Living Blue in the Red States

10. A Campaign That Failed

10. A Campaign That Failed Deb Olin Unferth I talked them into it. I said we could change the course of history. I asked them if they knew how many Democrats there were one hour from where our feet at this moment rested. I said I had figured out the election would be decided by ten electoral votes. Guess how many electoral votes Missouri has, I said. Then I had this whole thing about how a hundred thousand votes would decide the election, something about some other election that had been decided by a hundred thousand votes.“Remember Florida,” I said knowingly. And guess what was in Kansas City, one hour from our resting feet, just over the state line. Guess. A hundred thousand newly registered Democratic voters. But how could we know they were Democratic voters if they were newly registered and therefore had never voted? They were previously hidden Democrats. The forgotten ones, nearly left behind but now rounded-up, roped in. As numerous as train whistles, as crickets. As close and as far as the sun, the heart of the sky. The thing seemed vaguely flawed even to me. I mean, how dim did I think those hundred thousand people were? They needed to be reminded to vote? But listen, they were forgetful Democrats (aren’t we all?). They needed a note pinned to their sweater, or a little party favor, a sticker or a magnet: Vote November 2. 136 A Campaign That Failed | 137 I imagined this: I’d stride from house to house with my clipboard. “Interesting point of view,” I’d say. I’d click my pen, pause.“Have you considered . . .” I imagined myself speaking with grace and ability, rubbing their own views from their minds. “Hell, what else am I doing this afternoon?” they’d say and untie their aprons or put down their wrenches and so on.“Gimme a list, I’m coming along.” Then the Democratic National Committee announced they were pulling out of Missouri. They were stopping the ads, not coming for visits anymore. They had given up on Missouri. Missouri is lost, they said, all the Democrats said. Lost as a lone kernel in a Kansas cornfield. They closed up their office and left. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. “What is going on?” said the volunteers.“What about the plan?” “Don’t listen to them,” I said. “Who knows Missouri, us or them?” (I had never actually been to Missouri, that is, off a highway and outside a gas station.) “Who’s got a hundred thousand newly registered Democrats just over the state line?” On Saturday October 30 I caravanned out with thirteen or fourteen volunteers. We showed up for the training session in the biggest theater in Kansas City along with five hundred other people and we were so excited. A man got up and talked. “We’ve got five hundred people here!”he said and we all shouted back,“Yeah!”This went on for about an hour, then suddenly he was gone and someone else got up and said, “ok, all precinct leaders, come get your packet. We’re ready to go!” Everyone in my group looked at me. “Are you a precinct leader?” one of them asked. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Are you sure?” I thought about it.“What’s a precinct?” Everyone admitted they didn’t know but that I better damn well go up and ask. I didn’t want to go up and ask. It was a mess up there, people crowding around, everybody shouting and waving their hands. “Maybe we should just wait and our precinct leader will come,” I said. 138 | Deb Olin Unferth They looked at me. “We came all the way here for you to sit there like a rock?” I went up. “How many?” asked the woman who seemed to be in charge. I frowned. Just what we were talking about here? “How many precincts do you want?” “How many are there?” I asked doubtfully. She handed me a stack of large manila envelopes and a pile of door hangers stamped with a picture of a local Democratic candidate I’d never heard of. “What’s this?” I held up the envelopes. “Precincts,” she said. Even I knew no precinct could fit it an envelope but I went back to my group with the manila envelopes and door hangers. I...