122/365: 2003-2004

Thursday, 25 September 2008.

 

40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]

An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.

 

For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.

 

Year 36: 2003-2004

 

In late fall of 2003, I took a semi-official position with the Dean campaign -- official, in that I had to apply for the job, and semi, in that I was still just an unpaid volunteer. I combed the news each day for stories related to women's issues and gay/lesbian issues, wrote short abstracts for them, then compiled the abstracts into a report for each morning's 8:00 am policy meeting. In practical terms, this meant that I would start combing the net for news around 10:00 pm every night (this is generally around the time when newspapers post the following day's stories), and work through until around 4:00 or 5:00 am. The Republicans had decided to make gays and lesbians their political whipping boys that year, so the media coverage was extensive, and the work of compiling abstracts often dragged into the morning. After my report was done, I would go to sleep for a few hours, then get back up to deal with my regular job. I was exhausted, but I believed in what I was doing, so I loved every minute of it.

 

With the Iowa caucuses approaching, the campaign began to put out the call for volunteers to travel to Iowa to canvass the state. They would also need a number of volunteers to help staff what would be one of the largest all-volunteer canvassing operations ever undertaken: The Iowa Perfect Storm. I had six weeks of vacation saved up, so I decided to donate three of them to the campaign.

 

On January 4, I packed up the car and headed out to Des Moines. That morning, it had begun to snow heavily, and soon the entire area was blanketed with a record-breaking blizzard. I would not be deterred, however, and I drove to Des Moines doing 35 mph past the twisted wreckage of semi-trailers that had slid off the road, my fingernails dug tightly into the steering wheel. When I arrived, I checked into the motel where I would be staying for the duration of my time in Iowa. It was bitterly cold, and I was not looking forward to canvassing.

 

The next day, I reported for duty at campaign HQ. I was ushered into a room with a bunch of other long-term volunteers and given some basic volunteer coordination training. Those of us who would be there for a week or more would not be canvassing with the weekend volunteers. We would be deputized as staff members, and would organize and run the operation at HQ. I was relieved. The weather was predicted to be arctic, and I wasn't all that fond of talking to people anyway. Organizing things, on the other hand, was my forte.

 

When the hordes of volunteers arrived, we did our best to corral them, get them trained to canvass, and get them back outside with their maps and walk packets. When necessary, I would stand in the middle of the room and holler out instructions (I have an excellent voice for hollering).

 

The political media descended upon us like a swarm of bees. Jake Tapper here. Candy Crowley there. Tom Brokaw, unsure of which door would lead him to the Governor, poked his head in and asked for directions. During a lull in the canvassing, Mort Kondracke and I had a long conversation about the behavior of evangelical voters. I told him I thought evangelical voters were due for a change, and that it wouldn't be long before we saw the emergence of a religious Left. It wouldn't be as big or as vocal as the religious Right, but it would start to make its presence known, demanding action on the issues of social justice about which Jesus had spoken so eloquently. Kondracke thought this was hilarious. Who's laughing now, Mort?

 

I should be fair and say that the following anecdote may not be entirely true, but rumor had it that Tim Russert stole one of the famous Perfect Storm hats from one of the volunteers. They were the hot item of the season, and press members were going to great lengths to get their hands on one. The story has it that Russert asked a volunteer if he could see his hat. The volunteer handed over the hat, and turned around to talk to someone else. When he turned back to get the hat back, Russert was walking out the door, hat in hand. This story spread like wildfire through HQ, but later, the elements of the story began to shift, and so we were never quite sure what had really happened. The story seemed both implausible and amusing, and amusing won the day.

 

On the day of the caucuses, the campaign chose me to be a bellwether watcher. I would go to one of the caucuses deemed a bellwether for the rest of the state, observe the proceedings, and then report the results back to the campaign as soon as it was over. The results were not pretty, and as Jasper-Newton went, so went Iowa. Gov. Dean would come in a distant third.

 

As the staff and volunteers gathered for the post-caucus party, people were sad and angry by turns. I was thoroughly dejected. We had all put our whole hearts into the effort, and we got our asses whipped. All the hope and excitement we'd been riding on for the last several months seemed to dissipate into the frigid Iowa air. When Gov. Dean took the stage and chose to rally the room instead of speaking to the TV cameras, he made a move that was politically foolish, but personally grand. He energized us and gave us hope when we were feeling hopeless. The crowd roared, and it was deafening. It sounded like a jet engine taking off overhead. It was in this context that Dean shouted into the mic and then issued forth the famous Dean scream. People watching on TV never knew this because the networks had damped the crowd noise. And then that out-of-context, crazy clip got played and replayed and replayed in an endless loop, carving the heart out of the Dean campaign with a video knife.

 

When I got back to Chicago, I felt disconnected. The experience in Iowa had both overwhelmed and energized me. I felt as if I had woken up in Iowa after a long sleep, and been fully alive for the first time. I had come off the sidelines and gotten into the game, and I could not imagine being sidelined again.

 

Unfortunately, I would soon have no choice in the matter. For my entire career at Northwestern, I had been working on soft money. My projects were always grant-funded, and there had always been plenty of grant money to go around, but now the money well had dried up. The No Child Left Behind initiative had radically changed the nature of educational research. The emphasis had shifted almost exclusively to quantitative research, and the qualitative research that I was doing no longer had a market. This time, when the grant I was working on ended, so did my job.

 

I spent the summer and fall of 2004 living on unemployment and the proceeds from the sale of my CD collection. I'd amassed over 700 CDs over the previous 15 years, and at an average of $5 or so per CD, I was able to purchase a good deal of rice and beans and ramen. I was also astounded and humbled at the extent to which friends, family, and even distant acquaintances came forward to offer their assistance in both small and large ways. It brings tears to my eyes when I think about the kindness and generosity I encountered during those months.

 

C. and I continued to maintain our relationship via phone and e-mail, and I continued to retreat farther into that world to the exclusion of the real world, and my friends within it. My poor financial situation only served to exacerbate the situation, as I was often forced to decline any invitations to go out. The loneliness of my existence began to weigh heavily on me, and I began to feel as if I were dying inside. I loved C. very much, but I wasn't sure if I could continue to live this way and still retain my sanity.

 

Who am I?

 

I am pro-gay.

 

I was eager to help the campaign track gay and lesbian issues, because they are issues dear to my heart.

 

I used to be envious of my parents' generation, and their passionate sense that they had a mission to cure the world's ills. I didn't think my generation had that sense of mission. On a personal level, I was hopelessly agnostic about all things, to the point where I had a hard time taking a definite stand on anything. It was too easy for me to see multiple sides to the issues, and if there were multiple sides, who could say what was right and what was wrong?

 

But, the more I thought about the issues surrounding the rights of gays, lesbians, and transgender people, the more I found I could not rationally see any other side. It seems self-evident to me that it's nobody else's business whom someone loves. And there is no rational, non-religious argument for denying someone the legal protection of marriage, just because the person they fell in love with happens to be of the same sex. Believe me, I've heard them all, and not a one stands up to the slightest logical breeze. It is flat-out fear and a willingness to impose one's religious beliefs on others that drives this mania.

 

I realize that my bluntness on this point will offend some people who have convinced themselves that their opposition is rational, but it's not something I can mince words about. They are wrong.

 

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