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In the days leading up to the election, Barbara Considine from PDA Massachusetts volunteered to get-out-the-vote in the swing state of Ohio. In the following story, Considine describes her most outstanding experience:
I had to get out of the polling place in South Akron. I was beginning to think the whole idea behind this massive, election-day get-out-the-vote war plan had another purpose to it beyond ensuring a win for Obama: to give the glut of fired-up, campaign-obsessed volunteers something to do. Given the turn of events of 2000 and 2004, a Democrat could be forgiven for an acute case of victory-deprivation syndrome. But what to do when the much-anticipated lines snaking to the North Pole don't materialize, or when Karl Rove's minions don't bodysnatch Obama supporters and replace them with Sarah Palin clones? What to do when, at the polling places, the ratio of Obama volunteers to voters gets, well, embarrassing?
I returned to my Obama staging area, from whence I'd been sent forth in the pre-dawn chill hours earlier to monitor polling places. A staffer gave me a precinct packet and "Vote Today" door hangars, and I headed to the neighborhoods of Akron in the car I'd driven from Massachusetts a few days earlier. Understand, those of us from navy-blue states are campaign-obsessed and all fired up with nothing to do!
My canvassing experience plodded along pretty much as it usually does: lots of circling "NH," for "not home," and leaving door hangers. Also, I was glad to hear a lot of "I just voted," or "I'm heading out to vote right now." So I checked off the "Already Voted" box with a sense of satisfaction but not quite a sense of purpose. After all, this hadn't risen to the level of actually getting someone out to vote. This was just reporting back to the campaign-obsessed pack at the staging area who on my list had managed to get out and vote all by themselves.
Still, there was a feeling of exhilaration as I walked this particular neighborhood lined with trees that had not yet given up their shockingly beautiful red leaves. An unseasonably warm November sun warmed my back. The next house on my list showed a Mr. Wilson, age 93, with an absentee ballot. I knocked, and given his age, waited a little longer than usual for a response. The door swung open and before me stood a rather tall, elderly African-American gentleman. "Mr. Wilson?" I asked. Yes, he was. "I'm with the Obama campaign. Have you mailed in your ballot yet?" I don't recall his exact words but it amounted to, No, he hadn't, because he didn't have the postage and couldn't get to the post office. He had to hand-deliver the ballot himself today to the Board of Elections—immediately.
Any fool could recognize what a moment this was: here stood a black man born in 1915, poised to cast his vote for the candidate very likely to become the first black president of the United States. I called the campaign staff at the staging area and got the voice mail. It was 3:30, the polls closed at 7:30, and it was clear I should just take Mr. Wilson there myself. "Should I get ready now?" he asked me, reaching for his cloth jacket. "Uh, yes," I hesitated slightly, since I didn't know how to get to the Board of Elections. After Mr. Wilson was safely ensconced in my car, I hailed down the next car that went by.
A tan van slowed to a stop, the passenger window glided down, and a middle-aged African-American woman lowered her head slightly to look out at me. I explained the situation, asked for directions to the Board of Elections, and then she looked into my car at Mr. Wilson. "Aren't you my neighbor?" she asked him from a distance. He nodded slightly. I knew she could tell how loaded this moment was, too, although we didn't scream "Free at last!" or anything because, after all, this is the ultimate "no drama, please," candidate. She just said, "Follow me. It's too hard to explain."
So while we were all baring a rather nonchalant exterior, inside I saw us in the president's motorcade, flags flapping as the limo procession raced to its destination. En route, I learned that Mr. Wilson was born and raised in West Virginia, lived most of his adult life in San Diego, and, upon retirement 20 years ago, joined his son here in Akron. (My experience was made possible by his son being out of town at this time.) Mr. Wilson offered matter-of-factly that life sometimes didn't seem worth living at this age, what with memory lapses and aches and pains. I asked him if he'd been following the campaign in the news. My attempt to prompt some gushy expression about emancipation brought only this: "'Bout the only thing on television these days."
I pulled into the parking lot at the Election Board and straight into a handicapped spot, hanging my husband's disabled placard on the rear-view mirror. So what if the photo on it was that of a middle-aged white guy? Go ahead, ticket me. I'm bringing Mr. Wilson in. We thanked the woman who had guided us here and went inside. Mr. Wilson walked up to the counter, in that choppy-legged, Frankenstein monster gait of his, and handed over his sealed ballot to a waiting elections employee. Back outside, I was surprised to see our guide was still sitting there in her van. "It occurred to me, 'How're you gonna get back?'" she said.
Once again, the president's motorcade wound its way through the streets of Akron, to deliver the just-enfranchised Mr. Wilson home. He insisted I not pull all the way into his driveway closer to the door, that he'd get out at the curb and walk up. I had the sense he was anxious to return to the quiet and privacy of his home. He thanked me and I watched his stiff-legged progress to the front door. I resumed my canvassing, finishing up this neighborhood with a certain lightness now. Through chance, I had been handed the ultimate get-out-the-vote opportunity. That night, together with my new-found friends from Akron, I felt I could rightly claim a tiny stake in making Ohio blue in 2008.
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