Moving On

By Thursday, I was 90 percent vocally normal post-tonsillectomy, so I was excited to attend another MoveOn.org Call for Obama party.

I love calling parties—schmoozing with smart, likeminded people, and feeling useful. I enjoy talking to voters in states that count, unlike Marxist Massachusetts. And the free munchies are a bonus. Yay, Democrats for Fruit Plates and Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies. Plus you never know what single, straight, available liberal man might show up.

MoveOn parties are open to anyone. You just click some buttons and pick a destination from a list of local hosts—some have politically correct warnings like “we have two dogs, one cat, and serve peanuts” or “three steps up, no other access.” Sometimes I’ll choose the closest one, sometimes I’ll venture farther to the one with the best title, such as “Obamarama.”

Once you click the “Yes, I’ll be there” button, you get the host’s name (usually first only), street address, and time. I confess to paranoia on behalf of these people who post their address on the Internet for all to see—come on over, we don’t prescreen. If I opened my home to total strangers, the first thing I’d do is hide any medications. I’ve been working with drug addicts for years, and they’re awfully creative.

Last night, Carol and Paul opened their beautiful hillside Victorian to a group of about 15 strangers, mostly middle-aged, some experienced callers, some not. We reviewed the call script and got down to it. I got three lists of 14 first names, all living in Ohio. Folks on the list are MoveOn members—the goal is to sign them up to volunteer this weekend at their local campaign office.

Carol and Paul had ample space for the group to spread out, so I staked out my turf at a small round table at the end of a full-length granite-topped kitchen island. Cellphone charged and ready to go, I began pressing buttons.

A man picked up and I asked for Marjorie. He said it was Trick or Treat night and she was at the door, passing out candy. One night early? Turns out they have town football on Friday nights. Must not be an Orthodox Jewish enclave, I'd gather. “We’ve got a ghost and a Barbie and a soldier in camouflage here,” he said, “but I’ll get my wife. She’s a witch. I mean, she’s not a witch, she’s dressed as a witch.” Marjorie the Witch said she’s canvassing for Obama this weekend. You go, Marjorie.

Mostly I got machines, or people who were already volunteering. One confided he was calling for MoveOn but had to keep it a secret from his neighbors. Not only is the area non-Jewish but it’s heavily Republican.

I caught some snippets from the kitchen alcove—the caller was a nice-looking guy in his forties (wedding ring, oh well). “Oh, you’re getting married this weekend? Well, good luck to you! But don’t forget to vote on Tuesday.” Or, “Oh, you’re loading your moving van right now? Well, have you voted yet? No? And you’re moving two hours away? Make sure you go back and vote on Tuesday.” Not everything stops for the election. Life goes on.

After a break for some crudités and candy corn, I dialed another number. Someone with a deep voice answered and I asked for Brittany. “This is Brittany,” the person replied. “Umm, it is?” “Yes.” Uh huh. Something’s off. Maybe he doesn’t want Brittany to come to the phone, but maybe Brittany has a bad cold. I pressed on.

“This is Debbie, I’m a volunteer with MoveOn.org and we’re reaching out to members in your area to work at the local office this weekend talking to voters. Are you available to help Obama get elected?” At which point, Brittany said, slowly and very deliberately, “We don’t work for niggers.”

I felt an instant wave of heat and anger, but I quickly said, “I see. Thank you for your time,” and hung up. Whoa. Deep breath. No, do not engage with a racist. He just wanted to shock me. Let it be. I debriefed with the others, who were supportive.

On my last call, I reached Sirhan. Sirhan was young and cheerful and not only agreed to volunteer on Saturday but knew exactly where the Democratic headquarters were. “Thanks for your help,” I said. "Have fun!" “Thank you for all you do,” he answered.

Come Tuesday, and it can’t come soon enough, I’ll be thinking of you, Sirhan, my evening’s success. You’re one of the 8,724 swing-state volunteers we recruited for this weekend, according to MoveOn.

And I’ll be thinking of you, too, Brittany, because if the polls and the mood of this country are true, you, my dear, will wake up on Wednesday to a new reality, and you will have to deal, like it or not, with President Barack Obama.

It’s time to move on, Brittany. The world is changing. At last.