Chapter 7: Return to Denver

We landed in Denver International late Saturday night, rented a car and headed into the city.

The city I returned to in November was different from the city I departed from in August. At night it was darker, colder, less crowded and less vibrant. By day it was more corporate. The diversity of tourists had been replaced by an army of (strikingly) young professionals. People still got off and on buses. Except now, rather than basking in festivity, they marched efficiently on direct path to their certain destinations - Starbucks and laptop briefcases in hand. No time for strangers to share in excitement and good cheer. There was little excitement at all. The carnival had left town long ago.

This new backdrop provided a consistent reminder that this trip was not a holiday. We were there to work and had a mission to complete.

We woke early Sunday morning in Denver and embarked on the fifty-two mile drive from Denver to Greeley. Although travel magazines probably wouldn’t report the drive as scenic, on that day it was absolutely beautiful and thrilling for me and my friends. Skyscrapers quickly gave way to cow pastures as stoplights began to appear on the freeways.

Greeley was the campaign headquarters of Weld County. It was also the heart of one of the most important battleground Congressional Elections in the country between Democratic challenger Betsy Markey and the Republican Incumbent Marilyn Musgrave. Representative Musgrave had made national headlines for her role in conspiracy charges for wrongly influencing member of Congress and had gained a reputation for making draconian statements in regard to homosexuality. She was both a figurehead and a mouthpiece of the old Republican guard (a la Tom DeLay). We believed her policies to be absolutely backwards to what our country represented and were delighted in the opportunity to unseat her.

We also had the opportunity to help Mark Udall in his bid for the United States Senate. Earlier in the year he was slated to be in one of the closest races nationally, but in recent weeks his lead had widened. We had the opportunity to hear him speak in person on Monday evening – along with Michelle Obama – at a high school in Jefferson County.

After being debriefed in Greeley, we were told that our services were most needed in the western half of the district. We were asked to ship out to a precinct headquarters in Johnstown located twenty-three miles west from Greeley. We were warned the place we were going to was “Pretty far out – kind of in the middle of nowhere.” We wondered what could be more “far out” and more in the “middle of nowhere” than Greeley. We were about to find out.

The precinct headquarters in Johnstown was actually the home of an Obama volunteer. After a long journey the genuine welcome and thanks we received upon our arrival was most heartening indeed. We were fed, caffeinated and debriefed.

A couple of things stood out to us during our quick living room training seminar. First, was the dedication of our organizers. The homeowners who ran the precinct had their doors open all hours of the day and their kitchen filled with food, water and fresh coffee. Many of the volunteers who operated the precinct had travelled from far as well. The young woman who debriefed us had travelled all the way from Montana (In 2004 she left a Japanese Abroad program to work for John Kerry. It blew my mind to see her and my colleague rapping in Japanese in the middle of Weld County, Colorado). One volunteer I spoke with in the kitchen was a proud Republican from Texas – who despised George W. Bush – and had travelled to volunteer with her daughter. She gave me a sandwich. Another was a young man who had travelled from London just to knock on doors. One lady was a local, who had been working on the campaign for months. She downed three Mountain Dews with breakfast and was clearly very excited to welcome all these liberals to her otherwise very conservative town. The teenager who organized and distributed our precinct lists took a week off from high school to volunteer. You may find irony in three teachers complimenting a student in cutting school, but we agreed that this was a life experience that surpassed anything any of us could ever teach in a classroom.

Above all was the spirit. There was never a shortage of effort, high-fives or hugs. Here we were in Johnstown, Colorado – a global assembly – all working for the same thing.

It’s easy to get caught up in the emotional gravity of the moment, but if there was not structure, if there was not organization, the whole thing would have fizzled. And these people were incredibly efficient. Here we were in the middle of Johnstown, Colorado and we were part an incredible team that was operating like a well-oiled machine. The doors we needed to knock on were targeted. Each door we knocked on needed to be accounted for on a list and marked with a specific code so headquarters knew whether or not these people could be reached. Each day it was a different list of houses to hit. Each day we had different pieces of literature that ranged from colorful and vibrant “HOPE” advertisements to specific directions on how to get to the polls. Our scripts were specific, however, once we actually engaged a voter, each of us improvised.

“Hello, my name is Dan and I’m a Civics Teacher. I travelled 1,300 miles to knock on your door today and to let you know your vote is more important than mine this year. Do you have a minute to talk?”

We didn’t say we were from California unless they asked. There’s a perception out in the rest of America, surely perpetrated by the Right Wing, that the nation is sloped downward to the west and all the fruits and nuts roll into California. In the split seconds we had, we didn’t want to lose credibility on a false perception.

Many of the precincts we were sent to were in a small town east of Johnstown called Millikan. In Millikan there was one post office, one firehouse, one grocery store, one fast food stop, less than a handful of stoplights and what appeared to be and endless number of home foreclosures.

I struggled to remember the last time I had seen a foreclosed home - the thick, punch-coded padlock on the doorknob, the large county “Order to Vacate” pasted on the once welcoming front door. With each, I got an overwhelming feeling of stillness and defeat. With each, I imagined a story of a family whose livelihood and hopes were tied to that structure. They must have tried very hard to make it work, but in the end they were ultimately unable to overcome factors that may or may not have been in their control. How did they try? What had they gone through? Where were they now? It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. All of us were struck by how silent the streets were.

Next door to the home with a foreclosure sign, often times we saw McCain/Palin signs firmly planted into the ground.

On one level it was shocking and horrific: the neighborhoods – the people – that needed some sort of change the most, seemed to be the ones most opposed to the progress they needed. On another level it was personally assuring: we were exactly where we needed to be to stir the pot and cast some seeds of change.

Far and away the highlight of the trip was the people we talked to. Even the ones who didn’t agree with us. People who had already voted for Obama but were just so darn excited they wanted to talk. People who had voted for Bush twice, but were now going to vote for Obama. People who liked Obama, but couldn’t bring themselves to vote for him because they thought it would break with their religion. People who didn’t care and didn’t want us there. I had a door slammed in my face by a fellow (when I knocked on it again, and politely asked to speak to his wife, I thought for one second that I might get shot). Single mothers playing with their kids on a playground who were glad to see us. People who just didn’t think their vote mattered. People who were trying to get their roof repaired before the winter because a freak tornado had ravaged their town over the summer and their insurance reimbursement had lagged. People of all ages who said they had voted for the first time in their life. People who practiced two religions on Sundays: Christianity and Broncos Football. People who worked three jobs just to pay their mortgage. People who were getting tattoos. (“Is Leon available?” “No, I’m sorry, he’s downstairs getting a tattoo.”) People who had just gotten home from work, who were unloading groceries with their two children but wanted to know where to go vote so their kids could see them do it. Just people. Americans. All of them different. All of them collectively beautiful.

The nights were interesting as well. Some of my former students who were original members of Dan’s Delegation made the trip to Denver and wanted to meet up. They were working at campaign headquarters – a place I had been cautioned to avoid. At this point in the game, I didn’t care. These were my students. I wanted to see them and I knew I could help phone bank.

After an exhausting day, seeing these former teenagers who now reappeared to me as young adults having the time of their life brought a second wind. But my colleagues were gassed. They needed food and they needed to relax. I was disappointed when they opted to go to the Chevy’s across the road instead of taking the final two hours of the night to phone bank.

Talking to a person on the phone is different form talking to a person face to face. Hanging up on a person takes less gravitas than slamming a door in his face. They are less reserved with their commentary if they are unhappy with your invasion of their home. If you get berated you have to be ready for the next call immediately. Few find enjoyment in phone banking. Thick skin is a prerequisite.

In an effort to improve voter turnout, the Colorado State Legislature had recently implemented a vote by mail program. Our job was to make sure, on Sunday and Monday night, voters who had not mailed their ballots yet knew to drop them off directly at the precinct instead of in the mailbox. It was a good thing for us to do, even if some of the people we called didn’t want to hear it from us. Part of the script required that I find out that who they are voting for before I directed them where to drop off their ballot. I soon found out that leading with a political question rarely elicited a welcome response. Again, I strayed from the script:

“Hello, I’m so sorry to call and interrupt your evening, but I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t important… Have you dropped your ballot in the mail yet?... OK, don’t. If you drop it in the mail tomorrow, it won’t arrive by Election Day and it will not be counted. Let me tell you where you can go drop it off…”

This worked great until I got though giving one person directions on where to cast their ballot and she told me she was actually a Democrat who had already filled out her ballot for McCain. “Oh man… well good luck to you.” I tried to sign off politely, but she came back, “Wait, how do I know this isn’t some liberal trick?”

A liberal trick?

Instead of jumping into a tirade about how the last eight years had been the greatest, most horrific trick ever played on the American people, I bit my tongue and assured her that she would be able to drop off her ballot at the address I had given her. She didn’t believe me and she hung up. After that I went back to the script.

I met back up with my colleagues shortly after 9pm. I remember feeling at the end of the night that I had great success, but I was more than a little bitter with my friends. They asked me how many votes I had got. I told them that I had made over forty phone calls and twelve confirmed votes that otherwise would not have been cast. They laughed and told me they got twenty. “What the hell do you mean?” I inquired. “Well, there were two waitresses who didn’t know who they were going to vote for. We got them. There was a table of five fellas watching Sunday Night Football, we bought them a pitcher and got them. There were the two couples that were on a double date….”

This would be an important observation for the following night. After another long day of work in Johnstown, we returned to “Mission Control” in Denver to work the phones. As it was the all important eve of election night, I made the guys promise to phone bank with me for two hours, up until the 9pm deadline. They agreed. However, when we arrived, the system that automatically targeted and called voters was malfunctioning. We waited for a half an hour, then we decided to take matters into our own hands.

We drove directly to 16th Street Mall where the largest crowds could be found, parked the car and moved into the closest bar. The plan was simple: shamelessly get as many votes as possible.

But there were rules: As the next day was to be a big day, we had to be back in by midnight. We made it a point not to be rude or press when people didn’t want to talk, but we threw out leads to EVERYONE - waitresses, bartenders, patrons, people we passed on the street while we were between establishments. I am a fairly social person, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more social than this. I was with the right people, too. We bought everyone a drink who we thought would listen and ran up some mighty bar tabs. But we didn’t just stop at bars. Some of the greatest numbers of votes we got were with the workers we engaged at Quiznos, Subway, Starbucks – even Fedex Kinkos.

Me: “Hello, we’re three teachers who travelled 1,300 miles just to be here tonight…”
Worker: “Whoa. But we’ve got Kinkos all over the country.”
Me laughing: “That’s not why we’re here, you’ve got a minute to talk?”

My partner had an iPhone. I had a Blackberry. If they needed to know where to go vote, we looked it up, mapped it out and showed them. Our goal by the end of the night was thirty new and confirmed Obama votes. We hit thirty-four and we had a mighty good time doing it.

Continue To Chapter 8