An Election Year Wish
The morning after Barack Obama’s victory in 2008, I cried with a friend in a coffee shop, elated and moved to tears by the election of our first Black president. Eight years later, I cried again in a yoga class packed with people shocked and stunned by Donald Trump’s election. I’m almost 50 years old, and I never imagined the political pendulum could swing so quickly and dramatically. As a mom and stepmom to four teenagers in 2020, I feel acutely aware of the state of the world our kids will inherit all too soon. Politics feels deeply personal.
I’m fortunate to have the time and means to support causes I care about, and I felt compelled to contribute in some way to this year’s high-stakes election. I have donated to political causes in the past but this year wanted to do something more than write a check. But, I live on Bainbridge Island, a half-hour ferry ride from liberal Seattle, in a strongly blue state, where I’m surrounded by like-minded people. As much as I love this echo chamber, my political persuasion skills don’t have much use here. So when I heard about efforts in Alaska to support a candidate for U.S. Senate who was tied in the polls with the Republican incumbent, I volunteered right away.
I lived in Alaska in my 20s, met my son’s father there, and hold a special place in my heart for that immense state. Given its relatively low Covid rates at the time, easy non-stop flights from Seattle to Juneau, and girlfriends Ann and Kim willing to ring doorbells with me, the decision to go was a no-brainer.
We connected with Ann’s friend who was heading up the Alaska efforts of a youth-led political action group, and through a couple of Zoom meetings, she coached us on what to expect. We went over Covid precautions, our candidate’s positions, and how we would get campaign literature from the local contact in Juneau.
We arrived on a Sunday night and headed out Monday morning, armed with google maps and a newly installed phone app directing us to households with left-leaning but unreliable voters (as in, people who sometimes voted for Republicans, or sometimes didn’t vote at all). Our first stop was a low-income housing complex. Having never canvassed, we felt a little reluctant initially. We kept re-reading the script provided by the group organizing the canvassing efforts, and finally approached the first door… which had a poster taped up to notify us “No soliciting. We are too broke to buy anything. We know who we are voting for. We have found Jesus. We’re insured by Smith + Wesson. Go away!” Moving on…!
The next-door neighbor had a hand-written cardboard sign in the front window: “QUARANTINED.” Zero out of two. At the third door, Ann found a man home alone who wanted to talk about his recent divorce and not having his kids enough now. A few minutes later, two men a few doors down walked out carrying shotguns. Maybe they were headed to a legitimate Monday morning hunting expedition, but it did feel like a subtle threat. I can’t say that we ever felt in danger, but Alaskans can be a tough audience and the state’s not called “the last frontier” for nothing.
We spent a couple of hours working our way through the complex, witnessing piles of dirty diapers outside one door, broken-down toys covered in a dusting of snow, cans full of cigarette butts. Some buildings reeked of cat pee and clearly hadn’t had the common area carpet vacuumed in years. Lots of little kids peeked at us through windows. Witnessing the living conditions of so many folks clearly struggling with big issues, I couldn’t decide whether the election was (or should be) critically important to them, or the least of their concerns.
Most people answered the door and would listen patiently while we urged them to vote early, especially for our candidate. We were prepared to ask questions about what issues mattered most to them, what concerns weighed on their families. Sometimes we did. Other times we felt too overwhelmed or intimidated or out of place to utter a clear sentence.
When we did strike up a conversation, people said they wanted better health care and education. And more activities for kids. Some felt strongly about Second Amendment rights. Two Alaska Natives said they were raised on seal fat and needed their guns for subsistence hunting and their Native traditions. We met a couple of conspiracy theorists. One man told me his biggest concern was the dangerous intersection by Fred Meyer, but he knew the police and the criminals were in cahoots to keep it unsafe, so the criminals could deal their drugs without interference while the cops were occupied with traffic accidents.
Because Juneau is a small town and our candidate grew up there, many people knew him personally. Feedback on him ranged from, “He’s a good guy, he played basketball in high school” and “He was my doctor when I busted up my knee” to “He has a big ego, and why does he own that house in California?” and “I don’t like his face.”
Did we have any impact? I’m honestly not sure. Maybe we persuaded a small number of people to vote for our chosen candidate. And it felt good to share info with the single mom who didn’t know how to get a new ballot (after one of her kids drenched hers with spilled milk) and people who had no idea they could vote early at the mall just a few minutes away. But the most memorable conversations weren’t the ones ending in a promised vote for our candidate.
My friend Ann spent a long time talking with a woman who’d already voted for the Republican incumbent, but they discussed issues that mattered to them both – health care, education – and I think they both felt a little more understood after their exchange. I knocked on the door at the end of a driveway decorated with a large Trump flag, where the young man who answered said he was leaving soon to join the Army and wasn’t planning to vote. We had a good conversation, and I urged him to cast a ballot, telling him his voice really matters, and I hoped he would participate in this important election. I meant it, despite his Trump flag. Our canvassing felt like participation in the democratic process. I thought about partisan efforts around the country to make it harder for people to vote – limiting the availability of mail-in ballots or the number of ballot drop-off locations – while I honestly felt that getting that Trump supporter to the polling location would have been a small success that day. Yes, we started with a goal of supporting a particular candidate and a Democratic agenda. But as the days went by, what seemed most important was simply connecting with people and listening.
Our last night, while we watched the final presidential debate at our Airbnb, we assembled 60 care packages filled with beef jerky, trail mix, tangerines, Halloween candy, playing cards, glow sticks, and Roald Dahl books. We added hand-written notes with inspirational messages (“You can do hard things!” or “You are special!” or “Be kind. Find joy. Laugh.”) and tied big green bows around each bag. The next morning we went back to the low-income housing complex and left a bag at each door… no campaign literature or political conversations – just small gestures of connection, one American to another. I can’t pretend to know how the residents there felt about a “handout” from three out-of-state white women of privilege. But by the end of the week, those goody bags felt more consistent with what we hoped to convey than another political flier.
My girlfriends and I do hope our chosen candidate wins a seat in the U.S. Senate, as we believe in a more progressive agenda that provides a social safety net for vulnerable populations, addresses climate change aggressively, and prioritizes equality for women and minorities. But, my canvassing trip taught me that maybe the most important step toward healing our country this year is simply to knock on some doors of people not like us, and strike up a conversation. Regardless of the election’s outcome, that’s my wish for 2021.