My Life as a Donkey

"Hi there! How are ya? Nice, that's awesome...oh man, I'm excellent, really. Well, my name's Matt and I work on behalf of the Democratic National Committee, and we're out in your neighborhood tonight to build support to win back that White House and EXPAND our congressional majorities, cuz I don't have to tell you - after six years of Bush's failed leadership we need a totally new direction in 2008.
So, here's how we'll do it: In February of 2006 the DNC launched a groundbreaking Fifty State Strategy, which placed campaign staff and organizers on the ground in every single state. We know how much this helped us to win the Senate and the House in Oh Six, but it also helped us to win key races around the country in places we didn't even know we had support in before. So now, with 15 months before the 2008 election, we're out here early to build that infrastructure and just imagine what we can do in that time.
The stakes are just huge for who we elect as our next president, and that's really why we are out in your neighborhood tonight. Here's our statement of support... the best way YOU can help us is with a contribution of $350 to the DNC. We know that this kind of grassroots energy is absolutely essential to a successful national campaign and it's YOUR support that gives US the resources it takes to win. And the best way you can do that is with a credit card or a check made payable to the Democratic National Committee."

That was me. For two months in Seattle, the summer of 2007. I'd knock on 100 doors a night in my blue t-shirt sporting DNC in American flagging letters. 50 people would open the door. 30 of them would cut me off at some point, leaving only 20 people who hear the whole rap, and of those 20, maybe 5 would turn around and give me cash, their credit card information, or hand me a check. Some gave $200. Some gave $5. One gave me $3, "For beer," he said, "not for the Democrats."

It's more complicated than just giving "the spiel." I had an answer for every reason someone would say NO to me, taking the conversation back to them, eventually improvising my words with their ideas and concerns into a conversation, and funneling everything back into the idea that this was the time and place to give a lot or a little to keep the GOP at bay. There are countless ways to get anyone to at least listen to you longer then they are willing, and each way opens another avenue of trust and interest or rage and passion which all eventually leads to a rather unique experience at someone's front door, and the longer you extend the interest in that experience the more likely the avenue will lead back to the point where they might actually consider giving you money, even when they were convinced that they weren't going to give any. Why? Because politics matters and it enters everyone's lives at some level and we all need to be involved if we care. Period. Also, I used to sell raffle tickets on Union Street in San Francisco and would sing for you if you bought 12 for $20.

In the entire two months, one couple offered me wine and dinner. Three offered me water, a pair of sisters offered me a beer, and one guy gave me licorice, ice water and a $200 credit card donation. Many Republicans offered me advice on how to grow up/stop being a communist and a socialist/what to tell my bosses, but more of them were genuinely sorry to be of absolutely no interest to me as they closed the door. A few snarled as steam rose from their ears and venom swelled in their mouth, but only a few. Children hid from me behind open doors, smiling. Small dogs of the high-pitched variety snarled and jumped and chased me out of long open front yards. Large dogs just licked my sweaty face. Countless cats let me walk over them among the lavender bushes. A few people per day invited me into their homes to give me money or to just sit and talk, including a total of three teachers who offered sagacious advice on my upcoming career choices. One guy offered me comic books he had published about WW2 from the Japanese perspective. Another man said he didn't have time because his wife was in labor, and I kept myself from asking, Why are you answering the doorbell, buddy?

The Good: I walked at least 7 miles a day up down and around all of Seattle and the Puget Sound area, along waterfront property and hilltop mansions, back alleys and concrete jungle side streets. I lost another 25 pounds in the process to drop me below The Mendoza Line for the first time since my first Oktoberfest in 2001. I met a fun, intelligent, driven, eclectic and transient clan of co-workers who became my newest group of friends. I helped people register to vote. I had some sweet conversations with sweet views of the mountains and the water at sunset on porches with fountains and buddhas and massive spider webs. I learned Seattle's streets at a speed only taxi drivers could beat. In moving to a new city I decided that the best way to shake my early inhibitions was to knock on random people's doors to talk about politics and ask them for money. And they actually gave me money. I raised some serious funds for the Demos, and still I got this sweet T-shirt which I'll no doubt be called upon to return someday.

The Bad: Working for a daily and weekly quota is fine until the magic wears off. Then, you realize that medical insurance is important.

It's not because of the money, it can't be. It's because I do not want Republicans to run the White House nor wrest control of government from the party I believe is made of and for the majority of the American people. I didn't like the door slamming into my face, but I loved people waving at me or telling me, even when they said no to my cash request, that they appreciated me doing this thing that they could never do for something they believed in. I didn't like the people who didn't care. I didn't like one-sided lectures from people, but I loved being that guy who maybe was a highlight of their evening or made them watch the news longer than usual that night. I loved the blackberries growing on the side of so many streets, the trees everywhere and the flowers in front yards, and the sweet wooden angles of the homes where people spent their days and nights. I really didn't like being rejected over and over and over again at the front doors of average Democratic Seattle-ites who didn't understand that as little as $5-10 from every one of them was significantly responsible for what I relied on for income.

My last night on the job came on a dark late-summer street below a half moon over Puget Sound in a neighborhood named after a stove company. It rained from dusk till dark and my clipboard was damp. My last donation came from an Ohio family renting someone else's house. My last opened door showed me an apathetic guy whose house smelled like a warm cookie factory. My last door was a home filled with people in the large front window sitting or standing and talking, ignoring the ringing doorbell, the hard knocking on the solid wood door, and the guy who needed them to answer it.