“Patrick roars to nomination,” screamed the Boston Globe. And roar he did, securing 50% of the votes cast in the three-way contest for Democratic Party candidate for Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts is not some masonic colonial-reenactment society. It is simply the state. More than probably any other state in the union, Massachusetts clings to the trappings and pomp of European society, even as it celebrates its own revolutionary heritage). Of course, for the army of supporters who spent Tuesday, September 19 waving signs, knocking on doors, and making endless, endless phone calls, it felt less like a roar and more of a slow, difficult whimper. But now that the hard work was done - at least for now - there was time to relax and celebrate.

When I arrived at the party, my first priority was to find out whether we’d actually won. “It’s looking good,” replied the guest who I grabbed at random to quiz. “We’re well ahead. Reilly’s already conceded.” Well, that’s a relief, is not a shock - we went into the day with a 21% lead in the polls, so it would have been worrying to be unsure at this point. Reassured, I could focus on actually getting in. The Boston Fairmont, Copley Square is a forbidding beast - all chandeliers and colonial splendor - and I’ve got into the foyer OK, but judging by the passes hanging around people’s neck, I’m going to have to announce myself to get into the party proper.

I see a familiar face. Not the kind of familiar where you know the name, but familiar nonetheless. I ask her and she explains: I need to go downstairs and get a pass. And what do I need for a pass? Some sort of evidence? My name on a list? “Your name on a list.” Hmm. Given that my campaign manager and his assistant have vanished, I’m not particularly hopeful I’m going to be down. I have visions of creeping home, my hard work unthanked. I trudge downstairs.

There’s a queue, a big one. I join, and the lady next to me strikes up conversation. “I don’t like this,” she exclaims portentously. “This is going to take some time. It’s half past nine. Patrick might make his speech soon.” This will prove to be wildly, pointlessly overoptimistic. After a few minutes of silence, we lapse into stilted chatter (one of the advantages of being British in America is that it always gives people a good question to ask to start a conversation with you). It turns out my colleague is Polish: despite being in America over a decade, she still speaks with an accent, and carries and the tentative air that often surrounds expatriates when amongst their adopted population. So we have a shared sense of alienness. The queue moves quickly, and it’s not long before we’re at the front. “All members of the finance team, please join the left hand queue,” a suited voice says. “Everyone else, join the right hand queue.” One guess which was moving faster. It’s hard not to feel the carefully-constructed democratic camaraderie of the campaign - with volunteers, staffers, and voters all part of some spontaneous wave of enthusiasm - could fall apart if this isn’t handled right.

The actual room where they’re handing out the passes is a genuine frenzy of activity. It dawns on me just how many people will actually show up at this party - how many have been involved in the campaign, the volunteers, fundraisers, donors, organisers, every sod who ever gave an hour. As we approach the desk I’m getting nervous. Then I see Sam, the campaign volunteer co-ordinator, my boss for the Patrick parts of my campaign work. Surely she won’t let me be turned away? Mercifully, no. But I’m clearly not on the list either, as she bounds over and thrusts a pass in my hand, with a vaguely here-now-piss-off air about her. I thank her, but I can’t go, as I need to wait for my Polish colleague. As I wait around by the queue, I see a huge, squat, stern-faced staffer from HQ I recognise. He’s been drafted in to bouncer duty. Fortunately he doesn’t mind me waiting. Sam appears, looking even more stressed. “You OK?” I ask. “Calm? Well done!” She seems placated. Americans don’t always give themselves a break. But then, who does?

My colleague comes out distressed. “My name isn’t down,” she explains. “It’s my fault, I only decided to come at the last minute. I’ll have to wait.” I contemplate waiting with her for, ooh, five seconds, but her fear of missing the speech has infected me. I tell her to come find me upstairs. I don’t see her again.

Pass around neck, but still feeling vaguely like an interloper, I make my way to a grand room with white silk drapes and a ridiculous shell-shaped podium. I’ve seen pictures of Patrick addressing fundraisers from that podium, but this seems too small for tonight’s speech. I grab a drink - they are, mercifully, free (later that week, the papers will note that drinks at Chris Gabrieli’s party weren’t). I find the lady I noticed when I arrived, but she’s looking around for a friend, so I mooch. I see no other volunteers - this appears to be largely a party of staffers and donors, like many others. I notice other people apparently alone, and vaguely wonder if, in a spirit of grassroots solidarity, I should approach somebody. But I don’t. Fortunately, I then see someone who was at my HQ that day, a nice fortysomething man with a gentle, moustached face and sparkling eyes. He’d once run for office himself, in his native New Hampshire. He told me Gabrieli was about to start his concession speech, and we jostle for position at the nearest TV.

See the speech

It’s a remarkably jovial speech, with Gabrieli seeming genuinely chirpy despite sinking over $10 million to achieve a close second place - close, that is, to third-placed Tom Reilly. The opening salvo sets the scene. “I did not take out the trash tonight,” he declares. It’s a reference to an ill-advised claim he recently made that, as an “ordinary guy,” he does carry out such basic household chores, only to find the Boston Herald splashing pictures of his staff doing it for him. It’s an attempt at self-deprecation that falls a little flat. The volunteer I’m with pulls a face.

Gabrieli’s made it a theme of his campaign that the contest was about ideas and not parties, but now seems to have willingly taken on the role of dedicated party man, praising Patrick and slamming the Republican candidate, Lt. Governor Kerry Healey. It’s a long speech, and a little disordered, but its upbeat tone is nice. This is a primary, after all, and we’re all on the same side now.

Before Gabrieli even finishes, there’s announcement asking people to make their way to the ballroom where Patrick will make his address. Balconies have been made available to accommodate everyone, apparently. We make our way round, as Gabrieli continues what my friend labels “the longest concession speech in history.” The room clears quickly, and there’s a steady flow of people round - through a spare room filled with people on mobile phones, and past a bar - to the balconies. Only then do we realise - there are a lot of people here. Below us, a sea of suits, signs and bodies lines the ballroom floor. Ahead, the assembled staff of the campaign are on stage. And on the balconies, there’s a crush for the decent views. I jostle for a while, but it’s clear there’s going to be a crowd a few people deep at the front of the balcony.

I join the flow of people trying their luck downstairs. It’s a scrum. At the bottom of the stairs, a curtained-off area is filled with journalists - TV cameras at the front, lighting and technical staff behind. Laptops blink news sites, and monitors carry multiple news channels. There’s an air of messy anticipation, like at a concert when the support band come off - there’s nothing to do but wait, but you know it’ll probably be longer than you think. Through the curtains, the main ballroom floor is packed. Going in there seems to offer even less chance of a decent view than staying on the balcony. So I join a small group huddled on the bottom of the stairs, peeking through the gap in the curtain.

And we wait. It’s around 10.10pm when we start to wait. At one point the rumour goes round that we’re waiting for the eleven o’clock news - I think there’s no way we’ll wait that long. The crowd gets too big to see through the crack, and in a moment of common sense of the sort you’d never expect to see at an event this large, a section of curtain is removed so we can see better. I vaguely ponder whether that would happen in England. Nevertheless, as people come and go, I’m jostled about, and my view of podium is periodically obscured by the hips of a TV cameraman leaning against his equipment on the platform ahead. Down in the bustle of the ballroom floor, I see the state Senator I’m officially in Boston to help, and I wave. He waves, and for a second I start to move down through the crowd. Then I realise he was waving at someone else. Strange how, wherever you are in the world, when that happens you always feel the whole room is watching you.

At one point, the HQ staffer I know playing bouncer comes by. “You can’t stand here,” he announces. “Either go upstairs or downstairs. You can’t stay here.” This was probably inevitable, but did they really have to wait this long to do it? Now we’re all settled and upstairs is even busier. I head tentatively upstairs, and try to push for space where there’s a view. Barging in doesn’t seem particularly in the spirit of grassroots solidarity, but I didn’t get up at 7am to watch the speech on a bloody screen (it was bad enough doing that for the debate). So I jostle, to very little effect. I decide to wait it out and go and look at the bar, hoping it’s free in here too. Good lord no. $4.75 for a coke. Sheesh.

People are getting impatient. The poor campaign management have been standing on stage for 45 minutes. To quell their boredom and ours, they decide to show their appreciation for our efforts by chanting “thank you” for a while and pointing at us, arms swinging back and forth over their shoulders in time with the chant. It’s a nice gesture, which we don’t really seem to register - as the chant loses energy, when polite applause would be the ideal way to bring it to a dignified close, none comes, and it sort of shudders to a halt. Then a few minutes later, there’s a hubbub. Is Deval coming? No, it’s a large black man in a white suit, come to sing The Star Spangled Banner in a horrible, overwrought style. As he sings, I watch the people - a few with hand on hearts, most singing, a surprising number not singing. I realise this is the first time I’ve ever heard Americans singing their anthem in real life, and there are about two thousand of them. For some reason I’m totally unmoved.

I notice that people are disregarding the instructions and still standing on the bottom of the stairs. I join the rebels. Standing in front of me are two good-looking thirtysomething men. One’s black, with a serious look; the other’s white, with an Abercrombie chin and a playful glint in his eyes. They’re talking, and appear to be friends. Then, very gently, the black one caresses the other’s arse, and his hand settles around his waist. For some reason, I find this, not heartwarming, but vaguely irritating. Later, he nibbles his partner’s ear.

11pm comes and goes. People are getting twitchy - the last tubes go at 12.30. The only thing left we could possibly be waiting for is Tim Murray, Lt. Governor-candidate-elect, to arrive to join Deval.

Finally, at around 11.15, there’s movement on stage. Is that Deval? No, it’s - what the? - it’s Chris Gabrieli. What’s hedoing here? Does he have a bomb? Why is no-one else surprised? Suddenly I realise - this is another reminder of the essential wierdness of internal party politics - all the trappings of a full election, but it’s a Democratic internal affair. Gabrieli is here invited. People are even cheering. God, is he going to make another speech? Thankfully, no. In the least boring remark I’ve ever heard him make, he utters five sweet words, music to the ears of a sore-footed, impatient crowd: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Deval Patrick.”*

See Deval Patrick’s speech | Read a transcript

Patrick has a tightrope to walk. The room is filled with supporters who’ve given time, money and sweat to make tonight happen. Some have been working, for nothing, on this in all their spare time for over a year. They’ve earned praise and gratitude, and they expect it. But this is a televised speech, and as well as marking the end of one campaign, it marks the start of another, far more important one. So he’s got to reach out. “From the very beginning,” he begins, in his slow, sing-song style, “I’ve asked you to see this not as my campaign, but as yours.” The crowd goes, unsurprisingly, wild. But it quickly becomes clear that “we” aren’t just the two thousand or so volunteers in the room, or even the twenty thousand or so who gave time or money at some point. “Tonight’s victory belongs to the countless numbers of you that voted for the first time, or the first time in a very long while,” he continues. “To the folks from all across the Commonwealth, from all kinds of political perspectives… who decided to take a chance not on me, but on your own aspirations.”

What? All of them? Everyone who voted for you? This victory “belongs” to 50% of those who voted? Even the ones who could barely be bothered to vote in the first place? The ones who saw the way the polls were going, and just decided to back the leading horse?

Now, I know, it’s about reaching out. And hey, I’ve only been in the country, let alone the campaign, for three weeks. But I can’t help but feel - slighted. “This victory belongs to the tens and hundreds of thousands of Democrats and Republicans and independents who believe that we can do so much better and hope for so much more in Massachusetts.” Come on! Even the Republicans? They couldn’t even vote today!

Deep down, it’s OK, and the crowd’s enthusiasm isn’t dimmed. But it’s hard not to feel that - he could have offered something. Some little bone, a reference, a nod, to those of us actually in the room, those of us who really felt like part of the team. Never mind the fact that, as I’d feared earlier in the day, the margin of victory we’d have won without making a single phone call. We made calls, dammit. We, the time-starved youth of 21st Century America (temporarily, in my case), gave up our time. Don’t we get anything? “I thank every union, every social worker, every business leader, every policy expert, every academic, youth worker, police chief, elected official, homemaker, teacher, small business owner, venture capitalist…” c’mon, say student, or young person, or something! But of course, there’s still an election to win. And the language of grassroots is a tricky one. Grassroots sounds great when it conjours up images of nurses, teachers, small businessmen - concerned, hardworking, regular people. It doesn’t sound great when it conjours up images of angry poor people. Or black kids. Or Harvard students. Underneath the euphoria, the sense of being part of a bigger whole, there’s calculation and care and media strategy. I guess there has to be.

It’s not the most inspirational Patrick has been (and at his best, he’s remarkable). But tonight really marks the end of inspiration, and the beginning of pragmatism, of cunning, and of guile. The next day, when I hear Republican nominee Lt. Governor Kerry Healy’s attacks on Patrick, I understand better what he’s up against, and why he can’t afford to talk directly to us in the hall. And hey. He invited us to the party.

In the end, though, the most fascinating thing about the speech isn’t what it tells us about Patrick, but what it tells us about Gabrieli. Patrick doesn’t gush when he pays the obligatory tributes to Gabrieli and Reilly (whose reasons for not being here are probably legitimate, but whose absence nevertheless enforces a sense of sore-loserness that stems from his defensiveness in the first debate). “Each fought a competitive campaign,” Patrick notes, not backing down from earlier (frankly ill-advised) complaints about negative campaigning. “But even when things got a little heated, I never doubted the sincere commitment to service that each of them brought to this campaign and have brought to their lives.” If that sounds like damning with faint praise, that’s because it was. But what’s remarkable is Gabrieli’s response - a down-to-the-waist bow, complete with Elizabethan hand flourish.** It’s a nervous, pally, frat-boy move, its good-naturedness matched only by its inapropriateness. And suddenly, it hits me, what’s been bugging me, what’s been so wrong about Gabrieli from the start. He’s far too eager to please. In his endless repeating of his “record of results;” in his the too-jovial concession speech, and now - it’s all been about being liked. With his I’ve-got-the-most-numbers policy plans, he’s the little boy who always wins the science fair. And in running for Governor, he’s like the geeky boy who’s adopted by the football team so he can do their homework for them. He’s worked out how to use his brain to gain friends. And just because he’s lost, that’s not going to stop him - he’s going to come out of this liked. And of course, as this becomes obvious, it becomes harder and harder to like him.

Then, it’s over. Patrick made an exhortation to party tonight, but the outward flow from the ballroom as soon as the speech finishes says people are feeling their early starts. Poor Tim Murray comes on to make his speech, but Deval hogs the platform, shaking hands. Awkwardly, Murray does the same. I sense an awkward moment coming on, so I make my way.

I’m jolted as I walk out into Copley Square. All this talk about grassroots, about low-paying jobs, about starving schools; and then I walk out into skyscrapers, marble hotels, libraries and symphony halls. I look at some of my fellow leavers, and I notice blakc dresses and shawls and pearls. And I think, has it all been bullshit? For all this talk of grassroots, of “our” campaign, hasn’t it - hasn’t tonight - just been about rich, insulated, guilt-ridden liberals pouring money on a nice, well-spoken negro, another act of charity to put alongside the Rotary Club dues?

But on my way into the tube, I overhear the conversation of two wealthy-loking guests. A slim, well-groomed fiftysomething gentleman in a tan suit asks his colleague, who’s clearly read my mind, said, “you’ve been to a lot of these things, was this different?” She - small, designer-clad, silver-haired and jewelled - replied, “oh, yes. It was a much more diverse crowd. All the volunteers were there, that’s very rare.”

So there you are. I guess this is different.

It’s throwing it down when I get off the tube - rain like we never have in England. I go into Seven-Eleven to try to wait out the rain. “How did Patrick do today?” the guy behind the counter asks. “Um, Ok,” I say, nervously. I’d forgotten the badge on my jumper. “He got, um, 50% of the vote, the others conceded.” “Oh yeah? He won? Good.” I’m pleased, but uncomfortable. I keep expecting a raving republican to pounce out at me and ask challenging questions about education policy. I head towards the door. “Hey,” the guy asks. “Where’s Patrick’s headquarters?” “It’s in Charlestown,” I mumble. He seems interested. I offer stilting, scarcely accurate directions. “You should, um, pop in,” I mumble. “Or you could give them a call, you want the number?” To my amazement, he says yes. I tell him it. He seems pleased, and determined to call.

It’s midnight, they guy’s at work for several hours yet, and when he wakes up tomorrow afternoon for his day off, he’s going to call headquarters and volunteer his time. He’s not looking for a thank you, or free glass of wine, or an acknowledgement. He’s just looking for a chance to help. As Deval would put it, to serve.

I trudge home, through the rain. I get drenched. My party pass, still around my neck, comes apart in the rain and splashes on the road, leaving me with nothing but a flimsy piece of string. The primary’s over, and so is my real part in the Deval Patrick campaign. But, as I hold my Seven-Eleven carrier bag over my head to try to block the downpour, I still feel a little bit inspired.

My late uncle Sonny was a sometime-resident of that little apartment on the South Side of Chicago. He struggled through most of his life with an addiction to heroin. He used to shoot up in the living room when he thought no one was looking. I know now that he was looking for a way to soothe his pain, a way not to face his own personal demons and challenges. A way out.

Well, cynicism is an opiate, too, a comfort drug. And it’s everywhere. It helps us brace ourselves against the pain of disappointment, to endure the letdown we have come to expect. Some politicians and some of the media, frankly, are dealers, peddling cynicism by tearing down anything positive and hopeful.

Well, cynicism, it turns out, is addictive. It leads us to expect less and demand less of our leaders and of ourselves. It restricts our capacity to imagine, let alone to care about, problems we have created for ourselves.

It’s time to put our cynicism down. Put it down. Stand with me and take that leap of faith… Take a chance on hope.

-Deval Patrick

www.myspace.com/devalpatrick
www.devalpatrick.com
www.devalpatrick.tv

* Looking at the video, it’s quite clear it isn’t Gabrieli who said these words. Yet that’s certainly how I remember it. Were they said twice? Did they really summon Gabrieli on stage just to sit there?

** You can’t see it on the video, unfortunately.

UPDATE: Looking back through some notes I made, I’ve just remembered something. At one point during the long, long wait for Deval, someone standing near me pointed out Senator John Kerry working the crowd. Buffanted and, I thought, wearing foundation, he looked like an aging dandy - but my colleague was impressed. “He looks good,” he observed. “So he should,” another added. “He’s got a whole lot to look forward to.” “You think?” replied the first. “Oh, sure. He was robbed in ‘04. He’s got another try left in him.”

A mere week or so later, of course, Kerry reminded us all just why he could never, ever run again.

One comment | RSS Feed for comments on this post

Email post to friend | Add to del.icio.us | Digg this | Share on Facebook

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.

No comments | RSS Feed for comments on this post

Email post to friend | Add to del.icio.us | Digg this | Share on Facebook

Boston’s not keen on New York. It sees itself as the Big Apple’s mature older brother -not unlike the way Europe sees itself in relation to the US. And it looks very dimly when the brasher, larger, newer city takes its precious things. It started with Babe Ruth - the superstar Yankee started out as a Red Sock. Over the last few years, the city has watched helplessly as some of its proudest institutions have been subsumed. First it was the Boston Globe, now owned by the New York Times. Then, not content with setting up shop next to Boston’s long-loved department store institution, Filene’s, Macy’s announced in 2005 it was going to buy it (or rather, its holding company was to buy Filene’s holding company). Obviously, Macy’s saw no reason to keep open a competitor outside its doors. So, on Saturday September 9th, Filene’s closed.

I didn’t even realise when I went in on Saturday that it was the final day. It looked like a morgue - for several months, it had been used to offload old Macy’s goods at knockdown prices, so it was all but indistinguishable from its budget Basement, which remains operational. But the last day it was, and soon the historic building will be offices. And where will the pigeons perch then?

No comments | RSS Feed for comments on this post

Email post to friend | Add to del.icio.us | Digg this | Share on Facebook

Dear Jeff Jacoby,

I’m going to have to take a little umbrage at your article, “The tall and short of it,” in today’s Globe.

You ask of Deval Patrick, “is there anything there?” Were you watching the same debate as I was? Maybe it’s because from my seat in the JFK Jr Forum I could only see the candidates on TV, but I heard Patrick make a range of numerated, precise policy statements.

On the Marie St. Fleur issue, he avoided getting embroiled in the heated debate, made the point that matters to voters - that Reilly appears to have lied - and then moved on - a pragmatic and sensible response, not that of a firebrand or dreamer.

He didn’t just blather about fraud cuts - he pointed to a quantified plan for $735 million of savings. You can disagree with his numbers, but you can’t say he hasn’t crunched them.

Gabrieli’s position is to work towards a cut in the future; Patrick’s is to aspire for one in the slightly longer-term future. This is hardly the chasm you make out. Yes, the 5% rate was approved by the voters. But Patrick has been clear about his position and, if elected, will have been so on the basis of it - just as democratic, just as much a moral mandate. He’s done this not because he wants to spend and spend, but because he believes relieving pressure on property taxes should be the state’s priority, and thousands of us believe he’s right.

You flag up Hiller’s question, “is there anyone you’ve just said no to?” - and Patrick’s answer, which you don’t feel the need to discuss, was clear. He’s taken a pragmatic, measured approach to the needs and demands of his core constituencies to balance their needs with those of the state’s taxpayers.

On the Big Dig, he didn’t just gripe, he made a clear policy proposal - for an independent review.

And Patrick did more than just ask not to be labelled. He made it clear he fully expected to be - “everything but a child of God,” if you recall. But he demonstrated that for all the brickbats thrown at him, his program combines traditional liberal and conservative thinking - more rehabilitation, and more police, to use one example.

Look at the stem cell section of the debate. Reilly’s position - all power to UMass - predictably silly. Gabrieli’s - let the whole market compete for the funding - very market-oriented, and it has some merits. And Patrick’s - a long-sighted position between the two extremes: fund stem cell research, sure, but see this in the big picture: out underfunding of public higher ed, right across the board.

Again and again, while Gabrieli and Reilly bickered, Patrick came through with a thought-out, moderate, practical proposal - and, unlike Gabrieli, he can place those proposals in the context of a wider vision - for funding public higher ed better, in this case.

You’re not so keen on Patrick’s long-grass timetable for the income tax cut. But who was the only candidate promoting a timetable for healthcare reform? Reilly: sometime. Gabrieli: sometime. Patrick: six months to a year.

Granted, Patrick made mistakes. It was a mistake for him to seem to be defending Ameriquest, and going after Fleet. But to say there’s no substance behind the vision isn’t true. The “vision stuff” is the velvet glove in which the - if not iron then at least hard- fist of detail lies.

Gabrieli offers a bunch of scattershot schemes, and a lot of numbers, but I don’t see a coherent vision for government. And contrary to popular fear amongst the national DNC, that’s what voters respond to.

Remember how Gore lost in 2000 - by seeming like a grey policy wonk. There’s the real electoral risk.

Sincerely,

Rav Casley Gera

***UPDATE!***

Very prompt and polite response:

Thanks very much for your response. It sounds as though Deval Patrick has a strong supporter in you, and I recognize that there are qualities in him many voters are attracted to. I don’t happen to be one of those voters, though, and last night’s debate only confirmed that feeling for me.

Fortunately, there’s room for all of us in the marketplace of ideas — and we all get a vote on Election Day.

All the best,

Jeff Jacoby

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, as a UK citizen, I actually don’t.

No comments | RSS Feed for comments on this post

Email post to friend | Add to del.icio.us | Digg this | Share on Facebook

So, in the midst of an epic tube-train-flight-monorail-train-bus-tube journey from London back to Boston on Monday, I decided to have a pootle around and see how I felt in the city.

Things Which, Having Lived in London, I Still Think Are Loads Better In New York:

The cars. For a long, long time, in the 1990’s, we in Europe had much, much better looking cars. Assertively-curvy numbers like the Corsa and Ford’s “Edge” styling, a la Focus; and great little sportsters like the Alfa Spider. The Americans, by contrast, seemed on a mission to bland every last drop of character out of their cars, despite a super-rich heritage of big, can’t-ignore-em motors. Now, it’s all turned around - with every striking curve or angle in European cars being replaced by a succession of vague waves, it’s dull-a-go-go for us, but the yanks have got their grooves back. Of course, if there’s been a rise in the confidence level of the US car industry, that’s probably extremely bad news, from a let’s-not-all-die-of-climate-change perspective. But, you know, I’m on holiday.

The hipster/club/media-twat scene. Call it what you will. You know what I’m talking about. It involves trilbys and records with wilfully dated-sounding keyboards. Now, in my visits to New York and my time in London I haven’t exactly been a mainstay of the cool set. But it doesn’t take much scanning to see the balance of power, with half of Manhattan as well as Williamsburg covered in flyers for a variety of odd nights, frequently involving poetry, film or even “performance art.” And in London, hipsters have to take over traditional-sounding pubs, called things like the George & Dragon, and bend them to their own needs. In New York, you just take over an empty space and throw arty shit all over it, leaving you with places with hard-wired hipness and names like Welcome To The Johnsons. I’m not saying anything about quality, but when it comes to quantity, New York wins hands down. Again, whether you think this is a good thing is up to you.

Free papers. Ye gods! When will London get a decent free weekly? The London Line came and went, the Penny seems to be written by illiterate sixth-formers… admitedly, there’s a healthy fight going on on the daily scene, with horrible Daily Mail hegemony of Standard Lite and London Lite being challenged by The London Paper, which I haven’t seen yet. But a good weekly - with young-centred news, good arts coverage, and free listings - just won’t take off. And yet in New York, there’s (big breath): The Village Voice, AM, The New York Press, Downtown, GayCity, and the New York Blade, which is also gay. That’s right: six free weeklies, two just for us gays - and London can’t manage one for everyone! Unless you count bloody TNT, I suppose (are Australians, maligned, common in bar work, and increasingly in the media, the New Gays?)

Things Which, Having Lived in London, I Think Are, On Balance, Probably Just as Good There:

The food. Now, look, this is a big deal. Those who know me know my affinity with a place is very, very tied up with the food there. Part of my stock everything-is-so-much-better-in-America rant has always been the availability there - and particularly in New York - of cheap, varied, delicious, quality fast food, 24hrs a day. I’m not talking about McDonald’s (although I admit that the milkshakes in the US, which I’ve long maintained are superior to the UK’s because of the inclusion of real fruit bits, are in fact inferior because of being vastly oversweetened and twice the price). I’m talking about heros, subways, deli sandwiches, salad bars, and the like.

Now, I’d argue that when I first came to the US in 1998, that was true. But a lot’s changed in London since then. Subway has reminded people that sandwiches are much nicer if you see the person put them together, and that’s starting to spread out from the quaint, overpriced sandwich shops of Clerkenwell to later-opening, modern establishments. Sushi, smoothies, and soup bars have all infiltrated the market. And, if you know where to look, London is full of dirt-cheap bargain options, like Islington and Fitzrovia’s much-loved three-quid thai buffets.

What’s more, I’m forced to admit that New York food isn’t actually as cheap as I remember. Granted, conversion is tricky, as the actual rate - almost $2 to a pound - doesn’t resemble the ratio of wages and so on. Admittedly, thanks to my work on Brass Tacks: Africa, I do understand what purchasing power parity is now. But I’m not going to start calculating deli rates. Suffice to say, in London you can get a decent, satisfying sandwich for 3 quid. Add a drink and crisps, 4.50. In New York, the equivalent is going to be $5 before the drink and crisps, and $7-8 with - no better (although you could probably skip the crisps, as the sandwhich is probably bigger). Plus, if you’re on a budget, London offers healthier options - those 99p tuna or egg sandwiches from supermarkets may be soul-destryong, but they’re a lot better for you than the egg ‘n’ cheese bagels from Dunkin’ Donuts that are about all you can get for $2 to eat here (and, OK, are delicious).

The transport. OK, the subway is cheaper, and it runs all night. But have you seen the map? OK, sure, coverage is good - there’s a bare area in Queens, but nothing like the huge, Hackney-sized gap in the Underground network (see it in top right? Oh, by the way, I live there). And of course, London leaves half the city - the bit below the river - almost tubeless. But a quick comaparison of the two maps shows up the real problem with New York’s - it’s linear, linear, linear. While London’s outward prongs serve the central hub of the circle line, and penetrate deep into the heart of the city. NY’s lines sidle along together, like strangers on an airport travelaor, occasionally brushing up against each other. Just look at the routes the B/D and 4 lines take up through the Bronx. Cahm Aaaahn! This is the 21st Century - it’s all about integration. NY needs to work on that. As it is, it takes far longer to get from, say, Yankee Stadium to Prospect Park than to get from Wembly all the way over to Brixton.

What’s more, in London buses are a real, viable transport option, instead of just a mirage designed to keep black people off the tube. Can someone please explain to me why in London, where the bus costs less than half as much as the tube, do you see all kinds of professionals on it, while in New York, where it costs the same as the Subway, it seems to be ridden exclusively by downtrodden-looking poor people? I guess the professionals are all in Taxis. I’ll admit they’re much cheaper stateside. But you have to tip, dammit.

So who wins? Way too soon to tell. This is all just based on a two-hour survey, remember. Let me spend a few days when I’m done in Boston, I’ll get back to you.

No comments | RSS Feed for comments on this post

Email post to friend | Add to del.icio.us | Digg this | Share on Facebook