This weekend I drove south from Washington to volunteer for the Obama campaign. They had plenty of staff in Portland, so my son and I were assigned to rural northwestern Oregon -- home to working Americans, hard-working Americans, white Americans.
Americans who are voting for Barack Obama.
Many more pictures (click for more detail) and the full story after the jump.
We left Washington on Friday night and made the drive down I-5, crossing the Columbia River at Kelso and heading on down Highway 30 to St. Helens, Oregon. The Best Western had a pool, wireless, clean rooms, and free breakfast, which met all of our requirements. We settled in, ready to start the day bright and early on Saturday.
Once I realized I hadn't loaded Oregon into my GPS, I fell back on Google maps on my cell phone to find my way to the St. Helens Obama volunteer office.
St. Helens is a quaint small town north of Portland. The median annual income is around $39,000, the median home value is about $152,000, and the population is 90% caucasian, primarily self-identified as of European descent. Those identifying as mixed-race or "other" account for a little over 4% of the population.
Driving down Columbia, the main drag:
I turned off into Old Town to find the Obama office. Giggle with me at the Prius parked outside:
Inside, the very friendly Kate took the donuts we brought from Safeway and helped us settle in. It was decorated with signs made by local kids and by a 70-something volunteer from town:
The office had a mural of St. Helens painted on one main wall, and it had been adorably decorated with Obama bits:
After orientation and a breakdown of our goal for the day (visit targeted registered Democrats, find out if they'd already voted, and make sure they knew how to get their ballot in if they hadn't yet), my son and I set out armed with materials, a list, my GPS, and a map. It was a driving canvass, given the rural nature of the area we were covering.
It was 90+ degrees, which meant we'd drive to a house, get out and go talk to the folks, and while we were talking the car would warm up to about 110F. We'd turn on the air conditioning, sweat, sneeze, and by the time we got to the next house, it was back to 80F or so in the car. Rinse and repeat.
But I'm not complaining. Why? Because rural northwestern Oregon is Obama country. These people are middle class, they own homes, they work hard, they commute long distances, and they are ready for change. The sheriff challenging the incumbent (and the sheriff's race was by far the most contested in the county) is running on the slogan, "Time for a change."
It makes it all worth it when you see things like this as you're out driving around:
The fellow who put the sign up was out watering his vegetable garden, so I stopped to tell him how much I liked it, and how much I appreciated it. He seemed a little taken aback as I explained that I'd come down from Washington to get out the vote this weekend. As I was walking back to my car, he called out to me, "You know, enough people like you around, it's gonna happen!"
Oh yes, it is.
After four hours -- as much as the boy could handle in the heat with me saying "oh wait, here's another street on our list, just three more houses" about five times -- we'd been to 32 homes, where I made contact with 15 people on my list. I frequently found whole houses full of Obama voters, including one hilarious stop where the woman who answered the door said, "Five of us already voted for Obama!" and an older man's voice drifted in from the other room, "AND I VOTED FOR McCAIN!" She looked a bit sheepish and said, "We cancel him out, right?" I assured her it was quite all right.
I met a few folks who didn't want to disclose who they voted for, but who didn't ask to be taken off of Obama's canvass list. I met one woman who answered the door for her husband (he was on my list, and wasn't home), and she said to me, "Well, I'm not with Obama, but I can't speak for my husband." I thanked her for her time and for voting. Husband? Either Operation Chaos or cancelling her out, I assume.
We closed out the day and headed for Portland. On the way out of St. Helens, I discovered the real problem with St. Helens and all of those Obama voters: Lattes.
There were espresso places everywhere. Clearly there's something in the coffee. But all was not espresso and arugula: there was also some good old fashioned rural American food to be had.
(Apologies for the quality of those -- I'm a good photographer when I'm not driving, but I prefer to be a good driver when I'm photographing.)
Anyway, we made it to Portland in a half an hour or so, settled into our crappy little hotel next to Waterfront Park, and set out to case the area in advance of Sunday's rally. I was impressed with this memorial:
The inscription reads,
Erected by the citizens of Oregon to the dead of the Second Oregon United States Volunteer Infantry
Anno Domini MDCCCCIV
We walked around Waterfront Park and noted the awesome fountain for kids to play in, thinking the boy would get to play in it the next day. (Sadly, that area of the park was blocked off on Sunday, which disappointed the boy). He said he needed to find a bathroom and we were about to cross back into downtown when the cops shut down the street. Turns out Obama's motorcade had the same idea we did, and was taking a swing past the venue. I got only one crappy "holding my camera above my head and hoping for the shot" picture of the bus:
There was Obama gear everywhere. Volunteers were handing out flyers advertising the rally the next day. Everyone was talking about it. And pretty much everyone who talked about it showed up this morning, like we did, to take part.
We got into line at around 9:45 a.m., a mere two blocks back from the entrance to the park. By the time they started moving people through security at 11:30 a.m., the line was more than 2 miles long, winding all through downtown. By now you've heard the reports of 75,000 in attendance, so I'll share a line moment: the ladies in front of us were thoroughly prepared, including a cooler and a game of Scattergories.
We waited. And waited. And it was hot. The boy took off his shirt and poured water over his head. Volunteers came around and refilled my water bottle from gallon jugs. They handed out cups of water. I stood in line next to a gentleman who attended high school in the same town where I grew up, proving (as often happens to me) that the world is very, very small. Finally, they began letting us in.
The only word I have for the crowd is "overwhelming." I have never been anywhere with 75,000 other people. The sun was merciless, but the crowd was in high spirits, particularly when the Decemberists took the stage. Here are a few random shots from the wait and the musical program.
Now, for the bittersweet ending: I had promised the boy would be home by 6 p.m. tonight. By 2:30 p.m., Barack hadn't taken the stage and it was looking like we were in for another long wait after the Decemberists and a few speakers. We had to make the call and get on the road back home.
It might seem insane, to wait all that time only to miss Barack speaking, but I had an epiphany as we stood there making up our minds. The first time I went to an Obama rally, I didn't get in at all. I hadn't made up my mind at that point -- this was February, ahead of the Washington caucuses. I was 3 back in line when they closed the doors to Key Arena, and instead I hung around outside with 3,000 other Seattleites, getting to know the Obama supporters and learning about not just the man, but the movement. It was that experience, even without Barack, that made clear to me only one candidate had the potential to fundamentally change America. I caucused the following Saturday for Barack.
And so, even though we missed the man again, my son got to be a part of the movement, got to canvass, got to see the crowd and hear the band and take a place in history. Most of all, he got to see firsthand that the way you really change this country is to work for it. And it's something he's come to terms with as well, something he will carry with him all his life -- that we're the ones who matter, that the candidate is the person we choose as a vessel for our hopes and dreams and ambitions and grievances.
In the hot glare of the sun, we still managed to smile.
There's a long general election campaign ahead. I hold out hope that he'll get to be in the same room with the President yet.