This time six years ago, a friend put out a call: come to Cleveland to help re-elect President Barack Obama. I've never been much of a campaigner. The last political campaign I'd worked on was Alex Sanders for US Senate, which resulted in South Carolina sending Lindsey Graham to Washington for the very first time. So, yeah.
Political greenness aside, I couldn't stand the idea of staying in solid blue Boston when there was work to be done around the country; so I begged leave of my business school professors and off to Ohio I went.
In hindsight, those four or five days knocking on doors in Cleveland change the course of my life. I witnessed poverty and disenfranchisement within American borders that rivaled communities I'd visited and worked in throughout Latin America and Africa. Naive world-changer that I was, my sense of pride and security in my native land was rocked to its core.
Fast forward four years, and the call came again: this time to North Carolina with a group of superhero friends from across the country. We rented a house and knocked on hundreds of doors. What happened in the final hours of that Tuesday are a complete and utter blur. I don't recall who I spoke to or what words were exchanged, only that it took me seven hours the next day to drive what should have taken 3.5. I was crying too hard to see the road.
It's November 6, 2018, and today is the day that most rational Americans have been anticipating for the better part of two years. Today we get a shot at the beginning of a long recovery, a shot at bending the arc of history back towards justice, and love.
I'd been trying, trying not to get my hopes up too much. I know that I live in a conservative state that prides itself on individual liberty and independence--a state where 83% of Republicans still support our current President. I know that even the very best, most honorable candidates have the odds stacked against them, and that, at the end of the day, politics is not a meritocracy.
I really was trying not to get my hopes up until this weekend, when I lost hope altogether. Not because of polls or ill-advised newspaper endorsements. But because of the people I spoke to while knocking on doors in North Charleston.
Within an hour of my canvassing assignment, the devastation I felt in Cleveland six years ago came crashing back down. I spoke to men, women, and children living not 15 minutes from my middle class neighborhood, whose sense of belonging in our city, our state, our country has been stripped away from generations of marginalization--if they ever felt that sense of belonging in the first place. Much like in Cleveland, many thanked me for making the small effort of coming to their neighborhood.
All afternoon, an internal pendulum of hope swung between the delight of a warm exchange with strangers and the overwhelming realization--again--of how much we are failing our fellow citizens.
Every time we argue that South Carolina is "winning" or that the U.S. economy is soaring, we are willfully ignoring the vast number of people who are not included in that growth. We are willfully ignoring them.
The folks I met this weekend didn't ask to be left out of prosperity. They didn't chose to be disenfranchised or marginalized. Their parents and grandparents didn't ask for it either. They work hard at creating stability and happiness on the edges of a society that, for all intents and purposes, happily neglects them.
They didn't chose that; we did. We are doing that. Every time I forget about their pain, I do that. And that right there, ladies and gentlemen, is where my hope dries up.
***
The next day, I drove myself to my polling place, distraught and depressed. And then I saw THE LINE. Wrapped around the building and down the block--people were waiting patiently to cast their ballot, to do their civic duty, to participate in our democracy. Sunlight burst through the gray cloud I had wrapped around myself.
As I waited, a poll worker announced to the crowd, "Alright, y'all--we've got a first time voter here!" The entire room burst into applause. I felt the sunshine get brighter. (And almost cried.)
I cast my vote and drove straight home to build a mini altar for our democracy. I'd never built an altar before, but my mom had them in our house growing up, and something told me it was time. I placed candidate stickers next to portraits, photos, a Buddha, a mala, and a cross--all of which symbolize, to me, divine goodness at work in the world--and then I lit two candles in the name of love and justice.
I lit the candles for the values represented by my candidates, the flame a steady prayer that they prevail tonight. I lit the candles for the people that I spoke to in North Charleston--and the millions like them across the country--to be seen, to be heard, to be included. And I lit the candles for hope--mine and yours. Though I suspect it will evade me again (and very possibly tomorrow morning), hope is showing up in lines all around the country right now, and that's a pretty good sign of what's to come.
Political greenness aside, I couldn't stand the idea of staying in solid blue Boston when there was work to be done around the country; so I begged leave of my business school professors and off to Ohio I went.
In hindsight, those four or five days knocking on doors in Cleveland change the course of my life. I witnessed poverty and disenfranchisement within American borders that rivaled communities I'd visited and worked in throughout Latin America and Africa. Naive world-changer that I was, my sense of pride and security in my native land was rocked to its core.
Fast forward four years, and the call came again: this time to North Carolina with a group of superhero friends from across the country. We rented a house and knocked on hundreds of doors. What happened in the final hours of that Tuesday are a complete and utter blur. I don't recall who I spoke to or what words were exchanged, only that it took me seven hours the next day to drive what should have taken 3.5. I was crying too hard to see the road.
It's November 6, 2018, and today is the day that most rational Americans have been anticipating for the better part of two years. Today we get a shot at the beginning of a long recovery, a shot at bending the arc of history back towards justice, and love.
I'd been trying, trying not to get my hopes up too much. I know that I live in a conservative state that prides itself on individual liberty and independence--a state where 83% of Republicans still support our current President. I know that even the very best, most honorable candidates have the odds stacked against them, and that, at the end of the day, politics is not a meritocracy.
I really was trying not to get my hopes up until this weekend, when I lost hope altogether. Not because of polls or ill-advised newspaper endorsements. But because of the people I spoke to while knocking on doors in North Charleston.
Within an hour of my canvassing assignment, the devastation I felt in Cleveland six years ago came crashing back down. I spoke to men, women, and children living not 15 minutes from my middle class neighborhood, whose sense of belonging in our city, our state, our country has been stripped away from generations of marginalization--if they ever felt that sense of belonging in the first place. Much like in Cleveland, many thanked me for making the small effort of coming to their neighborhood.
All afternoon, an internal pendulum of hope swung between the delight of a warm exchange with strangers and the overwhelming realization--again--of how much we are failing our fellow citizens.
Every time we argue that South Carolina is "winning" or that the U.S. economy is soaring, we are willfully ignoring the vast number of people who are not included in that growth. We are willfully ignoring them.
The folks I met this weekend didn't ask to be left out of prosperity. They didn't chose to be disenfranchised or marginalized. Their parents and grandparents didn't ask for it either. They work hard at creating stability and happiness on the edges of a society that, for all intents and purposes, happily neglects them.
They didn't chose that; we did. We are doing that. Every time I forget about their pain, I do that. And that right there, ladies and gentlemen, is where my hope dries up.
***
The next day, I drove myself to my polling place, distraught and depressed. And then I saw THE LINE. Wrapped around the building and down the block--people were waiting patiently to cast their ballot, to do their civic duty, to participate in our democracy. Sunlight burst through the gray cloud I had wrapped around myself.
As I waited, a poll worker announced to the crowd, "Alright, y'all--we've got a first time voter here!" The entire room burst into applause. I felt the sunshine get brighter. (And almost cried.)
I cast my vote and drove straight home to build a mini altar for our democracy. I'd never built an altar before, but my mom had them in our house growing up, and something told me it was time. I placed candidate stickers next to portraits, photos, a Buddha, a mala, and a cross--all of which symbolize, to me, divine goodness at work in the world--and then I lit two candles in the name of love and justice.
I lit the candles for the values represented by my candidates, the flame a steady prayer that they prevail tonight. I lit the candles for the people that I spoke to in North Charleston--and the millions like them across the country--to be seen, to be heard, to be included. And I lit the candles for hope--mine and yours. Though I suspect it will evade me again (and very possibly tomorrow morning), hope is showing up in lines all around the country right now, and that's a pretty good sign of what's to come.
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