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. Then came the real challenge: keeping my job, which turned out to be harder than expected when I was sent to a low-income neighborhood with a hundred dollar quota for the day. I was only able to raise $25, but was given another chance. Can I make up for the failures of the previous day and secure a full-time spot with GCI?
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The burning question for today’s staff meeting is “What public office would you hold if you could?” Fuck if I know. If there’s such a thing as “Commissioner of Jobs Where People Get To Sit Down,” I’d take it. Then the downtrodden workers of the world (myself included) wouldn’t feel like they were run over by the steamroller in “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” after work. Through the leadership of this imaginary office, there would be a solid foundation on which I could rest their weary ass, yet somehow still make a difference in the world. Wouldn’t cold calling be a more effective method of persuasion?
Back to assignments. I’m going with Ben and Diane over the river and through the freeway to West Portland. This has to be better than last night’s poverty tour. It just has to. The locus of our activities borders Beaverton, so there are sure to be some sympathetic middle class houses, feeling the economic pinch but possessing the means to fight back against it. Before we embark, however, me and two other recruits will be participating in a response strategy session run by Tegan, a slight, chain-smoking Asian woman of indeterminate origin, who, along with Sarah and Lily, keeps GCI’s Portland chapter from collapsing in on itself.
The meeting adjourns and the staff disperses. I’m in no hurry to get involved in another exciting game of rote memorization, giving Ricky the opportunity to approach me. “Do you have my pen?” he asks with gravity hardly befitting a small, easily replaceable object. “Remember, I lent it to you yesterday?” As if I could forget. You’d think he used that pen to store his cocaine. “Uh, yeah,” I lie, more out of annoyance than any desire to part Ricky with his material possessions. “I left it…” I look around, feigning confusion. “…over there,” I say, gesturing towards a bookshelf in the far corner whose top is engulfed by unused contribution forms.
Ricky hurries over to the mess and scours it for an object that isn’t there. “It isn’t there,” he informs me. Thanks, Ricky. Now we’re all up to speed. “Well, uh, that’s where I left it last night.” Ricky pauses, words practically clawing for a way out of his mouth, and then stops. He starts again, “Uh…” Another pause. “Fine, then.” He turns to leave, a broken man mourning a missing pen. “Sorry,” I apologize, as he heads out the door. I should be sorry, but only the faintest twinge of regret bubbles to the surface. Maybe if he’d seemed more like a human being the day before, I could muster up honesty or empathy.
I never want to hear the term “your rap” again. As in, “Let me hear your rap.” The demand flies my way so frequently I could kill whoever wrote all eight paragraphs of the accursed spiel, oblivious that when a canvasser knocks at a stranger’s door, they just want them to get to the point. One minute we’re supposed to have it memorized verbatim – the next, it’s fine to improvise our own riffs so long as we hit the main themes. Tegan, naturally, wants to hear our raps. I think she’d really rather just spend all day smoking, because as soon as one cigarette ends another makes its way into her mouth.
On the hierarchy of offending words and phrases, “urgency” nips at “your rap”’s heels like a rabid chihuahua. We need to say things with urgency. We need to emphasize the urgency we should all be feeling this close to election day. I urgently need to raise $150 today if I’m going to keep punishing my back, testing my patience and humiliating myself in front of strangers. The strangers urgently need to pay their bills, or they’ll accumulate debt and mar their credit scores.
Satisfied that the words will forever be imprinted on the interiors of our skulls, Tegan finally initiates instructions on what to say once we’ve given our rap and been declined. The key to a successful response, as taught to us by our new lord and master, is to underhandedly manipulate a potential contributors sense of guilt. Say someone tells us they aren’t interested in giving. We’re then supposed to ask “But you support Barack Obama, right?” If they don’t, we cut your losses, but if they do (and here’s where things get beautiful), we’re to use that as a pivot point, for the first time putting them on the defensive and hopefully making them more pliable.
We have a hook in them, but they’re still wriggling. Why not make an appeal to the human brain’s love of novelty? One ostensibly effective method is the dollar-a-day pitch. “I know it’s hard to give money right now,” we’re to begin, licking our lips and steepling our hands. “But why not give just a dollar for every day from now until the election?” At this point there are 47 days left, so Tegan offers a addendum: “If you get them to say yes,” she advises through another slow drag, “Try to bump it up to an even 50, one dollar for every state in the union.” Even after getting what we asked for, we’re to know no shame.
The underlying message Tegan has imparted with the up-and-comers is to push people until they can’t be pushed any more, even if we have to work our way through a labyrinth of excuses and refusals. It is our job to be invasive, to latch on to latent feelings of civic duty or political uncertainty. Spelled out so explicitly, the unsavoryness of the task before me is ever more acute.
This time I came prepared; I have money for the bus. And that would be useful were there a bus to ride. Diane, an optimistic Hillblazer with squash in the back seat of her station wagon, is taxiing me and Ben, our young but ambitious Field Manager for the day, to our destination. Ben lays out the situation as we cross over the Burnside Bridge, all cold and ugly gray without a sunlight’s touch. There are only three of us on this team so we’ve got to step up our efforts. Ben offers encouraging words, and reiterates that I should use the techniques they’ve been drilling into our heads. I don’t tell either of them this, but my real goal today is anything over $25.
$25 might be selling myself short, as Ben gives me a more detailed description of the neighborhood we’re canvassing. It’s off the beaten path, purely residential, and thus filled with the kind of people who have the desire and the means to isolate themselves from the hoi polloi with hilly terrain and lush vegetation. I see exactly what he means as we turn onto Southwest Canyon Road. The larger houses are palatial; the smaller, plantational. If Killingsworth was one end of the spectrum, I was just sling-shotted to its polar opposite. One donation of $200. That’s all I need.
I’m dropped off at the corner of SW 82nd Ave with a clear-cut route and a renewed sense of purpose. I decide on a strategy as they drive away. There’s a long stretch of road to the East we passed to get here that I can hit before I work my way down 82nd. I head that way, marking down the addresses of residences so that I don’t have to waste time recording them later. I’m fairly certain I’m on the right path, but I can’t seem to locate a small cul-de-sac that I should have already passed. Still, everything else on my map seems to correspond- not that I can tell much of anything, with tall trees obscuring my view around the bend. It’s not enough to make me turn around though, so I walk until I reach a drastic turn to the south, which must be the end of my route.
I mean to approach the first house to my right, but have difficulty deducing the proper way to approach knocking on the door. The door is the problem – there are several to chose from. There are sliding glass doors on a deck facing the street. It’s obvious trying to reach anyone through those would be a breach of soliciting decorum. From the deck, there are stairs leading down to a sunken driveway, with an open garage door. Again, I have the feeling making my approach from inside the garage would be grounds for the owner whipping out a rifle and screaming “Get the hell out of my house!”
Not knowing where else an acceptable entryway might be, I tread to the side of the house. I must look curious, with my head titled and my body language hesitant, to the man with the gray-flecked mustache peering at me through the screen of his front door. “Can I help you?” he asks gruffly. I’m flustered. “I… uh… I’m canvassing for the DNC and, uh, Barack Obama…” He smirks. “You’ve got the wrong house,” he barks, and slams the door. At least he didn’t show me his shotgun.
I’m out of breath and all moisture has abandoned my throat. I’m probably downright terrifying to the unlucky souls who open their doors to a stranger panting heavily, then asking in a raspy voice for money. I don’t blame them for refusing me, as out of shape as I evidently am. No. You know what? I do blame them, for buying houses at the top of hills. It’s every bit as effective at keeping people out as a moat would have been in medieval England. Poor people have the decency to live in cramped quarters with unimpressive lawns, crushed by circumstance and the knowledge that life will only get worse. The people I meet here aren’t like that- at least, not on the outside. They can afford veneers.
That is, until I meet Doug. Doug’s house is as grand as any of the ones bordering it, but after I spot Democratic-leaning bumper stickers on his car, I figure that if nothing else I can at least get a drink of water. I knock weakly on the door and am greeted by a husky, though amiable, 40-something man. I recite my rap, to which he isn’t biting. “I’d like to help out, but we really don’t have any money to spare. My wife’s sick,” he nods towards the inside, “and unlike everyone else on this block we’re renting.”
“That’s okay, I understand. If it’s not too much trouble, can I get a drink of water?” I croak. “Sure!” he responds enthusiastically. “You look like you could use it! Come on in.” Among the many rules I’m expected to follow in the field, foremost among them is that a canvasser is to never enter someone’s home. Whoever devised that policy was nowhere near as thirsty as I am. As I follow Doug into his spacious kitchen, he offers me freshly-made rice crispy treats. There’s no way he could have anticipated my arrival and had enough time to tamper with them, making me fairly certain what I’m gobbling up isn’t laced with exotic poison.
“Hold on,” Doug tells me, “I’ve got something to show you.” He disappears into the next room. I can feel the sweat on my neck drying as a cool wind wafts through the still-ajar door. Doug returns, cradling a photograph. “See,” he beams, “That’s Barack Obama… and that’s me.” He walks over to a framed photograph on his wall. I follow. “Here we are again.” And indeed, there they are. “That’s awesome,” I enthuse. It’s too bad he’s strapped for cash, because I’ll be damned if he isn’t the ideal candidate for contributing. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I really appreciate it.” So does my stomach.
I step outside, ready to continue my mostly thankless task, but Doug follows. “Would you like some fresh tomatoes?” Of course I’d like more free food. Does he even need to ask?. He picks a few small tomatoes off a potted plant and hands them to me. I’m going to end up dining at his place at this rate. “So what do you think of McCain’s economic policy?” he probes. “I think they’re a disaster,” I opine, my mouth still full of red pulp. “And I think McCain and his advisers are completely out of touch. Having less than $5 million dollars is not a workable definition of the middle class, and we’re sure as hell not ‘a nation of whiners’ for feeling the effects of the economic downturn.”
Doug nods enthusiastically. “That’s one of the reasons it’s so important to elect Barack! I see you know your stuff,” he compliments, pulling out his checkbook. “As I said before, I can’t give you much. How’s $20?” “Every bit helps,” I tell him, glad to be getting anything at all. After handing me a check, he offers his expertise: “You might want to try the houses down SW Miner Way,” he says, pointing to a nearby road that turns Southwest. “Practically every house I see has an Obama/Biden sign on the front lawn.”
Doug then proceeds to give me a union/Obama pin so people believe I’m with the DNC and sage advice on how to pump money out of his neighbors. No home-cooked meal, though. Bastard.
I’ve been traveling along East along Southwest Canyon Road for what seems like an eternity. My change of direction came shortly after I left Doug’s palace, when I happened to run into Diane, who looked entirely lost. According to her, there was some overlap in our routes. As a result, the last few houses she visited had already been covered. “Have you been on Miner?” she asked, referring to the fertile Obamatopia Doug had promised me. “Erm, no…” I began. “Good,” she jumped in, “I’ll take it,” and she hurried away, leaving me with the nagging suspicion I’d been reading my map wrong. Just to be certain, I started walking East again, to see where exactly where my route was supposed to end, not stopping to canvass. Now, an immeasurable stretch of time later, the houses are, if possible, even grander, and–
“Robert!” Ben is walking towards me at a brisk pace, that unsettling look of confusion on his face as well. “What are you doing here?” I explain my situation, feeling my enthusiasm drain as I study my Field Manager’s reaction. When I finish, Ben smiles condescendingly, like he’s explaining something to a child. “You went the wrong way.” He looks at my map, and nods. “See, yeah, you were supposed to go West, and then South.” Despite appearing to have the same setup, this is the exact opposite of the map Ricky gave me the day before. I grit my teeth and lower my head, dejected. “Fuck. I’ve got to go. Bye.”
I kick myself as I retrace my steps yet again. I should have trusted my gut instinct when I couldn’t find the cul-de-sac, or when I ran into Diane, or even when the road didn’t end like it was supposed to on the map. I’m in an extremely upscale neighborhood yet I’ve only raised $20. Worst of all, I’m a good way off from where I’m supposed to be. This is of no small consequence, because I catch a faint glimmer of the setting sun through the clouds. If I don’t get back on track, I might as well give up. No one’s going to be receptive once dusk envelops the land. Another problem: my body doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, as that same familiar feeling of exhaustion comes back with a vengeance.
“I’m sure you’ll have at least one more day,” Diane promises me in a mollifying tone as she drives through the darkness back to base. “I didn’t see Sarah at the office today, so you can at least finish your week.” “I don’t know. I’m not trying to be negative, just pragmatic, and it doesn’t seem like I’m very good at it. I raised even less money than I did in a poor neighborhood. Maybe I’m just not cut out for canvassing. There are other jobs I can do.”
I’m resigned to being cut loose. If I were in charge of someone like me, I don’t think I’d have a choice but to take them off the roster. “It takes practice,” Ben jumps in, “and at worst, you get paid for one more day. You really should finish out the week.” Mostly to shut the both of them up, I agree. Sure, I can hold out one more day for more money. And maybe I’ll get the middle class neighborhood of my dreams. I could still be an excellent salesman. GCI has barely given me a chance.
Diane parks her station wagon parallel to the now-dormant Quiznos. We get out and start walking. “I don’t feel like a failure, though, at least not totally. I know I tried,” I tell the both of them. “And if I am let go, I won’t miss being in pain every day. I have scoliosis. All that walking couldn’t have been good for my back.” “Oh, you have scoliosis?” Ben asks. “If we have to give them any excuses, I’ll just blame it on that.”
We walk into the office, which is devoid of personnel… except for Sarah. “Why are you so early?” she asks. “Robert has scoliosis,” Ben blurts out.
Sarah flags me down as I’m about to leave the building. “We should talk,” she says perfunctorily, gesturing me towards the training room. I follow, resigned to the inevitable conclusion of my inadequacy as a tool of the DNC. She closes the door, even though no one is around to eavesdrop.
“This isn’t a good fit.”
“I figured.” I did. Really. It’s more like she had to throw that out there to make sure we were on the same page.
And, like tearing off an old band aid, the job is over. Sarah gives me information about picking up my paycheck, then bids me farewell as I head down the stairs. I wish I could say I was disappointed, but mostly, I’m just relieved. My experiment has come to a close, with clear results. I hate walking for hours on end, not to enjoy the landscape but to stripmine an area of donations. I’m not a very good salesperson, either because of the way I present myself or my reluctance to impose myself on other people. And most importantly, if I can help it, I won’t be canvassing again. There are other ways to earn a living and make a difference.
I’m not alone. The frequency of turnover in door-to-door and street corner fundrasing is astronomical, and employee satisfaction with Grassroots Campaigns, Inc. in particular is low. Critics argue that while canvassing brings in money in the short term, it alienates people in the long run, poisoning a well the Democratic party will need to draw from down the road. As someone who passed down the throat, into the belly and through the intestinal tract of the beast, I would have to agree. I just wish I could have held onto the position during a month that saw severe slowdown in the job market.
Read “I was a tool of the DNC, part I: Bullshitting people is easy”
Read “I was a tool of the DNC, part II: Eloquence under a threadbare cloak”
