Lessons from the Campaign Trail

This post was submitted by Corey, TNG's newest editorial assistant.  You can read his take on politics, gay stuff, and life at his blog, Homoelectus.

I spent the summer as a full-time, unpaid organizer for the Obama campaign in Oregon, 3,000 miles from home. I had no workout equipment and no money to join a gym, so I took up running to try to stay in shape.

I was primarily working in the city of Eugene – where Nike was born and Steve Prefontaine once ran for the U of O. It was also where the Olympic track and field trials were taking place, so I felt plenty inspired to invest in a pair of Lunar Trainers at the Nike store downtown.

…

One of my assignments had me leaving Eugene and going out to Florence, a tiny town on the Pacific coast, for the Fourth of July. The campaign wanted to have organizers in even the smallest cities that weekend for our nationwide voter registration efforts.

I went with a fellow organizer who had a home in Florence and who warned me that, unlike the hippie- and student-filled town of Eugene, this was not a liberal place. Having just returned from five months in the Middle East, I figured I could handle conservatism pretty well, and thought that despite my hectic schedule this trip may even include an hour on the beach. I eagerly packed my bags and left late Thursday evening.

…

Those new shoes cost more than I, a person of modest means, had ever spent on shoes before. I’m pretty good about taking care of my belongings, but I’ve never been good at shoe maintenance. It always felt like a catch-22 – if I single-knotted them, they would come untied in a matter of minutes, and if I double-knotted them, they would never come untied. So my policy was to either leave them untied, or to keep them forever in knots and just tear them off my feet.

That was no way to treat hundred dollar Nikes, my sole indulgence in that penniless summer. I wanted these to last.

…

The morning of Independence Day, I went for what remains today the best run I’ve ever been on. The air was cool and hazy, the scenery beautiful, and I ran twice as far as I had ever run before, all by seven in the morning.

After that the organizer I was staying with, Rosie, took me around town. She was Florence’s only African American resident, and at six feet tall with an equally striking personality, everyone in the small town knew who she was.

Our first stop was a coffee shop on Main Street. We walked in and Rosie began working her magic, waving to everyone, buying me coffee, and schmoozing the shop’s owner. She led me over to a big table with about a dozen senior citizens sitting around it. She introduced me to everyone and, while she began talking to a few people seated on one side, a man from the end of the table yelled out to me.

“You look good with that purse, fellah,” he said, flipping his hand to make that stereotypical gay motion that no gays actually make. Looking down at my side, I realized he meant the mini-messenger bag I used to carry registration cards, buttons, and all my other campaign essentials. Sure, it was rather purse-like, and yes, it was from H&M, but I had never really thought of it as “gay” before. I guess I never really cared. But this guy did.

When I didn’t get defensive, and simply said “thanks,” he turned to his wife and whispered. A few seconds later, he yelled out, “Maybe he’s queer!” and then, “Don’t let him get too close!”

I was embarrassed, and worried about what I had gotten myself into, and angry. I was angry at that man, but also at Rosie, who had stood there and said nothing while I was harassed; I half-heartedly gave her the benefit of the doubt that she had been too distracted to hear him, but my gut told me that she did, and didn't want to burn bridges with old friends by coming to my defense. I tried my best just to stand there and not say anything. I represented the campaign, and the last thing we needed was a headline in tomorrow’s paper reading, “Gay Obama Organizer Beats Up Elderly Veteran.”

But this was no way to start a weekend of activist meetings, open houses, and campaign events.

…

The first time I came in from a run, I sat down on the linoleum entryway of the house I was staying at in Eugene. My host was Muslim, and based on his traditions he preferred that I keep my shoes off indoors. The twice-tied laces did not want to budge, but I sat there fiddling with them, intent on not ripping them off like I had every other pair of shoes in my life.

…

I sent a long email to my boss that night, trying to vent on what had happened so that I would be able to do my job there for two more days. Obama had just taken a very weak stance on the gay marriage ban in California, and I had spent months angry that his civil rights proposal ignored LGBT folks, despite the widespread discrimination we face. There was also the ongoing issue, of course, that he doesn't actually support full marriage rights for gays at all. Not that I expected that, as such a candidate could not yet win the support of the people, but on days like this it felt pretty shitty to be working for a guy who would rather run from the issue than stand up for civil rights. I wrote, as diplomatically as I could, that maybe if our leaders had just a little more courage, people like me wouldn’t have to deal with this shit and wouldn’t always feel like we were living on the edge of what was even allowed in our society.

She called within minutes of my sending the email, saying she was very sorry and making sure I was okay staying out in the boondocks. And she told me that she would pass my message on to our regional director, but noted that it’s very hard to get these messages through to the top.

As if that was news.

…

Finally I got it. Pulling on the loop was always the easiest way to start, but then the plastic casing on the end of the string stopped it from moving. However, tugging on the loop first loosened things up so that I could yank the end of the lace and watch the loop pull easily through. In two seconds, the laces were untied, and I could carefully remove my brand-new shoes.

I sat in amazement at how stupid I was. At twenty-one years old, I was just learning how to untie shoes, which might as well have meant I just learned how to tie them. After all, you can’t really say you have things together if you lose your mind when it’s time for them to unravel.

Sometimes learning a lesson comes with the painful realization that you’ve been ignorant to reality for a very long time.

...

I didn’t stay on the riverfront that night after our registration drive was over. Rosie had invited me back to the coffee house to watch the fireworks with her and her friends, but I declined and went to her home instead. The door was unlocked; some towns are still like that, I guess.

I worked out upstairs, trying to relieve my stress with her exercise videos and free weights, and to forget about my day. Hearing noise outside, I looked from the window as the night’s first fireworks spread across the dark, empty canvass of the sky. Sighing, I closed the drapes and thought to myself, Happy Independence Day.