor and overwhelmingly African American neighborhood in which all 15,000 residents know each other, and Polish Hill, a poor and overwhelmingly white neighborhood, in which all 1,500 residents barely say 'hi' to their neighbors.

One Hill District resident called me (I'm not sure where he got my number) and began complaining about misuse of office space and inattention to the Hill District during the Pennsylvania primary. To be fair, the campaign is well aware that the Pittsburgh primary campaign was not a great one, and many important people and neighborhoods were overlooked. His complaints turned into trying to rent us office space, and as it was 11:30 pm and I was trying to cook dinner, I cut him off, asking if he would meet with me in person the following day. He gives me an address, I give him a time, and I go back to preparing my hearty and original meal of pasta from a 5 lb bag and red sauce from a 60 oz plastic jar of 'Prego.'

The next day, I show up first to the address, a locked building on the main street of the Hill with grates on the door and A few minutes later, a cab comes down the street, flips a U turn in the middle of the block, pulls over, and the driver beckons to me to get in. After a split second of hesitation, I throw my backpack - which has my life (computer) in it – into the back seat and get in. It's Mr. Franklin, an 81 year old man who has lived in the Hill District all his life. He owns a cab company, by which I mean he drives his own cab. There's a large sign on the side of his building with the words "Eagle Taxi" and a phone number painted in cursive script. Dial the number and you'll get his wife, also in her 80's, who will use a CB radio to direct Mr. Franklin to wherever you may be. Mr. Franklin treats his radio like he were an eight year old kid, which is exactly how I would treat a CB radio if I had one. (Probably why I think he's such a cool guy.) He will ONLY call it his "communications system," never just a "radio," and raises his wife to ask when supper will be ready by calling, "Unit One to Base." It's the best thing ever.

He is amazingly proud of his independence; he does everything himself. He keeps his cab and trucks (this 81 year old has two moving trucks and does shipping and hauling, too) "repaired himself." His house, and the added deck and garage? He "built himself." I eventually found out that what he meant by these statements was that he did everything on his terms. Not at the whim of a money-hoarding mechanic, he hires mechanics to come to him to keep his vehicles in tip-top shape. He did not build his house in the literal sense, but it was built under his watch, and he owns it in the clear.

The best part: two years ago, he was flown to Los Angeles to try to hold his own on "The Price is Right." I did not believe the man until he showed me the massive, 4-foot check for $2500 that lives behind his dresser.

Now, I am working with some local artists, contractors, and community members to get kids to paint a huge Obama mural and hang it on the side of one of his buildings. The icing on the cake: it was Mr. Franklin's idea.

Marie

Unlike the Hill, it's not easy to find Obama supporters in Polish Hill. Marie was one of the few (eight, actually) names of supporters from the Primary in the volunteer tracking system the campaign uses. She graciously offered to host a Unite For Change House Party, and I worked with her to plan the small event and invite neighbors and community members. This 72 year old woman spent two evenings walking around her neighborhood with me and knocking on doors, inviting complete strangers into her home for a potluck. The day of the potluck, of course, she cooked enough food to feed all twelve guests.

A part of the House Party programming was essentially story-telling: each guest was asked to explain to the group what brought them to the party and to their support of Obama or any other candidate, with special emphasis on the host (Marie) and the organizer (me). Marie had been scared about sharing her story in our meetings beforehand, and had on my urging a few times practiced by telling me some of what she hoped to say. What came out the night of the party was completely different. This woman had grown up in quite racist Kentucky and was in her teens at the end of World War II. When racially integrated platoons would return to the army base near her town, black and white soldiers alike, who had just spent months or years fighting and dying side by side, would walk into the restaurant where Marie waited tables. She wanted to serve them, but her boss, "Mr. Roy," would not have it. Marie, a white teenager who everyone called "Peanuts," would get into public shouting matches with her boss about not serving the black war heroes.

To me, this story is great for three reasons. First, of course, a 17 year old Kentuckian had the cajones to talk back to her boss about the wrongs of segregation. Second, her nickname was "Peanuts." Third, she felt comfortable enough in a room full of strangers to tell us that her nickname was "Peanuts."

Marie is a trooper, and is going to make a great neighborhood team captain.

David Shapiro

Field organizing is probably the most humbling thing I have ever done in my life. By that I mean the job has a tendency, just when you think you're having a great day, to trip you and then have the nerve to rub your fallen face in the mud.

Moreover, it is humbling to be surrounded by people who have truly given their complete selves to this campaign. I'll be honest: I thought I was all that when I decided to take a semester off to work for the campaign, but I am surrounded by people who have given so much more and taken so many more risks to be a part of this movement. David is just one example.

David works for the campaign as a field organizer. He's a Philadelphia Jew, which means he pronounces his last name "sha-PI-row" instead of "sha-pee-row," which I still haven't gotten used to. He is blatantly honest to a fault, loves Barack almost as much as he loves all sports anywhere, and has made the profound sacrifice of buying and wearing Pittsburgh sports team paraphernalia and hiding his Phillies gear in his closet. A lawyer in his late twenties, David has spent the last few years working for one of Philadelphia's top litigation firms. In the weeks before the Pennsylvania Primary, this lawyer put in eight hours a day on the campaign doing whatever they needed him to do, after working a full day at his law firm. After the primary, he was warned that if he left to work for Barack, there would be no job waiting for him when he got back. He quit anyway, and then volunteered for a month with no guarantee the campaign would actually hire him.

I was at the bars with some of the staff a few nights ago, and I told David that he was the biggest asshole I had ever wanted to be friends with. He took it as a compliment, which is exactly how I meant it.

Steve

I met Steve, an older man who has lived in Pittsburgh all his life, waiting for a bus one night at 9:00 or 9:30 at night. Dressed in old boots, and stained khakis, his collared light blue uniform shirt was tucked in yet unbuttoned to the bottom of his rib cage. He cleans PNC Park, where the Pirates play, after every home game. It takes four or five hours each night, he told me, depending on the crowd that night. He is extremely hunchbacked, to the point that I took as unspoken truth that he has been picking up other people's trash for a long, long time. He doesn't get to watch the games, but after this many years, I doubt he would want to. Yet each night, he takes a bus to the ballpark about half way through the game, not to return until the early hours of the morning.

I mention Steve only because he doesn't fit into any important, sought-after political demographic, he will never be on tv, and no one will ever write a book about him or anyone like him. He is practically invisible, both politically and socially, yet because of the job I do, I got to meet him. And he made my day.

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In other news, I think I might have a job after the fellowship is over! More on that later....
~m