Fragile Industries

Hope, Grope and Nope: Obama Art

 (image shamelessly stolen from AP wirephoto by Fragile Industries)

Jumping on the bandwagon a little late, I've been following the kerfluffle over the iconic "Hope" poster for the Obama campaign created by Shepard Fairey (and is that your real name, Mr. Fairey?).  Seems he lifted the original image from an AP photo, and they're taking legal action. 

Some folks take this stuff really seriously.  Here's a websitewith its knickers in a twist over the many borrowings and liberties taken by Fairey in a lot of his posters, a commentary created back in 2007 long before the current fuss.

My response?  Get over it.  Fairey has his origins in guerrilla street art, has spent nights in jail for plastering posters where he shouldn't, and probably is enjoying this nonsense more than anyone.  Norman Rockwell he ain't.  I'm not expecting this guy to suddenly develop an urge to seek legal permission or footnote his sources as assiduously as a PhD candidate.  I take that back.  Academe is no stranger to plagarism either.  He may just have all the integrity of a PhD. candidate, but I digress.

I steal images all the time for this blog.  If it's out there as a jpg. on the internet with no obvious copyright protection, I further the dissemination and appreciation of the original without disclaimer.  Come and get me, I'm judgment proof.  And try to prove damages when my Devoted Readership, according to my sitemeter, hovers in the mid double digits a day.  Until his recent visibility, Fairey was in the same untouchable status.

A really interesting story of Obama art was on the LA Times front page (below the fold) today.  A probable late-70's-early 80's portrait of the future President as an unknown youthful hipster currently resides in a home in Ojai.  Hoax?  Discovery?  Check the photo and you be the judge.  I would have reproduced it here in another example of my flagrant disrespect for copyright law, but it's a bitmap and un-liftable here.  All I can say is that the man looks good in a spread-collar Nik-Nik shirt.  Remember those? 

Personally, I wanted to make my own Fairey poster, with my own inspirational mug red-white-and-blued.  I think it's really "haute," or "hot" or even "ho."  "Hope?" Donno.

 

Some of the stuff out there is hysterical.  Go here or here for galleries.

My favorites:

 

     

Send me your tired, your poor, your Obamicons!

Change, and a flashback to November

"Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and begin again the work of remaking America."

Barack Obama, 44th President of the United States of America.

 

But first, a modest celebration is in order, no?

Jesus, I never thought we'd make it.  About a year and a half ago, my niece bought me a keychain with a reverse counter on it for the time left of the Bush Administration.  January 20. 2009 seemed a lifetime away. It counted down in hours, and it was about 15,000 hours until we were done with the Shrub.

Every time I reached for my keys, there were fewer, but still too many, hours.  While I was on my first trip to Clark County, NV in September as a lowly precinct walker for Obama, my keychain blinked its last, the battery dead.  I felt more of a pang than was logical, a superstitious dread.  Perhaps some Twilight Zone time warp would keep us under the Bush shadow forever.  More realistic was the fear that there would be a third Bush term if McCain was elected.  I didn't dare hope until the election was called at exactly 8:01 pm local time, Vegas time.

And now, I will wrap up my little election story, because I never quite lost that superstitious dread until Obama took his hand off the Lincoln bible this morning at 9:08 local time, approximately.  I was afraid to count my electoral chickens in public.  Let's journey back to November, 2008.  I can ressurect this post from my diary ...

When Last We Told Our Story (click Obama/2008 Election under "Topics" at left for previous chapters) ...

Best Week Ever, Final Chapters: Election Day

My wake up call for 4:30 (that's AM) pushed me out of my modestly comfortable bed at the Stratosphere and I fell into my carefully non-partisan outfit, as decreed by the Voter Protection squad.  No Obama t-shirt, buttons, hat, stickers.  I threw all my forms, water bottles, handbook, emergency phone numbers into my non-partisan bag and ran down to the in-casino Starbucks.  We Protection workers, we guardians of democracy, were advised to make friends with the election workers, and coffee and donuts seemed like a sure bet.  Of course, there are no donuts at Frappuchino Vente Land, so a dozen gourmet pastries and a gallon of leaded House Blend in hand, I powered out to the Strat's valet station. 

During the previous week, I'd gotten to know the guys there, on both the early and evening shifts.  My rental was knee-deep in election swag, and I'd brought all 5 magnetic Obama bumper stickers from home, which were front, back and center on the Geo's exterior.  As I said earlier in these posts, casinos are all-union and all-Obama-all-the-time.  I'd brought coffee to these guys in the AM, and tipped well in the evening.  The night before the election, the valet had refused my tip, saying, "You're doing enough for me just being here."  This must be a first, worthy of headline coverage, had it not been Election Eve: "VEGAS VALET TURNS DOWN TIP!!"

I had a cup ready this morning for the guy, and he said (Bugsy would have been proud), "Go stuff that ballot box for me!"  He assured me he had voted early, and I headed out into the slowly-lightening skies at 5:30 am. 

In a previous post, I described driving in Las Vegas and my mad scramble trying to follow Google/Map-Quest across roads that don't exist yet.  Next time, I pay the extra for the Tom-Tom, or whatever it's called.  It should have taken 15 minutes.

Fortunately, I allowed an hour for lost time.  Half an hour before polls opened, I made it to the middle school (after finding two others) which served as the polling place for five different precincts.  A line snaked out of the gymnasium, about 50 or 60 strong, waiting.  I flashed whatever laughable credentials I had been given by Voter Protection and found my way to the head guy.  I tried to hand him some Starbucks, but he was fully equipped already.  Shit, did the Republicans beat me?  No, the workers had supplied their own, but my pastries got serious attention.  The 20 voting machines were already set up, and I did my rounds, recording machine numbers and zero counts.  One machine had no readout.  I alerted the head guy, who fiddled with it for a minute, then shut it down.  There, I saved the democratic process.

The observation table had a good view of the action, and I found three Obama volunteers already installed.  I didn't realize it, but beyond the non-partisan attorney squad I had joined, the Obama organization had another batallion of workers who took readings from the poll tallies every few hours. 
Not a single McCain operative was there.  This was a good sign.  The McCain organization, rumor had it, was understaffed and badly organized.  No one had thought to have a protective structure in place on election day, at least at a precinct level as far as I could see.  Maybe the Young Republican onslaught of Florida 2000 would not replay itself, as I had feared. 

I hunkered down and was eagle-eyed for dirty tricks, ignoring the small talk at the table.  After the initial rush, which played out over half an hour, the only improvement I could suggest to the head guy was to get the custodians to lock the side doors, where a few wayward voters had wandered in, confused.  The set-up and organization was beautiful, and the flow of traffic was easily handled. 

By 9 am, I was bored out of my mind, and wandered out to the two Voter Protection workers outside, one beyond the 100-foot barrier, one just at the line.  They were a Barbie and Ken set of law students, overdressed in their interview suits, both white.  The precincts were about 50% black, and the incoming voters avoided them like the plague.  We chatted for a few inane minutes, and I tried to convince them that they looked like Republicans and to put on their Official Voter Protection Outdoor Greeter yellow t-shirts, which read, front and back, "Voting Questions or Problems? Ask Me."  It was a little less threatening.  Each nodded and gave me a smile I dimly remembered from my own law school days when the Big Firms interviewed for galley slaves.  They attended UNLV Law, a decent school, and were convinced that the Dean was coming to check their professionalism.  No t-shirts were put on, and I returned to the gym. 

A few hours into voting, when everyone at the table had exchanged every vital statistic and funny precinct walking story we had, two guys walked in and headed to our table.  Everyone there snickered.  They looked like the Bobbsey Twins.  A crew-cut white guy with a gut and a taller crew-cut Asian guy had obviously walked into Suits R Us and bought the navy-blazer-khaki-pants combo, with matching pin-striped button-down oxford cloth shirts.  No ties, but the shirts were fully buttoned to the top, making their adam's apples prominent over the collars and giving them an oddly Amish look.  They were civil, refused to state affilliation, and acted like the CIA.  The Young Republicans had arrived.  I glanced down.  Sure enough, they wore matching tassled loafers.  They did not check machines, talk to anyone I could see, and looked mysterious and clueless for about half an hour before they left.  I suppose they were checking to see if Malcolm X had risen from the dead and was ripping ballots out of the hands of defenseless white folk.  They left, importantly, about a half hour later. 

The Press, in the person of an overly-coiffed woman of a certain age wearing credentials from CNN, was posted at the 100 foot line, looking for an interview.  She tried to corral me, but I remembered my training (DON'T TALK TO PRESS), nodded politely, and smoked my cigarette out back, out of range.  Hell, she didn't even have a video camera.  I might have gone for my 15 minutes if I could have face time.

By 12:00, I was ready for lunch, if not an entire sacrifical lamb, and the Law School Ken entered the gym to relieve me.  He told me that the Big Daddies at HQ had requested a spare Voter Protection presence at another polling place to be the outside guardian of democracy.  I said I'd be happy to switch, Ken gave me his pristine t-shirt, and said I was expected at 1pm.

I picked up some regrettable drive-thru fast food on the way, got lost, and found my way to yet another middle school, one of the ones I had found getting lost that morning.  There I found a slow polling place in the gymnasium, equally well-organized, and a single Voter Protection worker.  He was a 60-ish attorney from San Francisco who was totally unaware of my emergency re-routing.  It was dull as dishwater there, the gym was overly air-conditioned, and he was enjoying a hazy near-nap in a pullover sweater.  We exchanged war stories and discovered a mutual dear friend among the SF attorney corps.  John, if you felt your ears burning in early November, it was all good!

I donned my yellow t-shirt and stood at the 100-foot point, asking people to tell me if they had any questions or problems.  This precinct was about 75% African-American.  I was ignored and walked around until a group of supporters for a local judical election, also hanging in the parking lot, decided to give me badly needed advice.  Voters in the area had been warned to AVOID white folks outside the polling place, as they'd likely be Republicans who'd mislead them and make their vote just another lost chad.

So, duly advised, I started greeting people with the compeletely unauthorized preamble, "Hi, I'm an Obama Voter Protection Volunteer ..." and I was actually able to help some folks.  Some voters were at the wrong polling place and could be re-routed, some were at the wrong polling place and needed a ride (which showed up from HQ in minutes, more evidence of the superior organization in place), some (including a number of older folks) were just nervous because it was their first time voting.  Time actually passed more pleasantly.

The Republican Oddsey Twins made an appearance midafternoon.  From a distance, I could tell their socks matched too.  They stayed a big twenty minutes.  I think they were the only Republican Election Day presence for North Las Vegas, spread thin.  I waved at them like an idiot when they left.  Their day was going to end in tears, I knew.

A civics teacher, once the school day was done, set up music in the parking lot and praised people over the PA as they entered and exited for exercising their rights.  It was good music.  As the day ended and night fell, the pace picked up with folks getting off work or on their way to work on the second shift for the casinos.  Three women in ballgowns and remarkable hats arrived, bowing and waving grandly.  "Ladies and gentlemen, the Pointer Sisters are here and voting.  It's a good day for America," said the teacher/DJ/emcee.  They weren't, but they were celebrating, and for the last hour, until 7pm, I joined the growing neighborhood crowd doing the Electric Slide in the parking lot. 

The parking lot DJ announced results as the polls closed across the nation, and when Maryland went for Obama, I dared hope.  Then Ohio, and I felt confident.  I actually did some work, as instructed, filling out a few forms for some voters who had to cast provisional ballots because they could not get to their polling places, a few other minor questions as to procedure, and checked in regularly with my pal inside the gym.  Everything was kosher, and I gave him my forms, we checked the closing machines, made sure the hand tallies matched the machines, phoned in stats, and helped fold tables and close shop.

I got in my car about 7:50, and the party was in full swing in the parking lot. Neighbors had brought BBQ's and a pleasant briquette haze settled around the crowd as Stevie Wonder sang "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" over the PA speakers.

For once I did not get lost on the way back to the Strat.  The rental had XM radio, and I searched, ignorantly, for a news station.  Steering one-handed, trying not to get T-boned on the unmarked intersections, I veered from rap station to Vic Damone to psycho punk and finally figured out that the main networks were on the high side of the dial.  Just as I drifted onto Las Vegas Boulevard, about 6 blocks from the Strat, my dial told me I was on CBS radio, but all I heard was ... noise.  It was 8:03 pm.  I flicked to the next station, CNN, avoiding the white stretch Hummer in the next lane, and the same ... noise.  When cars around me started honking horns and flashing headlights, I knew what had happened.  I was listening to the roar from the Chicago crowd.  It had been called.  Anderson Cooper's voice chimed in and confirmed it.  I went from station to station, honking and flashing my own headlights. 

While I waited to turn right at Las Vegas Boulevard onto Sahara, to the Strat parking entrance, I saw a man standing alone at the corner.  He was dancing a joyous jig, waving his arms.  I will never forget that moment, that man.

I pulled into the valet zone, windows down, radio up full, screaming "WOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!"  The valet zone was dead, and three or four familiar faces made a beeline to my car.  "Is it true?"  "We can't get the news out here!"  "The casino has a news blackout!"  Best: "Did you do it, Lisa?"  I jumped out of my car, said, "We did it!" and four guys in monkey suits and an overweight middle-aged woman did a Chinese fire drill dance around a cheap rental car, high-fiving and hugging.  I realized I was crying and laughing and stone cold sober.  That last part didn't last long.

Last Chapter tomorrow, or when I feel like it.  What it was like at Clark County Democratic HQ, the Rio.  Remember: What happens in Vegas ...

My latest Prop. 8 Rants

Two domestically-committed lesbians, residents of Pasadena, CA, are walking to San Francisco to protest the passage of Prop. 8 and urge its repeal.  Their website is here:

http://www.revoke8.com/

They tell their story, day by day, with little miracles of support, press coverage, offers of shelter, foot rubs, here:

http://www.revoke8.blogspot.com/

Paget and Jones invite, on their website, personal messages to be delivered to the CA Supremes upon their arrival at the State Building in SF.  I know, from having worked for that institution in that building, that my message, in the majesty of THE LAW, is just the sound of flies buzzing at the window screen, irrelevant, unheard.  It holds no weight.

Nonetheless, I drafted my own message/vote for support of Paget and Jones and their cause, and played the "I-used-to-work-for-you" card.  In addition, it is the shorthand version of what I hope they hear from their more credentialed sources.  Here's my message:

To the Chief Justice and Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the State of California:

 

In 1835, Alexis de Toqueville warned that the primary danger of the electoral process in the United States was what he presciently termed, "the tyranny of the majority": those occasions when the majority might use its strength in government to ride roughshod over the rights of minorities. Such a tyranny seemed to Tocqueville the most likely to occur and thus the greatest danger of the untrammeled power of the electorate.

In this last election in California, we observed this very process at work.  A bare majority of the populace, inflamed by misleading advertising bought by out-of-state religious interests, voted to overturn a right found by this court to be irrefutable, an element of basic human dignity -- the right to join in matrimony with the person one loves.  In this recent election, Proposition 8 sought to change the basic framework of California's legal process, its Constitution, in a way to disenfranchise a minority.

 

The process of democracy in this state and this country has not depended on the endorsement of a slim majority to recognize the rights of those who historically have been denied rights.  The advancement of this country has in fact been based on those who give voice to the oppressed, even when that voice could have been drowned out by louder, more strident repression.  It is respectfully submitted to the Court that its recognition of a basic human right of marriage was one of those historical voices, and the attempt to drown out that decision should not be the last voice heard.

 

When it comes to the precious freedoms enshrined in the California Constitution, long respected as the broadest and most inclusive charter in this nation, a bare majority of an artificially-influenced electorate should not be determinative of minority rights.  This is not a mere procedural amendment, but an attempt to silence the still small voice of decency, of basic human dignity.  This, I submit, is a wholesale overhaul of this state's processes, which if allowed, could lead to unimaginable abuses.

 

I speak as one affected, with a small voice.  I speak as a former worker from among your ranks.  I speak as one who wishes, with all her heart, that this state's historical record of the protection of the minority, will continue in this and other instances of the tyranny of the majority.

 

Respectfully submitted,

[Fragile Industries' Real Name]

Former Senior Research Attorney, Civil Central Staff, California Supreme Court

 

 

Best Week Ever, Chapters 4 & 5: Election Eve and Sin City Driving

Election Eve

Monday night, I stop on my way back to the Stratosphere at the “boiler room” to receive my Voter Protection supply packet and assignment. Glory be, at the appropriate alphabetical line, the lawyer I deal with has a rare sense of humor and friendly demeanor, along with a glaze of exhaustion. I am assigned to the polling place at Marvin Sedway Middle School in North Las Vegas. “Whoever he is,” says the lawyer. “You mean you’ve never heard the Sedway Concerto in D??? It’s a masterpiece!” It takes a second, and then he gets it. “No, it’s Marvin Sedway, the father of modern mime theater!” he replies, giddily. For a few minutes, we riff on this with the silliness only seriously tired people can generate, and I’m gone.

I make a final stop at White’s Drugstore, on the Strip, a huge enterprise which mostly sells tourist gimcracks, liquor (and drugs in the parking lot), with a short aisle devoted to OTC remedies. Fortunately, they carry Zantac, which is my new best friend. I ran out of it Sunday and braved Monday without my favorite remedy to see if my tummy had recovered after a week of acid-free relief. It hadn’t, and I am miserable. At the register, a large display of laminated prayer cards catches my eye. I find one portraying an animal-and-bird bedecked St. Francis, with his lovely

prayer

on the back. The first line reads, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace …” and it seems like a lucky talisman for the next day. At 79 cents, it’s also a thriftier and more humane choice than the $5.99 rabbit’s feet key chains on the adjoining rack. No animals were harmed in the course of my search for divine favor.

As I progress through the casino towards my room, I pass the bar where bartender John, my nightly dispenser of single Coronas and political enlightenment, flags me down. He casts a wary glance towards the glass-domed eye in the sky and says he has something for me. He reaches into an under-counter cooler, fumbles about and stands, holding a mid-sized go cup full of light amber bubbles. “I knew you’d be tired tonight, so you can take this to your room.” “Thanks, John, that’s sweet, but where’s my lime?” He rears back in mock outrage. “You don’t put lime in champagne, silly,” he whispers. Vegas love.

I didn’t see the bottle, but it tastes expensive, all the way up the elevator and for the next hour, when I fall asleep to the soothing murmur of Anderson Cooper. (The Stratosphere’s cable options do not include MSNBC, so I am suffering from Keith Olberman withdrawal. The TV channels, once one navigates away from the hotel channel, automatically begin with Fox News, a nerve-rattling experience.) My wake-up call is set for 4:30. That’s a.m.

Eeesh.

Driving in Vegas

I will here interject a discussion about driving in Las Vegas. If you can figure out the points of a compass, it’s pretty easy, for the most part. I’m not equipped with a mental magnetic north, as are some lucky people, but streets, freeways, exit and entrance lanes are clearly marked “East” and “North” and so on. Most of the main streets are wide boulevards, and once off the strip, are rarely crowded. The locals tend to obey posted speed limits within about 5 miles per hour, so I restrain my leadfoot tendencies, which are sorely tempted by the broad, wide-open spaces. Given the exponential boom of Vegas population in the last 20 years, most roads are of recent construction, and gleam with fresh smooth blacktop. Individual traffic lanes, however, frequently are marked only speculatively, which makes for a bumper-car free-for all when the streets curve.

It’s easy to tell the streets that date back to Rat Pack Vegas. They are named after the casinos that created the cross-streets for the strip. Bugsy Siegel’s “Flamingo” is followed by “Desert Inn” and “Sahara.” Smaller streets from the early era have sensible small street names, after trees, presidents, states, Nevada towns and Indian tribes, and words which might be found as thesaurus entries under the phrase “desert hellhole.”

Many of the same old names found crossing the strip, also appear at the extremes of town, which would lead you to believe that one can travel directly on surface streets to the edge. This is true for a few major roads, but apparently there existed a donut hole in between North Vegas and Vegas Metro for many years that was filled in with random accretion, so there one is, tootling along Paradise northbound, and then everything goes pear-shaped. With any luck, you can tack back and forth and find it again, but I spent 15 minutes doing my Tourette’s imitation one day, and decided henceforth to never venture out without a Google Map.

Google and Yahoo maps rely strongly on freeway “short cuts.” This works most of the time, but with the I-15 and 115 freeways in a constant state of expansion, within 30 seconds one is funneled from eight down to two lanes, one of which is exit only. All the off- and on-ramps are exit only, which is a pretty good system, and locals seem unphased by the out-of-town rentals veering suddenly in and out to capture or escape the lane’s dedicated nature. As a driver who has survived both Los Angeles and San Francisco on wheels, I give Vegas navigability a B plus.

However, Google and Yahoo Maps also contain an important caveat, prominently located on every printout. The routes specified are not guaranteed to exist. This introduces an amusing fantasy element to surface street trips involving the smaller roads. I forgive the e-map creators for not keeping up with the ever-changing tentacles of outer Vegas areas. Now that I’m home, and well-rested. At the time, I was not so sanguine, as, for example, when on election day, I set out with a full 45 minutes to reach the polling place at 6 a.m. and was delivered to 2400 Something Street, which was a full block long, and my destination was 3900 Something Street. Something Street was one of those suburban phenomenons familiar from my youthful driving experiences in the San Fernando Valley. It dribbles along in Morse dots and dashes, interrupted by dead ends, developmental cul-de-sacs, and untracked swaths of dusty open space. Tacking back and forth would ordinarily work, but all the surrounding streets were similarly amputated. An eight-mile trip took nearly an hour. I cursed the Google/Yahoo gods, called HQ, consulted an inconclusive AAA map, and made it in time to prevent utter electoral chaos, or so I thought. It’s amazing how important a destination becomes the longer one is prevented from reaching it.

And another thing: If, as I hope, Obama rewards my hard work with an ambassadorship to Vegas, my first act will be to recommend to my host nation that they create a Ministry For Street Names, with ironclad control over developer’s fancies. By Vegas terms, streets like Flamingo or Paradise, or even Wayne Newton Drive make sense. But in the areas of recent development, it seems the road planners were all high. Maybe there were just too many tiny, two-block lanes and dead ends per tract for sanity to prevail, but I believe they were all on serious hallucinogens. Here is a list of just some of the housing tract streets I canvassed, and I swear, I’m not making this up:

Graham Cracker Street

Melon Aroma Avenue

Bitter Berry Avenue

Crying Heart Street

(the above four all intersected into one insane loop)

And not far away, less egregious, but strange:

Crystal Sword Court

Roman Empire Court

Kite Shield Court

Cinnamon Spice Court

Blue Sunrise Street

Amethyst Stars Avenue

Ruby Sunset Street

Blueberry Climber Road

Champagne Woods Avenue

Moon Wave Avenue

Lavender Lily Lane

… and DeLorean Drive, where the white line kept disappearing. (That’s funny if you were alive in the ‘80’s.)

Some streets just were randomly odd, as if they were the result of a Mad Libs party that got out of hand:

Anchorman Way (this was not a marine-themed tract, so I assume it’s news-related)

Delighted Avenue

Frappuccino Court

Also noted:

Bet Twice Lane -- now that’s just taking the Vegas schtick too far.

And: a spanking new condo development called “The Whispering Arms.” I wouldn’t sleep well there.

WILL THE MADNESS NEVER END???

Exerpts From A Facebook Dialogue on Prop. H8

I've been taking some time from this blog and recounting my election experiences.  Instead, over the last 48 hours, I've been chanelling my newfound sense of possiblility and empowerment by searching out and working with the opposition to the passage of Prop. 8.  Interestingly, this effort, much like the Obama campaign, is a grass-roots, internet-fueled movement, much of it on Facebook.  I've resurrected my long-dormant Facebook account and signed up with the anti-H8 groups and plan to stand with locals in front of City Hall in My Little Town this Saturday.

 

One thread of comments had a message from a man who had invited his whole Facebook mailing list to the upcoming protests, and a reply from a childhood friend indicated that she agreed with Prop. 8.  He posted her Facebook page, and I sent a message asking why she voted for hate and not love.  Surprisingly, a thoughtful exchange ensued.  She is a resident of Salt Lake City, did not vote on the issue, and a devout Mormon.  But she wanted to explain her position and understand mine.  This openness is rare, and while I might not change her mind, it helps me to understand the process by which otherwise kind and tolerant souls might come to her conclusions.

 

Yesterday, she wrote:

This is the most I have every thought about this topic, Your letters do make me think, I guess for me it is hard to decide weather it is a civil or religious issue. If gays were to be married by a judge, it's civil, and if gays are to be married in a church it's religious. For me, the act of marriage is VERY Sacred. Homosexuality is not. I am not against gays having the same rights as straight people do, I have gay friends, my view on marriage is different, I do think that they should have the same rights as a married couple, but not the right to be married in the temple where I was married. Passing prop 8 would allow that. A Civil marriage by a judge, have at it.

She also sent a video link that summed up (or had shaped) her thinking, a longer, more faux-tolerant version of the Yes on H8 ads that swarmed California airwaves.  I'm reluctant to give it more traffic than it deserves so I will not post a connection here.  In sum, it is a cute, 4 minute animated story of a nice friendly suburban straight family who are friends with their gay neighbors but still manage to justify their "Yes" votes on H8.  In an unlikely conclusion, the two families are shown sharing a barbecue, passing the mustard in brotherly love.

Today, I wrote back the following.  Being afflicted with a lawyer's training, it's wordy, and a bit kiss-ass.  But I meant every long-winded bit of it.  I offer this as an example of how I could discuss this with my "inside voice" when someone seems open to such a dialogue but has bought the lies spread by their church.

Dear XXXXXXX,

I appreciate your openness to discussion, especially since you are in a different state and the issue is not directly in front of you. I also appreciate that you have given the matter thought, instead of reacting in a knee-jerk way.

There is, as you recognized, a world of difference between what is civil and what is religious. Let me tell you what the CA Supreme Court's decision will NOT do: affect the right of churches, synagogues, temples or other faiths and places of worship to decide who will be married by their clergy. I know this because not only am I a retired lawyer, I used to work with the CA Supreme Court. I know the author of the decision and the attorneys who work with him. They are hardly activists or firebrands.  They also thought long and hard about the decision, as did the judges who voted with the majority. The religious aspect was a consideration, but they knew that they were not stepping on religious freedom by recognizing civil freedoms. Your church's rights are protected because the Founding Fathers wisely believed in the separation of church and state, a line that is not crossed in either direction, ideally.

For example, many denominations are currently debating whether to allow gay clergy. You may have seen some of these issues played out in the press -- currently the Episcopal Church is going through some soul-searching. However, if you've seen the articles, you may have also noticed that these debates are internal church matters, not determined by the courts. The civil law will not dictate on clerical matters or dogma.

For that reason, nearly all the gay marriages performed since the Court's decision and the passage of Prop. 8 HAVE been presided over by judges, instead of clergy of many denominations. That's all any gay couple I know wants, is equal civil rights under the law. To have a civil "marriage" with all the rights under the law that heterosexual couples have. That is the public, governmental aspect. Religion is a private matter, and no sacramental rights (or rites) attach under the decision.

Some congregations allow church ceremonies, some don't, some non-affiliated clergy perform such ceremonies at private homes, but it is an internal matter decided by the denomination, congregation or individual clergy. If you participate in the affairs of your church, your opinion will count to the extent your congregation takes such opinions into account. I think it will be a good long time, if ever, that the LDS Church takes this step, which is fine if it reflects the will of its members, as I'm sure you'd agree.

The video you posted is similarly thoughtful, but it draws some false parallels.

First of all, a domestic partnership does not offer equal rights under the law. There are hundreds of rights under federal law that only attach to a couple if the state issuing the license calls it a "marriage" and not a civil union or domestic partnership or some other second-class label. Domestic partnership IS a huge step forward, but it is not in any way equal. There are also large areas of law that you'd think would be governed by the state, but they are preempted by federal law. For example, pensions offered by non-governmental employers are entirely

preempted by a federal law called ERISA. Interstate travel and transportation, federal taxes, veteran's rights and benefits, ditto.

The lack of these rights are stumbling blocks to the every day life of gay couples, rights you would take for granted if you were or are married to a man. So that's one key issue that the video does not fully explain.

Another is that the Massachusets school case could not happen in California. State education law in California is different. There is no requirement in the curriculum about teaching marriage or sexuality that a parent CANNOT opt out of EXCEPT teaching about "hate crimes" in secondary school -- which simply explains, without reference to marriage or the specifics of sexual acts, that tolerance should be extended to people of different races, nationalities, religions and sexual preference. This doesn't happen until high school, and would NEVER happen in second grade. That's the opinion of the highest legal authority in the state -- not the Supreme Court, but the State Attorney General, who has objected to the paralell with the Massachussets case.

Your faith has suffered a great deal of prejudice and intolerance. I'm sure you appreciate the tolerance for your faith that tolerant people of other faiths try to teach and practice.

I know well what happened at Nauroo, and about the history of the Saints. I consider myself a Christian in spirit, if not official affiliation. I have blogged about my fascination with religious history in general, and the Saints in particular, because yours is a faith that can be followed in historical research, unlike others. It is unique yet illustrates much of what the original Christians and others must have experienced. I'd be happy to share my posts with you to show I am not a knee-jerk enemy of your fatih, as you are not a knee-jerk enemy of homosexuals.

In that spirit, I hope you think about this issue some more.  Thanks again for this exchange.

Well Said, Keith

Today's Special Comment from Keith Olberman on Proposition 8's passage.  The best and most moving statement I've read.  Please read and view here.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27650743/

Best Week Ever, Chapter 3: Voter Protection Training, Sunday

(With gratitude to Ralph Steadman for "Lizard Lounge" illustration.)

Voter Protection Training: All Those Lawyer Jokes Are True

Peter returns to Zion Methodist that afternoon because some other churches from outlying areas are gathering there for a special late Sunday program. I cut out early from canvassing to get to UNLV, where the voter protection training is scheduled for two hours from 3-5. The campus is good sized, but the specific classroom is not available by Google or Yahoo map searches. After puzzling over the school’s website map, I figure out the rough coordinates and, having just been prayed over, I offer it up to God’s hands. It’s easy to get to the campus, not so easy to enter. The left turn lane off Flamingo is mobbed with enormous trucks, and the jam extends two blocks. Every passenger wears cowboy hats. As I inch forward, I shout to the neighboring truck, “Is there a game today?” “Naw, it’s the PBRA Grand Championships!” He is in high spirits. “Uh, I’m a stranger here, what’s the PR… PVB..."  "Professional Bull Riding Association!” He looks at me like the ignoramus I am. “Wow, great! Have a good time,” I yell, and lean back while creeping towards the turn.

I bypass the stadium parking lot where everyone else is headed and eventually find a space on the other side of campus. It’s an easy walk to the classroom. I can hear the roar of the crowd and bass of the music from the stadium.

The Voter Protection group is entirely composed of attorneys and law students. If nothing else, the training experience is a potent reminder of why I loathe so many of my fellow lawyers, and why I can never return to private practice.

Unlike every other Obama volunteer group, the 20 or so people waiting to sign in are unsmiling and tend to stare down a friendly nod of the head. No one engages in spontaneous conversation. After sign-in, we file into an auditorium and cluster at the front. Nearly all attendees have their heads down, intent and visibly busy, over important-looking briefs and files. No one even glances at the Voter Protection handbook we all have received. A competent woman from New York, a veteran of voter protection efforts over the last decade or so, readies her Power Point presentation, introduces a volunteer who has helped lay the local groundwork, and touches on preliminary issues as six or eight latecomers trickle in. The newcomers repeatedly ask what they’d missed, and the instructor repeatedly assures them that she is just introducing topics which will be covered in depth later. Unfortunately, and predictably, the most annoying members of the group (we used to call them “helium-hands” in law school) continue to interrupt at the rate of every 30 to 60 seconds. All questions are either off-issue or are arguments with her suggestions. With increasing asperity, the two leaders hold their positions and remind their audience that all would come clear.

An example: since we are nearly all from out-of-state, the instructor mentions the very basic issue that when talking to state residents, it’s pronounced “Nevada” with the second syllable a flat “a” as in “sad” or “glad.” Not “Ne-vahh-da”, second syllable a broad “a” as in “odd” or “blah.“ Sounds silly, but it means a lot to locals. The latter, incorrect pronunciation sounds East-Coast-elitist and raises hackles. An easy concession to keep things smooth. This was the first thing I learned in Camp Obama and it was repeated before phone banking and throughout the campaign. Oh, but asserting this here is like throwing raw meat to hungry beasts. Hands shoot up all over, debating what was the “right” pronunciation. One man, who obviously wants to make a big impression with his bilingual abilities, states that in Spanish Nevada is pronounced with the broad “ah” and declares he will continue to do so, especially when speaking Spanish.

There are a significant number of lawyers who are “right-fighters,” who would rather be right than happy. They also love the sound of their own voices. These are the idiots who raise law-exam hypotheticals about how to do battle with poll workers and even the voters, when the key point of our task, as is repeatedly explained, is to observe, to maintain calm within ourselves and others, and to report back to HQ, or the “boiler room” as it is called . We are to befriend the poll workers, help set up and break downi polling places if permitted, and stay out of their way, for the most part. Our interventions are to be phrased as suggestions, if, for example, we see someone disabled in line who may need a chair or passage to the front of the line,. or if signage is misleading. Other than some numerical reporting, we are there to ease and protect the process, not necessarily each individual vote. There are many valid reasons why an individual voter may have to vote provisionally or not at all, and if that is the case, we are to butt out. If we observe outright fraud, we are not to wade in spewing venom, but to tell the boiler room, who will take appropriate action. In sum, we are given a humble, peacekeeping role.

You can just imagine how that goes down with this crowd.

Forty minutes in, I raise my own hand, and the instructor begins for the umpteenth futile time, “We really need to move on …” and I ask quickly, “Can we hold questions until the end?” Light applause from a few in the audience who must share my basically non-litigious temperament. A woman in front of me turns and whispers, “Thank you.” The instructor agrees, and this works to silence all but two or three assholes. I notice that the handbook contains every point made during the instruction as I follow along. I skim ahead, half listening. With 15 minutes to go, I simultaneously finish the book and reach my personal Defcon-4 of frustration, and slip out the door.

The stadium across campus is still rocking.

Best Week Ever, Chapter 2: Church and State

.. The second part of a narrative wherein Fragile Industries travels to Las Vegas for the Get Out the Vote effort for Obama and has The Best Week of Her Life.

Church And State

On Sunday morning, Ian, Our Esteemed Leader of the Craig Avenue volunteer office, asks for volunteers to reach out to two local African-American churches. Ian looks meaningfully at William and Iris, a black couple. Most of us are of other ethnicities. They dutifully step up. I raise my hand, as I am very drawn to black churches. It goes back to my Katrina volunteer experience, and the love and support the local churches gave to the Red Cross workers thrown into their midst. Since then, I attend St. Paul’s in a nearby town every month or so to satisfy my jones for gospel and powerful, rhythmic preaching. Another guy, Peter, mentions that his day job is working for a coalition of churches in San Diego. Peter and I are joined in holy matrimony for the assignment, and head out to Zion Methodist. Our Leader Ian has a good relationship with the pastors of both churches, who have already given permission for our intrusion.

We take about 20 minutes to flyer the cars in the large lot with simple voting reminders, an invitation to an Obama-themed picnic that afternoon, and announcements of Michelle Obama’s rally in Vegas on Monday. (BTW, I heard she drew thousands on a weekday, while McCain’s appearance in town later in the day couldn’t fill an elementary school playground and required bussing in volunteers to swell the crowd.) I hear some world-class singing going on inside the sanctuary.

An older man stands in front of the church doors, serving as greeter, although the sermon has already begun. Peter, a masterful charmer, asks if it would be permitted for us to join the congregation for the remainder of the service before we speak to the exiting flock. We apologize, as we did repeatedly for the rest of our morning, for our casual uniform of jeans and Obama t-shirts. Waving aside our explanations, he ushers us in with unobtrusive ceremony.

The topic of the sermon is the Wedding at Cana, and the implications of turning water into wine. It is oddly apropos for me. Unlike much of my history with Vegas trips, this visit I had decided to imbibe at most a single beer or glass of wine at the end of the workday, a regime that is working well, despite the best efforts of generous hotel staff. The sermon makes several points clear: at this wedding, unlike most, the best wine was saved until last (that which was provided by Jesus, which filled hearts with joy), and that in our lives, we can trade in mere alcohol for the “better wine” of Christ’s love, which quenches the thirst of our soul. The pastor, a Pavarotti-shaped man of about 35, wipes his brow repeatedly with a large crimson handkerchief, in a Pavarotti-like gesture. His message is punctuated with humor. In one aside, he said during a home visit to two older women from his prior congregation in Louisiana, he was able to conclude that these women had a bit of a drinking problem, as the wine bottles grouped in a genteel display on the sideboard all had rings of lipstick around their openings. “If you’re going to drink it right out of the bottle, at least have the class to wipe off the lipstick!”

Communion is celebrated (Peter and I hang back) and I see our greeter whisper in the pastor’s ear. After we joined hands with our neighbors and gave each other affirmations, and before the final song, the pastor welcomes Peter and me and thank us for our work. Eyes that had skipped over us before now meet ours, with smiles, nods, and the occasional thumbs-up. We join hands again and sing “Reach out and touch somebody’s hand, make this a better place, if we can.”

Peter and I then speak with the congregation as they exit, and ask for volunteers on election day. I thank each and every member for welcoming us to such a wonderful service (it really was -- I never got to go to summer camp and was "Kumbaya"-deprived as a child, so I adore holding hands and singing) and each and every member tells me he or she has already voted in the Nevada early voting process. We snag a few volunteers -- most folks work on Tuesday, but some high school students have the day off. On their own, but more frequently with their mother’s urging, four kids sign up. I hand out buttons and stickers. Most women want the button I wear on my hat, a 3-inch wide pink extravaganza that reads: “Smart women vote Obama,” but that is one-of-a-kind and precious to me, purchased at the Long Beach Camp Obama. I had a dozen or so smaller “Women for Obama/Biden” buttons which had to do.

[Side note: At the Election Night celebration, a man who looked vaguely familiar pointed to the “Smart Women” button pinned to my waist (or where I used to have a waist) and cried, “I sold you that button!” “Camp Obama, Long Beach?!” “Yes, I remember you. You gave us that giant roll of stickers to sell.” I had had leftover stickers from an election pack of Obama swag I’d handed out at our 4^th of July block party. The signs and buttons were long gone, but hundreds of stickers remained. At Camp Obama, I handed them into the swag counter so they could raise funds. “Did they sell?” I asked? “Like hotcakes!” I told him that the button he sold me was the most requested item in all my volunteering but I refused to part with it. He shook his head. “I should have made ten thousand of those things.” We high-fived, shouted “Yes we did!” and hugged.]

As the last of the flock disperses, a beautifully dressed woman comes out and tells us the pastor wants to speak with us. We enter his office where a television mutely broadcasts a football game and the walls are covered in framed certificates and family portraits. The pastor reclines in a Lazy Boy, visibly fatigued, but welcoming. He and Peter discover some mutual friends in interfaith organizations, and he askes us about our campaign work. He could not use his pulpit for electioneering, he explains, but privately, his conversations with the members of the church and the larger community have shown him a blossoming of hope and activism during the Obama campaign that he feels is in part deeply spiritual. I want but don’t dare ask about the reaction to the Reverend Wright controversy, but the pastor touches on it himself. “I was afraid that would defeat Obama, and create problems for African-American churches in general. But the way Obama handled it was perfect. The issue died out.” He hopes Obama will attend an African-American church in Washington, to restore respectability in the eyes of the public. We chat for about 20 minutes, and part with warm handshakes and laughter. He waves a thick finger at me and warns, “Remember to wipe the lipstick off the bottle, sister!”

White Privilege Explained

original source here and thanks to Tim Wise

 

 

This is Your Nation on White Privilege

 

By Tim Wise 9/13/08

 

For those who still can't grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are l ooking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

 

White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen, like Bristol Palin,and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because "every family has challenges," even as black and Latino families with similar "challenges" are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

 

White privilege is when you can call yourself a "fuckin' redneck," like Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll "kick their fuckin' ass," and talk about how you like to "shoot shit" for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

 

White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

 

White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don't all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you're "untested."

 

White privilege is being able to say that you support the words "under God" in the pledge of allegiance because "if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it's good enough for me," and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the "under God" part wasn't added until the 1950s--while if you're black and believe in reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school, requires it), you are a dangerous and mushy liberal who isn't fit to safeguard American institutions.

 

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.

 

White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto is "Alaska first," and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she's being disrespectful.

 

White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you're being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college and the fact that she lives close to Russia--you're somehow being mean, or even sexist.

 

White privilege is being able to convince white women who don't even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because suddenly your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a "second look."

 

White privilege is being able to fire people who didn't support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

 

White privilege is when you can take nearly twenty-four hours to get to a hospital after beginning to leak amniotic fluid, and still be viewed as a great mom whose commitment to her children is unquestionable, and whose "next door neighbor" qualities make her ready to be VP, while if you're a black candidate for president and you let your children be interviewed for a few seconds on TV, you're irresponsibly exploiting them.

 

White privilege is being able to give a 36 minute speech in which you talk about lipstick and make fun of your opponent, while laying out no substantive policy positions on any issue at all, and still manage to be

considered a legitimate candidate, while a black person who gives an hour speech the week before, in which he lays out specific policy proposals on several issues, is still criticized for being too vague about what he would do if elected.

 

White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God's punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you're just a good church-going Christian, but if you're black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism

and its effect on black people, you're an extremist who probably hates America.

 

White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a "trick question," while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O'Reilly means you're dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

 

White privilege is being able to go to a prestigious prep school, then to Yale and then Harvard Business school, and yet, still be seen as just an average guy (George W. Bush) while being black, going to a prestigious prep school, then Occidental College, then Columbia, and then to Harvard Law, makes you "uppity," and a snob who probably looks down on regular folks.

 

White privilege is being able to graduate near the bottom of your college class (McCain), or graduate with a C average from Yale (W.) and that's OK, and you're cut out to be president, but if you're black and you graduate near the top of your class from Harvard Law, you can't be trusted to make good decisions in office.

 

White privilege is being able to dump your first wife after she's disfigured in a car crash so you can take up with a multi-millionaire beauty queen (who you go on to call the c-word in public) and still be thought of as a man of strong family values, while if you're black and married for nearly twenty years to the same woman, your family is viewed as un-American and your gestures of affection for each other are called "terrorist fist bumps."

 

White privilege is when you can develop a pain-killer addiction, having obtained your drug of choice illegally like Cindy McCain, go on to beat that addiction, and everyone praises you for being so strong, while being a black guy who smoked pot a few times in college and never became an addict means

people will wonder if perhaps you still get high, and even ask whether or not you ever sold drugs.

 

White privilege is being able to sing a song about bombing Iran and still be viewed as a sober and rational statesman, with the maturity to be president, while being black and suggesting that the U.S. should speak with other nations, even when we have disagreements with them, makes you "dangerously naive and immature."

 

White privilege is being able to say that you hate "gooks" and "will always hate them," and yet, you aren't a racist because, ya know, you were a POW so you're entitled to your hatred, while being black and insisting that black anger about racism is understandable, given the history of your country, makes you a dangerous bigot.

 

White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism and an absent father is apparently among the "lesser

adversities" faced by other politicians, as Sarah Palin explained in her convention speech.

 

And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because a lot of white voters aren't sure about that whole "change" thing. Ya know, it's just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.

 

White privilege is, in short, the problem.

Best Week Ever, Chapter 1: Canvassing in Sin City

... The first part of a narrative wherein Fragile Industries travels to Las Vegas for the Get Out the Vote effort for Obama and has The Best Week of Her Life.

 

Canvassing in North Las Vegas (Friday, Sunday, Monday):

For my GOTV efforts, which will occupy me until election day (with a break Saturday morning for the Obama rally), I am assigned to a volunteer office on Craig Avenue, a vacant tax preparation workspace set in a sad little corner strip mall with the requisite nail salon, barber shop, liquor store and Subway sandwich outlet. There are slot machines in the liquor store. The office is staffed with 5 or 6 very hyper long-term volunteers who pound furiously at computers, dash in and out with handouts, clipboards and Google Maps to give out to the temporary volunteers like me. We sprawl across two sprung sofas, dozens of folding chairs, and one very snazzy Herman Miller Aeron chair (probably brought by a downscaled dot-commer recruit). A smell of burned coffee and cold pizza hangs in the air, as it does at every volunteer office. Perhaps along with posters and voter lists, offices are issued custom incense to burn in a back room for the uniform miasma.

We are sent out, two by two, in a Noah’s Ark effort to “knock up” (as the Brits say) voters previously identified by phone banks as undecided, Obama leaning, or Obama supported, who have not cast ballots by early voting. The lists are scrubbed nightly. These doors are the last holdouts according to campaign data. The early voting is over, it’s Tuesday or nothing. We have door hangers that, in addition to the Obama-Biden message, list the proper polling place for the voter, and brief instructions on voting procedure.

Once we reach our destination, we split our address list into “odds” and “evens,” to work opposite sides of the street. This works in neighborhoods of single-family homes with the usual address system.

However, on Monday, in a massive condo complex with an inscrutable numbering system for the approximately 500 units, it takes twice as long as it should to find the selected doors we are to knock on. Once found, many addresses turn out to have “Bank Sale” signs, or piled up newspapers and dead porch plants. The economic meltdown has claimed at least 20-30% of these voters. Hopefully, wherever they are, they know to return to their registered polling site in this neighborhood. Even when the unit appears occupied, few voters are home on midday weekdays. These are working folks. A special Nevada consideration are the day sleepers, who work night shifts at the 24/7 casinos.  Before I put the hanger on the doorknob on the "no answers," I write a message on the outward facing sign: "Hi, _______ (name of voter), don't forget to vote Tuesday [or "tomorrow" on Monday]!"  It takes a little longer, but I'm hoping the personalized message will distinguish my flyer from the Chinese restaurant competition on their doorknob.

So when I do the tallies at the end of the day, my “knocks” vs. “contact” breakdowns show an actual contact percentage of approximately 15%. That’s about average. At this stage, few of the contacts I do make are with the voter listed for the address. Most are not home, have moved, or are completely unknown to the person answering the door. This info will help scrub the next day’s list. Many claim to have already voted. The list is pretty reliable, so I question these folks further, not challenging their claim, just to be sure that they actually did vote early or by absentee ballot. There were several reports of voters being invited to “vote by phone” or online, obvious fraud schemes. I urge them to appear at the polling location on Tuesday to see if their “vote” was counted, and if not, to cast a proper ballot.

Several voters need rides, and I note these in my records. I check back with them the next day. All had been contacted by the Ride Team and given pickup times.

One disabled woman is so grateful for the scheduled ride, she asks me to pray with her. “Now it’s all in God’s hands,” she says. I sit next to her wheelchair under a calendar with pictures of Jesus and Martin Luther King. I realize halfway into her prayer, that she is speaking to the Lord not only to watch over the election, or herself, but to ease my heart. She thinks I am anxious and need some divine calm. She’s right. Moreover, the prayer does give me some perspective. It is a deep, cleansing breath in the middle of a hectic day.

The complex is blocks from Nellis Air Force Base. Jets scream overhead at regular intervals. I have to wait to knock on the doors until the racket was over. I learn this lesson when a rotund man wearing a very skimpy pair of briefs and nothing else to cover his freckles throws open his front door, apparently to pick up his newspaper. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaims, clutching his chest. I had knocked during a flyover and he hadn’t heard me, and my appearance must have been a shock. Despite my apologies, he slams the door. I can’t blame him. This is was the single even slightly hostile moment during all my canvassing.

Some surprises: One door opens and the smell of too many children wafts out. A thin white girl of about 17 tells me that my listed voter is her sister, who will be right back. Sure enough, after my next knock or two, I see a big-tired truck pull up in front of the previous address. An equally thin woman, maybe 22 at best, dismounts from the passenger side with an infant on her hip. A young man wearing a gimme cap, shades, and a motorcycle t-shirt climbs from behind the steering wheel. I see an NRA sticker on the truck. I smile, and introduce myself. The woman is a first time voter, identified on my list as an independent, but Obama-leaning. Given all the cultural signifiers I had observed, I am doubtful. She accepts the door hanger without much enthusiasm and looks at the voting location address. With the squirming baby on her hip, and the background of small children pouring out the door of her residence, she resembles a younger version of the iconic Dorthea Lange portrait from the Dust Bowl. She walks inside without a word while her male companion hunkers down on the front steps. I ask if he is registered to vote. He is not, and at first laconically, and then in a rush, tells me a familiar tale of homelessness and joblessness. The couple is staying at this address with her family while they search for work and a home after moving from Reno. She had re-registered, he hadn’t. He removes his sunglasses and gives me a piercing stare. “I thought I was a Republican, but McCain will fuck us over, man,” he says. “We need a break.” He then offers a cogent and accurate summary of the different tax and health plans of the candidates. Well, knock me down with a feather. He promises to drive the mother of his child to the polls the next day. The girl emerges from the condo unit and hands the baby to its father. She holds forth on her own, equally astute analysis of the issues. “I’m voting for three, I have to get there for Obama.” Once started, the discussion is hard to end. This couple had almost lost hope, but they had one last best chance, and know it. So much for cultural stereotypes.

Another day, another snapshot. It’s late in the day, the sun has just set and I’m on the last calls. An Asian woman answers the door in a run-down apartment complex utterly devoid of vegetation or color. Bare dirt plots surround the apartment blocks constructed in Correctional Unit Ugly. The name of the man I am supposed to contact belongs to her husband, I discover through a slight language barrier. She shakes her head when I ask if she would vote; she is not a citizen and seems bemused if not threatened by the election process. She refuses to state her husband’s affiliation or voting plans. I give her a flyer with the polling place for her husband. “Where is this?” she asks, suspiciously. I tell her that it is nearby, and if her husband needs more information, the flyer lists both a number to call or a website to check. “No map? Where is map? We need map!” My cynical self wantsd to snap, “Whaddya want, lady, egg in your beer?” But that will definitely get lost in translation and not promote the candidate. I just ask her to give the flyer to her husband and advise him to call if he had questions. She still tut-tuts as she closes the door.

At the other end of this dismal building, I warily approach a unit with the skinniest dog I’ve ever seen tied to a hose stanchion outside the open door. Empty Mickey Big Mouth cans are scattered around two dusty deck chairs overlooking a concrete block wall. The dog announces my arrival and a white guy with bloodshot blue eyes and receding red hair comes to the door. He offers me a malt liquor and calms his dog with a heaping bowl of chow. I decline the booze politely, but accept a deck chair. The dog devours her food as we sit and talk. “She’s a good girl. I don’t know why she don’t gain weight.“ He says he had already cast his ballot for Obama on the last day of early voting, which is possible, as the lists have not yet picked up that day’s returns. He notices that the flyer called for election day volunteers at the volunteer center just around the corner. “Hey, I can do this. I work late, but I can do the 6 a.m. shift.” In all my canvassing, I have never before landed a spontaneous volunteer. He fills out the information on my form, concentrating hard. I hope he makes it.