Tears and Miracles at Warren Headquarters

Last Tuesday, I put in a couple of hours at Elizabeth Warren’s Philly headquarters, calling New Hampshire to get out the vote for the primary. I was already having the blues a little for Bloomberg reasons and also because of come personal stuff, and the first round of calls really broke me. It was painful and scary hearing perfectly-nice-seeming people tell me they’d just voted for Trump and being compelled by the rules of phonebanking to disengage politely instead of screaming to the heavens.

About an hour in, I called a man who seemed delighted to tell me how much he hated Elizabeth Warren. I don’t know why, but I muddled through the call script instead of hanging up for self-preservation (darn persisting!) and he used every gaslighting trope since the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy: She’s DISINGENOUS. She’s sneaky, she’s a liar, why would ANYONE trust her, etc, etc. As I finally got it together to end the call, he said “Say hello to Mata Hari for me.” I don’t know if it upset me more that he felt entitled to firehose contempt at me or that I’d chosen to listen to any part of his Women Are Liars: The Opera.

There’s a thing in my trauma brain that says: “BE GOOD. GET SMALL.” If you behave well enough, he won’t hurt you. Unfortunately, that inner voice intersects in time with the politeness, the performed equivocalness of canvassing and phonebanking.

Saying calmly “I respect your opinion” instead of screaming “WHY WOULD YOU VOTE FOR A MAN IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2020? OR EVER? AND WHY ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE WHITE? AND WHAT ABOUT THE MUELLER REPORT?” is a better way to be, but being diplomatic is triggering and it makes me feel surveilled and hunted.  It feels too much like obedience. That’s a PTSD problem, for sure, but it’s also an America problem.

I selected “Not Ready” on my dialer, took my headphones out, and went into the restroom and cried. I wondered if the organizers and other callers could hear me, if New Hampshire could hear me. It was a good cry, the first time in all these years that I’ve broken down in a campaign headquarters. It has been a long, painful four years. I felt dangerously close to the debilitating depression that I and so much of America, suffered in early 2017.

I’m proud that I cried. I’m proud that I came out of the restroom, wiped my eyes, and asked the organizers for hugs. They freely gave them, and I was so grateful. I got some chocolate from the snack table to ward off the (admittedly rare) dementors of New Hampshire. I wished I’d brought an extra thermos of coffee: Next time, for sure.

Those few minutes of campaign life were a beautiful miracle: the organizers and my fellow phonebankers got me talking about Gritty (“the true leader of the Democratic Party”), the time I met John Lewis, and how Elizabeth was probably proud of me.

For them, and for me, and in spite of the misogynists, I dialed back in. The first person to pick up was both heartbreaking and galvanizing: She told me she wanted to vote for Elizabeth, but it was too big of a risk—she was really, really afraid. I gave her my reasons (best choice for women’s rights and racial justice) and said I empathized but hoped she would make the brave choice, which Amy later pointed out was Gillibrand’s IP. That’s probably okay.

After that, the calls got better. Sorry Elizabeth, sorry organizers, but my heart overflowed with joy when voters told me somewhat apologetically that sorry, they’d just voted for Amy. My heart was somewhat less overflowy (but still overflowy) when they told me they’d voted for Pete. There’s so much progress, even in the middle of this troll farmy nightmare. So many reasons to feel hopeful.

I ended that day’s spate of calls talking to a man who told me that yes, he and his wife were both planning to vote for Elizabeth, they were leaving for the polls in about 25 minutes. I love them, and I love everyone who’s trying, and somehow, though it’s nuts, I love America.

Since that day, I’ve been having a depression flare-up because the Trump calls were truly harrowing. But I’m okay. I gave myself the whole weekend to do nothing but write and read and make art and take care of my apartment. I’m recommitting to caring for my mental health this election year, realizing I may not have the stamina I used to, but I still have so, so much to offer.