Rav Casley Gera

Being the diary of Ravinder Madron Casley Gera, a volunteer with the campaign of Deval L. Patrick, for September 19 in the year two thousand and six, the day of the Primary Election for the position of Democratic Party candidate for Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts

6.00am. I’m awake. Having kept holiday hours for several weeks - sleeping 1-10am or thereabouts - this is something of a shock to the system.

6.05am. Right. What to do? The “Primary Day Victory Plan” sheet I picked up at headquarters says we need “visibility from 6.30am.” “Visibility” means “people outside polling stations with signs,” I know that. But I don’t know if that’s what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m doing. I called the Campaign Manager (CM) yesterday, but he didn’t respond to my message. I’m hoping to spend the day with the State Senatorial Candidate (SSC) I’m officially over here helping. Maybe I should ring the CM. But he might not be up yet. Hmm, polls don’t open till seven. If they can’t even be bothered to tell me where I should be, I can’t be bothered to chase them at six am. Back to bed.

7.00am. OK. Now I should probably do something. Phone CM. He answers! He’s sorry he didn’t phone me back (good). Today is going to be all about making phone calls (bad - that means no running around with SSC). If I’m feeling eager, I can go to HQ and get a sign and wave it somewhere. I jump in the shower and trudge to HQ.

8.15am. Am positioned outside polling station. 150ft outside, to be precise. The police have kindly spray-painted a placemark where I’m allowed to stand. Am feeling decidedly rotten. Efforts to go to bed early last night predictably failed. Cable TV is evil.

9.00am. My eyes are closing, my stomach is unsettled. It’s far too early to drink diet coke. Even for me. I should probably learn to like coffee.

9.10am. A lady has asked me why she should support SSC. I resist the temptation to say, “because he’s the only one on the ballot,” and mumble about him being progressive and combining the best tendencies of both the fight-for-my-people school of local politician, and the see-the-big-picture type. I’m not convinced it makes sense. I am convinced she’s trying to work out why a British person is campaigning for a Boston local election. Right now, so am I.

9.15am. Another friendly person inquiring why I like the candidate. Now, the first rule of grassroots political campaigning is, don’t actually try to convince anyone of anything. Expensive TV spots, interviews, and carefully-crafted media strategies convince people. Face-to-face or on the phone, you avoid at all costs actually discussing issues with the public. The risks are too high - what if you panic and accidentally imply that the candidate has a predilection for adolescent girls, or wants to raise taxes, or some other electoral death knell? You just recite the standard bumf (usually about character, leadership, or hardworking families). If they’re on board, get them out to vote. If they’re not, get them off the phone and, if possible, direct them to the website. So being asked, “why should I support this guy,” is a near-panic-inducing situation.

Fortunately, there are strategies. First, try to work out as quickly as possible the interlocutor’s own sympathies, the better to tailor your answer. This can be tricky, so outlining an uncontroversial aspect of the candidate’s positions is sometimes necessary to provide an opening. “He’s pretty much a progressive,” I stumble. “He supports gay marriage and opposed the war in Iraq.” In Cambridge, Massachusetts, one of the most liberal places on earth, this is not controversial stuff. The questioner seems interested. “He wants to encourage research industries in order to improve the economy” - glimmer of disinterest - “but he believes the gains must be used to improve the local environment and tackle poverty.” Definite interest. This guy’s looking like an ultra-liberal. But what if he’s bluffing? I panic and hedge, outlining the candidate’s law-and-order credentials. “He’s done some great work on combating the recent explosion of gang violence.” Help! I’m losing him! What am I doing? He doesn’t give a shit about gang violence, he probably thinks it’s a legitimate response to the US’ violent repression of coloured people at home and abroad or something. Quick, turn it round. “He believes in tough, visible policing” - gaah! - “but he’s also working with youth organisations aiming to provide community and cultural opportunities to young people, to give them something better to do than hang around on the streets.” That’s it! He’s hooked! “Of course,” my interviewer concurs. “If they’ve got nothing to do, they’ll just fall into crime, won’t they?” Phew. He seems satisfied. The test is passed. He introduces himself. He’s homeless. The voice of incipient fascism whispers in my ear. “Idiot! You’ve wasted all this time talking to a homeless person! Can he even vote? What if someone from the press is watching? Do you want your candidate seen as the friend of hardworking families, or of homeless people?!” I banish the voice, and it flies off to resume influencing the Democratic National Committee. Of course it’s OK to talk to talk to a homeless person. This is a liberal town, and besides, it’s not like there’s a queue of people also trying to talk to me. He introduces himself. He’s called Roger. He sells Spare Change, a kind of (low-budget Boston Big Issue). He gives me an old issue free. It occurs to me that my twentysomething-low-income stinginess has now hit the low that I am taking gifts from homeless people. Later, I read it. It contains an interview with Roger. He used to be a computer programmer. I shudder, and feel guilty for my near-failure-of-liberal-courage earlier.

9.30am. Campaign Assistant (CA) comes and picks me up and takes me back to HQ. This isn’t the main Deval Patrick HQ’s, but the SSC’s, a large ex-DHL warehouse full of empty offices and signs. It’s taken me two weeks to get used to the strangely empty feeling of having a large depot office staffed by three people, including me. Now, I find it full of strangers, who turn out to be overspill from the main HQ and Somerville campaign team. The office I’d just started thinking of as mine has someone else in it. I feel vaguely threatened. And tired. I find a spare phone, with no PC - no respite - and review my call sheets.

From here on in it’s phone calls, phone calls, phone calls. Today marks the culmination of a long, boring, hard, and apparently absolutely essential process of phone banking. You start with lists of registered Democrats and Independents (even tho today is a Democratic Primary, Independent voters are eligible. I’m aware that entire sentence will seem like gibberish to English readers, but it’s too complex to explain here). In the first couple of weeks, calls are focused on gauging support. You ask, are you planning to vote for Deval Patrick? And sort people into 1 (committed), 2 (leaning), 3 (undecided), 4 (leaning away), and 5 (definitely voting for someone else). Further rounds of calls are aimed at tracking 2s that have becomes 1s and 3s that have become 2s. Then, on election day (or Primary day, in this case), it’s all about getting the 1s and 2s to the polls. This means calling them again and again until they either tell us they’ve voted, or tell us if we bother them on more time they’ll vote for anyone but us. This process is called Get Out The Vote - or GOTV, which sounds like a horrible new government-sponsored cable channel for teens. It would have life-skills programmes, on things like opening a bank account, probably called “sorted.”

10.30am. So far, no-one’s been particularly rude to me. Unfortunately, that’s mostly because no-one’s been in. For all the careful detail of the 1-5 classification system, by far the most populated categories are always “NA” (no answer), “WN” (wrong number) and “LM” (left message). Of those who are there, barely any have voted. This is common sense, really. The only people who vote at 9am are going to be people on their way to work, and they’re not at home to tell us they’ve voted. I have a nagging annoyance at the knowledge that, when we do the second round of calls in the afternoon, they’re still going to be at work. However, the CA assures me that this afternoon is “all about the old people.” They make voting into a day’s distraction - getting dressed up, going and doing it, having a coffee after. We’ll catch them after lunch, apparently.

11.00am. Am feeling very, very tired and horrible. Discover large box of donuts by entrance, clearly intended for volunteer consumption and apparently neglected. I take one.

11.15am. I take another.

11.30am. The CA asks, “will you eat pizza?” She clearly doesn’t know me very well. I reply in the affirmative, and request no meat. “Oh, it’s fine, we’ll just get cheese,” she explains.

12.15pm. Have finished first round of calls. Discuss with CA how to approach potentially-pointless second round. It’s agreed we’ll do calls, but not leave messages where they’ve already been left to avoid seeming like mad Jon-Favreau-in-Swingers-style voicemail-stalkers. Where is pizza?

12.35pm. Pizza arrives, along with vast trays of sweets - made, it turns out, by mother of pizza store owner. The family are friends of the SSC. This is what I call community organising. I wait a few minutes so as to keep up the appearance of being eager politico and not just tired, hungry volunteer.

1.00pm. Had two slices. Feel bit sick.

1.30pm. Have finished first set of second round calls. CA says I can help out with Somerville’s calls. Am given sheet and told to call everyone and leave messages. The second person I call says, “please stop pestering us, you’ve rung already.” I apologise profusely.

1.35pm. CA and I ask Somerville organiser, a tense blond thirtysomething lady with a bob named Sherri, if this list has been called once already. “Oh yeah!” She replies. So we shouldn’t leave messages? “Oh yeah! We just call ‘em and call ‘em, and if they haven’t voted by five, we go round there!” She’s like every caricature of unthinking American enthusiasm rolled into one. I think something pretentious about how this attitude is how Viet Nam happened. I feel this pestering is counterproductive and, given that we’re essentially talking about two voicemails and a door-knocking before people even get home from work, a complete waste of time, and silently resolve to rebelliously not leave messages.

1.40pm. CA leaves to go to another office for a couple of hours. She says she’ll call to give me more to do.

1.45pm. A Somerville volunteer, asks where Sherri is. Has she left? It appears so. The volunteer has to go, but leaves me some sheets to finish if I can, and give to Sherri.

2.00pm. Brett, a staffer from the main HQ, turns up. I see Brett with a familiar mixture of envy, admiration, and distaste. Tall, skinny and cocky, he has an air of both preppy, idealistic Harvard seriousness, and jockish arrogance. Everytime I’ve seen him in the office he’s been wearing a shirt and tie, which is by no means required. But the shirts are always blue and usually patterned, and the tie always half-undone. He wears glasses, and his hair messy. His chinos are always hanging of his arse, but unlike the average baggied rapper-aping white teenager, he actually has an arse for them to hang off. Overall, he’s pretty attractive, which makes his air of team-captain-with-brains entitlement all the more galling. He’s here for call numbers, but of course he can’t just announce that, as that would make him sound like some flunky. So he asks for Sherri. I’ve forgotten who Sherri is, and when I go searching for her I find someone called Terri.* An afternoon of confusion begins. Terri is nicer than Sherri, and clearly has no intention of talking to Brett. So I explain that the CA knows the Cambridge numbers, and give him her cellphone number. I also explain that we’re not finished with the second round of somerville calls, but that there’s a pile of most of them that are done on the table in front of him. “If you want to add them up,” I tell him smugly, “you’re very welcome.” Hah! Who’s the daddy now?

2.10pm. James has noted some numbers and sodded off. Enjoying the feeling of being in charge, I even took a number on which I could phone in the new totals when we’re finished on the second round. Am enjoying self. Then phone rings. A cellphone. Not mine. I look- ha! - it’s Brett’s. Mr. Staffer has left his mobile. Heh. I answer, naughtily, and explain to the caller that he’s not available right now. She asks when he’ll be back? I reply, “when he realises he’s left his phone here and comes and gets it.” I’ll admit to smirking.

2.20pm. Terri leaves, explaining that she has some things she needs to do. She leaves more sheets for Sherri, and says “is that guy from HQ stil here? I don’t know who the hell he is.” I explain that it’s OK, I’ve seen him up there, he’s legit. And feel vindicated. I’m clearly not the only one with reservations.

2.30pm. I call HQ and tell Sam, the volunteer co-ordinator, that James has left his phone here. She sounds very stressed, and has no idea who Brett is, despite the fact I’ve seen them talk to each other. In retrospect, this gives me some pleasure, but at the time, I’m annoyed.

3.00pm. Brett turns up and has the decency to look sheepish. I hand him phone in pally I-won’t-tell-anyone way. Maybe he’s alright after all.

4.10pm. I’m tired and irritable. Fortunately, with the help of another volunteer, we’ve got the Somerville second round finished. I feel very responsible and efficient. I can’t wait for Sherri to get back.

4.30pm. Still waiting for Sherri to get back.

4.55pm. CA gets back. “We’ve finished the Somerville calls!” I explain triumphantly. “I’m not getting involved with Somerville,” she explains, sounding harassed. ” It’s best for the teams to just do their own stuff.” Grrr. Is anyone actually going to look at these sheets, that took us all afternoon to finish?

5.45pm. A stressed-looking lady comes in carrying folders. “Is Sherri here?” she asks. I reply no. “Tell her these are precinct two,” she instructs. I ask if she’d like to look at these completed call sheets. She seems to think I’m talking Swahili. “No, no, not sheets! These are actual voters!” She declares, pointing at the pile of folders. Is she mad? As she goes, I realise this is the results of the first round of on-foot visits. They’ve started them already! What about these second-round call sheets? Isn’t anyone going to look at them at all?!

6.15pm. A lady called Jane comes in brandishing more folders. I decide action has to be taken. I confront her with the second-round sheets. “These were done this afternoon,” I explain. “But Sherri hasn’t been here and no-one’s looked at them.” “Are these 1-5?” she asks. Now, I’ve learned the lingo - she means ward 1, precinct 5. I check. They are, indeed. “They’re out on it now,” she explains. Gaah! They’ve gone out door-knocking with first-round calls! Three volunteers spent two hours this afternoon, hours I personally would really rather have spent contemplating the menu at Dunkin’ Donuts, wasted because that bloody Sherri didn’t think to pick up a few call sheets. I’m quietly fuming, evidently just enough for Jane to notice. “Don’t worry,” she soothes. “When they come in we’ll reconcile them. This’ll still be useful information.” Poppycock, of course; how useful is it, at the end of the day, to know that someone did or didn’t vote? We track voting so we can visit the non-voters. Once that’s done, the information’s useless. I’m struck with a huge, crushing sense of the pointlessness of the whole operation. Grassroots, diverse campaign community, all this crap - when one blunder on TV, one bad makeup job for God’s sake, can win or lose an election. Four million people in Massachusetts, over a million eligible to vote today - are we really going to win because we phoned thousands of people to nag them into voting? I resolve to finish my duties and piss off, thoroughly fed up.

6.45pm. CA’s enthusiasm tempers my annoyance, and I get through the remaining sheets fine. There’s just over an hour till the polls close. I have no idea how things are actually going out there, and neither does anyone else. I ask CA if it’s OK to go home for a shower, and come back at eight to finish up and head to the party. She says sure.

7.15pm. Mmmm. Shower.

8.30pm. Back at HQ. There’s no-one here. It starts to rain. I resolve to wait. No CA. That’s OK, it’s not her fault, I’m late. I trudge in the rain to the tube. Might as well just go to the party. It had better be good. And yet, through all my tired, irritable, under-appreciated narkiness, another thought is hovering: I really hope we win.

* OK, I’m making these names up to protect the innocent, but the real ones were just as similar, and just as mom-and-apple-pie.