Door Knocking
There had to be a first time when I decided to knock on doors on behalf of a political campaign, and today was the day, chilly and cloudy, but not terribly uncomfortable. I volunteered to help the Wexton campaign in Virginia’s 10th Congressional District. Naturally, I was early to the meeting in McClean Central Park and had plenty of time to chat with a recent college graduate whom I later drove to and from his “turf,” the few blocks he covered. My own turf was a mile from his.
I’d imagined doors being slammed in my face and confronting angry Republicans who’d scoff at my candidate and shoe me off their property. I’d imagines looking into the barrel of shotguns. What I’d not imagined, but should have, was the remarkable consistency of people not answering their doorbells. Most of the time, they were home but not caring to open up to an old guy with a mustache who wore a Dodgers windbreaker and baseball hat, a guy who with difficulty carried a clipboard, print-outs of addresses, absentee voting forms, Wexton literature, a script, a pen, and God-knows-what-else.
They just didn’t want to talk. Yes, some doors opened. One housekeeper assured me that the lady of the house was away; a teenage son, who proudly spoke of being a Republican, told me his parents were on vacation; a teenage daughter pretended that her mother was not home. Finally, one man opened his door after I’d given up and turned away. He confided that “all seven” of them would vote for Wexton, although our information showed only two people living at the house. Well, good for him.
The houses on my list were not close to each other. This was no tightly knit-together suburban community. This was exurban Great Falls, where houses are set back hundreds of yards from the road and hundreds of yards from each other. These were circular driveways and three-car garages and low walls, where the ultra-rich live, the haven of those for whom the Trump tax cut saved millions.
Was the morning a waste? Not if there is some virtue in participation, in meeting new people, in seeing the enthusiasm of others brought together by a common cause, in feeling that one’s acted in the spirit of true citizenship.
Yet, the voters on my turf seemed to close themselves off behind their strong doors, in their stately mansions, and to need no company of their fellow citizens except those whom they knew in advance they would agree. The man with a clipboard threatens them as they peer at him through their spy holes. He might ask them to think.