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Hi. I’m Wesley Webb. I
live in Denver, Colorado, and I spent an early February weekend in
Albuquerque, New Mexico as a volunteer for the Howard Dean campaign.
I’m over forty years old, married, with
two boys age 3 and 6. Since I became unemployed in November, I can’t
contribute very much money, but I decided that I could spend my time
helping Dr. Dean.
I left Denver on Friday afternoon, January
30th, on a bus chartered by volunteer contributions. When we
crossed the New Mexico state line, our bus has twenty volunteers. Someone
nicknamed us the Colorado Cavalry. I look around and see young faces, old
faces, pierced faces. A fellow named Paul is our cheerful captain. Someone
asks if he is a doctor. No, he answers, adding that he is a chaplain, "a
Doctor of Souls."
I feel as though I'm taking a small part
in the making of history. Will I be a part of Dean's victory, or a
footnote in the story of one of the other contenders? My feeling is that
my involvement adds energy to the selection process. By helping my
candidate to put forth the best possible effort, in the end the strongest
candidate will emerge from the primary and caucus phase. My belief may
sound naïve and idealistic, but I'm just a foot soldier in this people's
revolution and idealism is all I have to offer.
Exhausted by a nervous unfocused day of
packing and preparation, I listen to the conversations around me, a
confessional mix of personal and political testimony sharing a need for
affirmation and acceptance. I expect I will have opportunities in the days
ahead to talk, but now I wish only to listen.
We reach Santa Fe by 11:30 at night and
leave five volunteers. The bus heads on to Albuquerque, and we pull in at
one o’clock in the morning. A staff person comes on the bus and says,
“Beds? Beds? If you need a bed for the night, follow me.”
By 1:30, I reach a one-bedroom apartment
with three other Colorado volunteers. Except for two tables and two
chairs, the apartment is nearly unfurnished. It has no beds. By 1:50, I am
laying down in the corner of the bedroom. At least, the floor has carpet.
I use my backpack for a pillow and my coat for a blanket. Eventually,
everyone settles down, and the chatter ends. Lights go out, but then
someone begins to snore in another room. He sounds like a bear
hibernating. I try to sleep with my hands over my ears. I get up and close
the doors to my room, but the noise continues unabated. Somehow despite
the noise and the cold, I get some sleep, although I wake up every time
one of my hands slips off my ear.
With daylight, we go to the Dean New
Mexico headquarters. The office is like an anthill. To the casual
observer, it may look chaotic, but clearly to me everyone has a purpose.
As the volunteers munch donuts, the
breakfast of champions, the staff instructs us on how to canvass the
precincts. With training over, I get paired up with Bill, a recent New
Mexico transplant, and Laura, an intense redhead from California. We have
three precincts to visit. We will visit undecided voters to hand out
literature and make a case for Dr. Dean. If a voter is not home, we will
leave a brochure on the doorknob. Laura the professional volunteer from
Los Angeles writes a personal message on the brochures that she leaves on
doors. Impressed, I take up the practice.
By lunchtime, after two hours of
canvassing, we have met only four people on our lists: two Dean
supporters, and two undecided voters, and we’ve left around fifty
brochures on doors. We stop by state headquarters for a quick lunch of
pizza, another food for champions, or least for inspired volunteers.
After lunch we spend the afternoon driving
through the neighborhoods of our precincts. Bill is laid back, quiet, and
spends lots of time studying the tiny print on the maps for our precincts.
Laura finds three or four undecided voters, and quickly hits her stride –
she argues Dr. Dean’s merits with heart-felt passion. I wish I could be as
articulate she is. She spends an average of twenty minutes speaking with
each undecided voter she encounters.
We spend a wrenching twenty minutes at a
nursing home, visiting two patients on our list. We see the two men, drop
brochures, and end up talking with the Activity Director about how to get
the two patients to the polls on Tuesday. The activity director is
apathetic. She asks, an election? What election? When is it? She adds that
she doesn’t vote because of her religion. Whatever happens is God’s will,
and we just have to live with whatever God has decided. I wonder whether
she would have thought Hitler was a good example of God’s will in action.
If her religion leaves her this apathetic about life and the society
around her, then she should join a monastery and just await God’s will. We
leave and proceed to the next voter on our list.
Then, for me, the biggest disaster of the
day occurs. I knock on a door. When the owner opens the door, his two dogs
blast out across the porch, and run away down the street. He doesn’t look
happy with me, and leaves with his wife to find the dogs. Feeling lame, I
offer the wife a Dean brochure and leave. As a child, on more than one
occasion, I was chased and attacked by dogs – I don’t approach strange
dogs easily and when these two burst out, I just froze in my tracks and
watched them dash past me.
We end our canvassing efforts when
darkness falls, and it becomes impossible to decipher the house numbers.
We have covered two precincts completely, and are ten names from finishing
the third and last precinct.
We go back to the state HQ and return our
materials. I get a chance to check personal email on an unattended
computer. I send an enthusiastic message to friends in Denver. Maybe they
can come down to help out, I write.
The canvassing volunteers along with a few
staff members go out to a Mexican restaurant. I am too tired for company,
and again, as on the bus, I sit listening to the snatches of conversations
that ebb and flow around me out of the larger babble of confusion. After I
eat, I pay the cashier, and step outside to enjoy the solitude of silence
while waiting for the rest of the volunteers to finish their meals.
As I wait, I consider why I want Howard
Dean to succeed. Our country needs a leader who is a healer, not a lawyer,
nor a warrior, nor an oil man. We need a healer who will work to restore
our sense of community, who is beholden to neither wealthy interests nor
corporate lobbyists, and who offers a genuine vision of hope instead of
fear for our future. Dr. Dean is that man.
By 9:30 that night, we have returned to
the apartment. I speak with Han, a college freshman at University of
Colorado from China. He is an engineering student, but is eager to help
the Dean campaign as well as to understand American politics. His English
is decent, but everyone struggles with his thick accent. I ask him about
college and his family. Once I have opened up communication with him, he
peppers me with questions. Why do I like Dean? He tells me why he likes
Dean. What work do you do? Ah, computers. I’m not good in computer science
class. I must work harder. What programming languages do you know? I give
him my list. How do you know so many? Isn’t it hard to work with them? No,
I reply, I use the reference materials when I need to refresh myself. Can
you use programs to mathematically analyze the stock market? Yes, I
recall. How he wants to know? Han is like a sponge - he wants to soak up
everything. He is insatiable and whatever energy I had after the long day
is soon gone. He drifts off and then returns to ask me to take photos of
him with the other volunteers. I shoot one picture, and end up in two
additional group photos.
By eleven o’clock, I am bedding down. This
time, the campaign has sent along air mattresses and sleeping bags.
Everyone gets a big laugh when I inflate my air mattress in about ten
minutes, and Han cannot seem to blow his mattress up. I show him how to
operate the valve. He tries again, but gets frustrated. He asks me to
inflate his mattress. I decide that he’ll have to do it himself, since
he’s younger than me by nearly twenty five years. After several rounds of
hearty laughter, someone takes pity on Han and brings in a bicycle pump.
When everyone starts settling in, one of
the other Colorado volunteers passes around earplugs. As a result of that
foresight, I get a much better night of rest.
Sunday morning arrives, and I wake up with
a mild nausea. Have I picked up a bug? Am I hungry? Am I worried about our
final day? Did I sleep in a bad position?
Around nine o’clock, we drag into
headquarters late by nearly one hour, and wolf down another breakfast of
donuts. Han wants to burn audio-CDs of Dean’s speeches and hand them out
at gas stations. He argues for his idea with a frantic energy that is hard
to refuse. Now I regret that I told him about my computer experience. I
offer
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objections: Did you ask the staff about
this effort? Do they approve? Han answers no to both questions. Where will
we get the audio files? The Internet! He proclaims. He steers me toward a
computer, boots off a staff member, and seats me down the keyboard. Han is
not bothered that we need a CD burner, blank CDs, and a soundtrack to make
CDs. He will go to an office supply store and buy what is needed. Finally,
one of the senior staff members all but growls at Han and me: Time is too
precious to spend today in the office. Go canvass!
As I wait, I consider why I want Howard
Dean to succeed. Our country needs a leader who is a healer, not a lawyer,
nor a warrior, nor an oil man. We need a healer who will work to restore
our sense of community, who is beholden to neither wealthy interests nor
corporate lobbyists, and who offers a genuine vision of hope instead of
fear for our future. Dr. Dean is that man.
By 9:30 that night, we have returned to
the apartment. I speak with Han, a college freshman at University of
Colorado from China. He is an engineering student, but is eager to help
the Dean campaign as well as to understand American politics. His English
is decent, but everyone struggles with his thick accent. I ask him about
college and his family. Once I have opened up communication with him, he
peppers me with questions. Why do I like Dean? He tells me why he likes
Dean. What work do you do? Ah, computers. I’m not good in computer science
class. I must work harder. What programming languages do you know? I give
him my list. How do you know so many? Isn’t it hard to work with them? No,
I reply, I use the reference materials when I need to refresh myself. Can
you use programs to mathematically analyze the stock market? Yes, I
recall. How he wants to know? Han is like a sponge - he wants to soak up
everything. He is insatiable and whatever energy I had after the long day
is soon gone. He drifts off and then returns to ask me to take photos of
him with the other volunteers. I shoot one picture, and end up in two
additional group photos.
By eleven o’clock, I am bedding down. This
time, the campaign has sent along air mattresses and sleeping bags.
Everyone gets a big laugh when I inflate my air mattress in about ten
minutes, and Han cannot seem to blow his mattress up. I show him how to
operate the valve. He tries again, but gets frustrated. He asks me to
inflate his mattress. I decide that he’ll have to do it himself, since
he’s younger than me by nearly twenty five years. After several rounds of
hearty laughter, someone takes pity on Han and brings in a bicycle pump.
When everyone starts settling in, one of
the other Colorado volunteers passes around earplugs. As a result of that
foresight, I get a much better night of rest.
Sunday morning arrives, and I wake up with
a mild nausea. Have I picked up a bug? Am I hungry? Am I worried about our
final day? Did I sleep in a bad position?
Around nine o’clock, we drag into
headquarters late by nearly one hour, and wolf down another breakfast of
donuts. Han wants to burn audio-CDs of Dean’s speeches and hand them out
at gas stations. He argues for his idea with a frantic energy that is hard
to refuse. Now I regret that I told him about my computer experience. I
offer objections: Did you ask the staff about this effort? Do they
approve? Han answers no to both questions. Where will we get the audio
files? The Internet! He proclaims. He steers me toward a computer, boots
off a staff member, and seats me down the keyboard. Han is not bothered
that we need a CD burner, blank CDs, and a soundtrack to make CDs. He will
go to an office supply store and buy what is needed. Finally, one of the
senior staff members all but growls at Han and me: Time is too precious to
spend today in the office. Go canvass!
We load up in a van with other Colorado
volunteers and drive to Rio Rancho. It takes twenty to thirty minutes to
reach the area following our Map quest guide. Slowly we realize that the
precinct folders we have don’t match the neighborhood where we were sent.
Other problems surface. No one brought an Albuquerque map. No one thinks
to call HQ and get directions from our location to the precincts we have
folders for. Democracy in action has six men going around and around about
possible solutions. Here’s one reason why social diversity matters: I know
that if a woman had been in the van, we would have stopped to ask for
directions, instead we start driving back toward HQ.
The van pulls into a gas station for fuel.
Dismayed at our lack of productivity, I snatch a Dean placard and dash for
the street corner. Within five to ten minutes of waving the sign at
traffic at the corner of Coors and Irving, I have attracted several
encouraging toots from motorists. In the cold wind, I quickly become
chilled and exhausted from fighting with the one-foot by two-foot placard.
I return to the van for gloves, and additional layers against the wind.
Soon, our entire contingent goes out on the street corners to wave Dean
placards. I go back for two more quick shivering shifts in the ice-cold
wind. Two motorists give me discouraging gestures. I wave and smile back.
Two wrongs won’t make a right, and I am determined to be positive. I think
about how to make a better response to the next negative gesture I
witness.
Our group decides to relocate to a busier
intersection. We follow Coors to where it intersects with Central and
unload. This time, I hold up a yard sign. The two wire supports at each
corner prove much easier to hold than the paper placard I held at the
previous location. The wind is brisk and cold, and it takes my breathe
away. I find myself hyperventilating, and have to will myself to inhale
slowly and fully. Our team gets several positive responses, but one
motorist rolls down his window and shouts an obscenity at me. I raise my
right hand and make the sign of the cross. He looks surprised and shuts
up.
We go back to state HQ and eat pizza for
lunch. As the Colorado volunteers wait for the chartered bus to show up,
we mingle with the other volunteers before they head out for new
canvassing efforts. I see Latino faces, old faces, African-American faces,
young faces, Asian-American faces, happy faces.
Paul announces that the bus will arrive
within forty-five minutes. With more time available than initially
planned, I approach three separate staff members and volunteer to help
with any office tasks they have on hand. Labels, envelope stuffing,
whatever. They check. An answer comes back: everything we need done is
being done or has been done.
My loner karma and reluctance to engage in
extended conversations on Friday and Saturday finally on Sunday exacts a
savage payback. A woman sits next to me, and begins to unwind the
disconnected trivia of her life, despite the fact that I have my Palm and
its keyboard set up while I busily type notes. "I'm learning how to make
donuts." She says. “I eat only my own food.” She declares pulling out a
muffin from a zip lock bag. Later she gets a plate of pizza. "I track an
analyst or commentator, and when they make a mistake, I let them know." Of
all the people I have encountered in the New Mexico campaign, she is
sedate to the point of being nearly comatose. I wonder if she’s on
anti-depressant medication. "Fox News had good coverage of the war." At
long long last, she tires of me and moves on.
Once the comatose woman drifts away, a
friendly New Mexico woman sits down and we discuss Colorado politics. She
had asked me where I was from earlier. We discuss the coming Senate
contest. Who will run against Ben N. Campbell? Gary Hart, perhaps? Maybe
Wellington Webb, I suggest, without knowing that the former Denver mayor
has already made a formal declaration to not run. We talk about Colorado’s
term limits law.
Our bus comes and after a round of
photographs, we load and leave for Santa Fe. Our stop in Santa Fe is
brief, and we head for Colorado. Interestingly, five of our original group
decides to stay in New Mexico and continue to help. Three new people join
our bus for the trip back. They came down earlier than we did, and needed
a lift back home. I have mixed feelings as we settle into the bus. Will
our efforts help the campaign in the long run? Did our time and efforts
make a difference here?
As I ride away, watching the New Mexico
landscape unfold, I am exhilarated and exhausted by the intensity of the
last two and half days. I want to sleep, and though I still fight my
earlier nausea, I listen to the conversations around me. In a span of
fifty-four hours, I have devoted my time and energy trying to make a
positive difference in the future of this country. Whatever else happens,
I will be happy that at least I made this journey and this contribution.
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