October 10, 2008
In which I join a radical, left-wing political group
We milled around the faux-wood paneled conference room, tan and tired, filling our clipboards in the musty confines of the teachers’ union hall off U.S. 92. I looked up to assess a fresh face with shoulder length hair stepping past the glow of the soda machine, into the room. Oh god. Not me. “Hey, Mike! We’ve got a new person for your team.”
This was my summer with ACORN. I had graduated a few months before, with a music degree and no prospects, and the primary thought on my mind when I responded to the classified ad was making rent with a temporary 8 bucks an hour. A community organizer me handed clipboard and the framework of a spiel: “Help raise the minimum wage! Excuse me sir, are you registered to vote?”
And off I went, in front of DMVs and supermarkets, into the neighborhoods I was raised to understand white folk just didn’t frequent. I learned a lot about race and class that summer. Black neighborhoods were not the war zones I had been led to believe; behind the opaque screens of flaking-paint porches were more-often-than-not quite lovely grandmothers, who seemed thrilled to have us visit. The groups of young men on the corners would eye us warily, eventually shouting, “You for Bush?” Us: “We’re just registering voters. You signed up?” “Yeah. Fuck Bush!” The cars pulled up side to side in the shadows, the middle-of-the-street shouting matches…well, you just minded your own, and you were left alone.
My numbers got me promoted to Team Leader: a buck more an hour, I got to drive, and the new hires were my responsibility. Canvassing is tiring, temporary, low-paid work, and it attracts the workforce to match, a mix of idealists, clock-punchers, and downright cons. The high school Democratic Club kids on summer break were the easiest to deal with; the middle-aged, downtrodden folks looking for a quick buck didn’t last as long. New hires were seemingly not vetted beyond a Social Security Number; it took three long days for my boss to respond to my protests that that the a wild-eyed man on my team, in suit and tie regaling passers-by with proclamations about Mary Queen of the Universe, might not be the best representative of our organization. And so it went.
But that morning–within five minutes, really–we had forgotten Rancid’s name, on account of his appearance: skinny and pale, seemingly 12-years old; black pants with unnecessary straps and buckles, a band t-shirt. Rancid. I was in no mood to discuss the assignment with my fellow team leaders as we headed for my car. “Have fun!” they chimed.
As we walked down the glass-lined curbs of Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, I did what I could to fill the kid in on our campaign: Amendment 5 will raise the minimum wage, register every voter you can. But my companion looked shell-shocked, a freshman punk well outside his comfort zone. As we walked past a bus stop, a group of waiting elementary schoolers sized us up. “You guys lost?” leered an eight-year-old. Rancid remained silent, quickening his step. “You in the wrong neighborhood!”
I smiled, turning up the first driveway of the day.
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I love this.
It is rather awesome, isn’t it.
oh my god Mike, you were a community organizer. voter fraud! voter fraud!
A community organizer indeed. Crazy people would be the best to work with, it’s like a dollar raise in and of itself.
I had an employee once who had been a hospital chaplain in a previous life. He told us of having been awakened one night when he was on call, summoned to see to the needs of a man in the ER. The man was in a wheelchair and had rolled himself to the hospital in hopes of being given cab fare to the homeless shelter. He explained that he’d spent his entire disability check on Viagra and whores. My employee (nee Chaplain) saw no humor in this and told the tale with disgust. The rest of us were delighted and agreed we would gladly pay extra for such an experience.
I ended up firing the guy, of course.