Previously: After answering a flier advertising jobs that will “help elect Barack Obama,” I adeptly bullshited my way into a position as a canvasser for the Portland chapter of Grassroots Campaigns, Inc. Now comes the real challenge: keeping it.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Cruising into the Hollywood neighborhood around 1:15 p.m., I can’t help but feel anxious about my efficacy as a salesperson. After all, of all the jobs I’ve ever taken, exactly none of them called on me to part people from their money directly. And having no illusions about the nature of my job description, I can’t fool myself into an ideological stupor. Then there’s the small print relating to Observation Day. The job description I was given before I left the office the day previous lays out a Minimum Fundraising Standard that would ulcerate any newcomers stomach. To wit:
If a canvasser fails to raise quota … they must still meet a minimum fundraising standard of $100/day; failure to do so is grounds for termination. Specifically, canvassers must raise more than this amount in one of their first two days, and then consistently average above it each week thereafter.
But no pressure, right?
I ease my Saturn between two cars in a residential neighborhood four blocks away from the office. I force myself out of the car and forward, each step accumulating more dread as I calculate the probabilities of being fired. Familiar as I am with psychology, I know it’s not a healthy attitude. I’m resigning myself to failure before I’ve even begun working. But I also have to be pragmatic. I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable pushing people to donate after they initially refuse. It’s manipulative and crass, and a really aggressive canvasser will push a potential donor as hard as they think they can.
Maybe I can learn to be that aggressive, I counter as I head up the stairs. With employees undergoing some form of training every day before they go into the field, it’s a distinct possibility. Okay, I reassure myself, I can do this.
Sitting in that same small room with Lily and new hires before I’ve never met a few minutes later, I’m buying my own hype. We’re all reading from the rap, stressing intonation and getting down the flow of the thing. A goofy white kid with dreadlocks keeps trying to deviate from the script, while Lily keeps reeling him in. A sweaty, nervous fortysomething who reminds me of John Hodgman stumbles over his lines. But I keep cool, sounding concerned about the pressing political issues of our time. We’re doing well. I need to have more faith in my own abilities.
I’m an idiot for thinking that. As if determined to trip us up, Lily brings Pete, an experienced canvasser with glasses and mutton chops, in to finish her job. Pete’s style is at odds with the way we’ve been learning for the last half hour, and soon after we start he tells us to try the entire rap without the printouts we’ve been given. Memorization is not my strong suit. I’m fairly certain there are people who memory-specific brain injuries who could do a better job of retaining exact phrasing than me.
The first time the onus of recall falls to me, I get through a paragraph of the rap before I’m completely lost. The second time, I stumble through it like a frat boy on the verge of alcohol poisoning, but that’s apparently good enough for Pete. My companions weren’t much better. Pete looks like he’s about to run us through the gauntlet again, but glances at his watch, whistles, and snuffs the session so we can make it to the daily staff meeting.
Making our way across the hall, we see the rest of the staff is already ensconced in the back room. My new coworkers – many of them sporting tucked-in, dark blue DNC shirts – are volunteering song names in seemingly random order. Lily halts the strange litany of pop to announce “For those who just got here, we’re naming songs that best go along with our canvassing efforts.” Ah. Easy enough, then. The song I choose is so obvious, so forced and cornball that when it’s my turn and I say “My song would have to be Changes by David Bowie, because it’s my first day canvassing and Obama is going to bring change to Washington,” I’m genuinely surprised that I’m not stoned to death on the spot. Instead, everyone oooooo’s in approval like the idea had never occurred to them.
After Lily gives a quick rundown of last night’s big earners, we’re ready to get down to serious business. Field Managers run down their rosters for the day, giving the names of three other people who will accompany them to a predetermined area of Portland. I’m to go with Ricky, Andrew and Jenine to the Alberta district – and we’re taking the TriMet.
The bus lurches and halts along the narrow streets of Northeast Portland. I scribble down my team’s contact numbers on the assignment sheet on my clipboard with a fountain pen, borrowed, like my bus fare, from Ricky the Field Manager. Ricky made a point of telling me it’s a “fancy pen” and he’ll be needing it back not once, not twice but three times in five minutes. If anyone had told me I’d be needing these, I would have brought them, I seethe. My slow-burn anger is sidetracked by the bus opening its doors at the corner of 16th and Killingsworth, and Ricky gesturing for us to exit the vehicle.
My nagging doubts return full force as I survey the canvassing area assigned to us. The blocks off of Killingsworth St. are low income neighborhoods, something of a ghetto created by the ever-advancing gentrification of the greater metro area. It shows. Streets are dilapidated, yards even more so. Any hope I have of reaching my Minimum Fundraising Standard are lost as I step onto the cracked pavement.
Since it’s my first day, I’m required to shadow Ricky for the first 45 minutes out in the field, observing a more experienced canvasser in action. Andrew and Jenine, under no such constraints, split to cover their own beats. Plain to the point of nondescript, with a tucked-in button-up shirt, khaki pants and well-worn Nikes, my FM has all the charm of a pebble. In addition to being socially awkward, Ricky isn’t very interesting. From what little I can glean from him, he’s from the D.C. area, politically active enough to come out to Portland for GCI leading up to the election, and wild about his goddamn writing utensils. Beyond that there is nothing interesting or noteworthy. He’s not especially funny, or earnest, or smart. He just is.
His behavior at the first few houses we hit does nothing to dissuade me of this view. He approaches each residence with the same mechanical method, testing a homeowners’ interest. If they aren’t, he switches off the canvassing protocol ingrained in his mind and moves on. It is only through my efforts that he raises his first $20, from an older black gentleman prone to garrulousness. When he tells us he and his neighbors are tapped out, Ricky is ready to walk away. I keep the conversation going out of genuine interest, and somewhere between giving us a detailed history of the neighborhood and reminiscing about being drafted he changes his mind. Not that it will be counted on my tally, anyway – such are the perks of shadowing.
One door over, we meet a woman who is the very embodiment of the need for change. Her house is run down, and so, it could be said, is her body. She sincerely wants to donate to us, but is drowning in credit card debt and struggling to pay her mortgage. How are we supposed to make money where there is none? I feel bad that we even asked her.
And so it goes. House after house we see the same desperate conditions, the same sympathy for our cause and the same inability to give. Ricky seems blithely unaffected, but I feel their pain. It’s more damaging to the security of my job than self-doubt could ever be. I’m glad when we finally part ways. I’m not convinced I can do better on my own, but I can’t do any worse.
Demographically speaking, the area around Killingsworth is composed of African Americans, poor white college students, and a sprinkling of older white working class males. Only when I meet exceptions to the rule (say, a middle-aged female educator or a retiree), am I able to squeeze out contributions. The rest of the time, I’m fielding apathy, poverty or a combination of the two. I urge a recently married undecided voter to register before Oregon’s deadline passes. I learn to avoid houses with no soliciting signs and NRA stickers. What I’m not doing is pulling in many contributions.
The longer I’m out in the field the worse I feel. I’m tempted to give up altogether, find the nearest bar and throw back a couple of beers. Surely no one would know the difference. It might even make it easier for me to relate with the people I’m imposing on. My work ethic won’t allow for such turpitude, which is a shame. I could use the release. Instead, I make a game of trying to guess how quickly I’ll get shot down. This, too, would be better with booze.
The sun has set and I am deadened from the waste down. I was pushing my luck when I knocked on doors at dinnertime. Now, I’m met with outright hostility. I don’t really know what to do. My team is supposed to convene at a bus stop on 15th Avenue, but that won’t be for another hour. If I sit down, I run the risk of being seen by someone else on my team, and accused of slacking on the job. Having only raised $25 dollars cash, I would like to give the impression that I gave my all. I walk in circles around the poorly lit streets of a bad neighborhood, retreading a path of failure and misery.
It’s around this time I realize Ricky’s fancy pen is missing. I retrace my steps in either direction for several minutes, but as dark as it is, I might as well have searched for it with a blindfold on.
As I near the bus stop for the seventh time in a row, a bearded black man in a beanie calls out “What are you doing around this neighborhood after dark?” “I’m canvassing for the DNC,” I reply, the words exhausted before they ever leave my mouth. “I thought so,” he says, pointing to my clipboard. “I did that some years back. It’s rough work.” I can only nod. “Well, you’re not going to have much luck now. People won’t answer their doors after dark.” “I’ve noticed,” I say, more pitifully than I’d intended. “It’s good that you’re doing it though, man. What you’re doing is great work. It’s very important. I don’t have anything to give, but… would you mind telling me what you have to say?”
So I do my rap, almost perfectly, from memory. I even elaborate on it, adding a few lines about how Sarah Palin has energized the RNC’s fundraising efforts and how the DNC is really furthering Chairman Howard Dean’s vision of people-powered politics. The effort I put into it is more for me than him, though he seems suitably impressed. “I wish I could help,” he says, turning to leave. Then he stops, and tells me “You’re doing God’s work. God bless you.”
It’s funny. I don’t believe in an omniscient sky bully, but telling me that really does make me feel better.
The rest of my crew coalesces around the bus stop, oblivious to the fact that I’ve been sitting at against the convenience store next to it for the last 15 minutes. The stories they relay match my own. We’ve been running over fallow territory. No one pulled in donations even close to quota. If Ricky counted the first $20 he earned towards my tally, I would have a commanding lead over the rest of the group. It doesn’t work out that way.
The bus rides back are a blur. There’s paperwork to fill out, though I feel absurd doing it next to a sleeping transient. Another man sparks up a conversation with Jenine about how racism will prevent Obama from ever making it to the White House. Jenine has more faith in the system, assuring him Obama will pull ahead in the polls in no time. I don’t care at this point. I’m just glad to have the feeling return to my feet.
We return to the office around 9:45 p.m. I rush through my paperwork, hoping to get out of the building before Ricky has time to notice I don’t have his pen. Sarah walks over and tells me she wants to talk. I can only presume the worst. We go across the hall to the training room and arrange two chairs so that they’re facing each other. “I see you didn’t reach your Observation Day goal,” she notes. “Why do you think that is?” I explain the team was given a rough neighborhood. Based on the overall results of my team, she has no choice but to accept my answer. “Don’t worry, you can try again tomorrow,” she reassures me. “This time your goal will be $150.” Gulp. Of course, my gulp sounds a lot like “Yeah, okay” when a supervisor hears it.
“Can I hear your rap before you go?” I sigh heavily. “I’m exhausted, and I’ve been repeating it all day. Can I do this tomorrow?” “How about you just launch into it?” Sarah requests with an edge to her voice, which to an employee sounds more like “Fuck you. I told you to do something, now do it.” I launch into the most uninspired version of the rap I’ve ever done. Sarah watches attentively. As it progresses, I begin deviating from the script. “Stop right there,” she interjects, just as I’m about to tell her why her contribution is so important to the democratic process.
“What you did there was letting your voice come through. You should rewrite your rap to allow it to come more naturally. Just be sure to hit the main points.” That almost makes up for her interrupting me. I agree, because agreeing requires less effort than saying “What? You want me to do off-the-clock work?”
There may be a God, and he may be blessing me, because Sarah finally lets me go for the night.
Read “I was a tool of the DNC, part I: Bullshitting people is easy”
Read “I was a tool of the DNC, part III: The Have’s and Have-more’s”
