When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. Therefore, it is right and moot for the people to transport themselves into the geographies where the other people live who will decide the dissolution of those political bands, and declare to them the reasons why they are behooved to make that change, and make sure they get to the voting booth.And so, as self-respecting blue-state residents, we picked ourselves up and brought ourselves to a place where votes count more, and a swing in the wrong direction could mean unthinkable disaster. Even though New Hampshire was showing a 10-point lead for our guy, I chose it as "my" swing state to try to keep blue, if only because it was close by and we've been there a few times. I also made a bunch of calls this election season, mostly to our neighbors in NH, but also to Indiana and North Carolina. What can I say, it couldn't have hurt!
But the day before the election Michael and I piled into the car for our fourth trip up north this year, passing the White Mountains (where we got engaged!) to come to Berlin, in Coos County. The storefront campaign office was easy to find along the sad little downtown, past a humble J.C. Penney and across from the shuttered John Edwards campaign office. (You'd think the DNC would have cleaned that up!) The hq was in a recently-closed medical supply store, still complete with signs on the wall for "IVs Here" and "Folding Beds."
Berlin, (pronounced BURR-lin) a town of about 10,000 mostly aged white people, is the last large 'city' before the Canadian border. Miles away from the interstate off the winding state highway, it's a wonder that anyone ever thought to settle there. It looks like the set of a Michael Moore movie, and pretty much defines the word 'dump.' Houses for sale, crumbling roads, shuttered store fronts, closed paper mills: the works. If you were living here, wouldn't you want a change? Even if you wanted to work in McDonald's, you'd have to go to the next town over. Applications are available at http://www.mcnewhampshire.com/. The biggest employer in Berlin is the hospital, and the only growth industry has been prisons, which makes you wonder if such a high proportion of Americans are in jail in order to keep towns like this afloat.
Well, unbelievably, some people still hadn't made up their minds. But even though there was not a local minority in sight, race was never overtly mentioned. (Perhaps due to the successful busing program in the 70's, bringing black bears into the White Mountains.) It seemed more that some people were at the end of their ropes, and didn't think either candidate could find them a job or help them keep their homes.
I'm thinking of the portly family man who answered his door at 4 in the afternoon, and volunteered that the North Country "sucks," but couldn't express enthusiasm for either candidate. Or the man on his bicycle, who called to us from down the street: "Hey, you want to come talk to me!" And he told us he was out of work, had two kids in college, and was trying to sell his home because it was too expensive to live there. As it got darker, he slunk off to heat his home with firewood, as oil is also too expensive. He did not express support for Obama.
There were also quirks to observe, at least in exterior home deco, as charted below. A big impression was the amount and types of trash on the lawns of the shabbier houses: winter tires, old stoves, all imaginable types of packaging, unidentifiable industrial cast-offs. I noticed a couple of times a sort of outdoor glass curio closet, built into the home or freestanding, filled with tchotchkeys. Most households had a dog or two, and the campaign gave us little baggies of doggy biscuits to endear ourselves to their voting masters. Hunting is a big pastime in the woods, and you wonder how much they rely on it for food. In front of one well-to-do looking house was a pile of plastic duck floats. In front of a more humble structure, a couple of freshly-killed ducks.
My big impression was that people could tell instantly that we were not from "these parts," as they reminded us over and over again. Was it my haircut, which is not a mullet? My non-puffy winter coat? Or the fact that we weren't covered in paint splatters or dirt? There are lots of people in the service industries up here: there are still trees to cut down, and even dying towns need the occasional renovation. I have to admit, my outsider feeling surprised me. In the end, I was coming to their town to have an outcome on how they voted, and it made me self-conscious.
Although, living in a swing state, New Hampshire residents are used to being bombarded. One man on the phone said he'd been called so many times, he was thinking of changing his vote for the other side. One man's answering machine said: "My name is Walter Mainguy and I approve this message." After we knocked twice on someone's door, we scuttled away after he yelled "Beat it!"
But some people were receptive. Maybe it was the novelty of an outsider on their doorstep, and one of them a minority at that. I would give anything to know the results of one "voter contact," as it's called in the biz. An older man with terrible teeth stepped out of his neat home on a hill, extending his hand and closing the door behind him before he even knew which side we were for. He told us plainly that he had heard all the information from both sides, there was nothing we could say that would give him anything new, and he would only make his decision in the booth. His dilemma? He does not support abortion. I gave him the story I developed when I was calling voters, that that had been a dilemma for me too, but I had changed my mind because Republicans hadn't reduced the number of abortions in America, and Obama expressed support of reducing the number of unwanted pregnancies. We wrapped up by chatting about pipes and tobacco, hoping he would have a personal connection to influence him as he was making his decision in the voting booth the next day.
But small moments of connection were washed away by the experience of standing next to Republican partisans outside a polling place on election day. It was gorgeously sunny and warm, which always helps turnout. Although we were told we were in a very Democratic area, there were no local dems to stand by the polls holding candidates' signs, the visibility element that is part of election day strategy. (But would someone really forget the name of the candidate unless they saw someone holding a sign by the polling place?) But the Republicans were there: a chirpy woman with short brown hair who seemed to know every single voter walking up, and a bearded, gnarled, opinionated older man who clutched a plastic McCain sign, sometimes draping it over his ample gut, sometimes over his pubis.
Small talk was awkward. We were obviously outsiders, they were obviously locals. There was no way we would change their minds that day, yet we felt an eagerness to talk, to debate, and try to understand where they were coming from. The man ("If ya called me Grizzly Adams," I'd consider it an honor!) volunteered that he got his political information from Youtube, and carried an NRA talking point wallet card. Michael asked why he supported his side, and he had a few clear-cut issues: Obama was going to take away his guns and he thought his tax cut plans amounted to welfare, and he didn't want welfare. What can you say? He wasn't interested in hearing our point of view. He ogled my rear end when I walked to the car to get a snack, and as I returned, looked me in the eye and thanked me for coming out to vote today.
Meanwhile, chirpy chatted with everyone, making us feel that they all would vote for her side. "It's good to know people," she smirked. From my perspective now, I'm so glad she made the polling place so welcoming to the people who were evidently coming to vote democratic. Only the occasional school kid gave us the thumbs up.
Eventually, out walked a man from central casting: long greasy hair, weathered skin, NRA t-shirt. He brought with him a beautiful green parrot, which he showed to his Republican friends. "He likes to eat chili, jalapenos, cheese," he explained. Grizzly kept chatting with us, discovered that we were from NYC and Cambridge Mass (could it be any worse?), and called us "Flatlanders." I played it up, saying how much nicer this place would be if there were a nice Starbucks up there. Sarcasm didn't work with that crowd. When we finally left the polls, NRA man looked astonished when I shook his hand and complimented his bird. "It's been, um interesting talking to you," scoffed chirpy. They sassed as we walked away, grumbling something to the effect of don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. I whimpered. Oh how I wished I had turned my head and told them "Now don't be sore, LOSERS!"
The experience tinged my view of the other side. Since 2004, I wanted to speak to people just like this, find our common ground and air our differences and, ultimately, empower them to decide for themselves that it is the Democratic party that has their better interests. (That's free and fair, isn't it?) After 3 hours by the polls my feelings changed. I just wanted them to lose.
Back at HQ, phone-banking was going on non-stop. And smalltown politics has a smalltown feel. I phone-banked next to a state senate candidate, and stood next to her adult daughter at the polling place the next day. The daughter of another candidate relieved her post after a while.
We were surprised by the number of French or Acadian inflected names we saw on the canvassing roles: Sanschagrin, Couture, Mainguy, and my favorite, Napoleon Rheaume. Talking with one women on the phone, her lilt was heard when she discussed her favored senate candidate: Sununu (accent on the first syllable, slight umlaut on all). Sununu is a Lebanese name, interestingly, like Shaheen, the name of the candidate who won.
The downtown, where the paper mills sit by the dammed lake. 
Many churches have closed or consolidated.
Cracked pavement, but oh the sunshine and the view!
Next to the Andrew Carnegie Library.
You see many front porches up there. Note the star and the satelites.
The ubiquitous star seen on many houses, along with some autumn kitsch.
I often noticed this type of closed-in porch along the side or back of the house. It was often the best way to reach people, as the door was closer to their driveways. We stepped through winter storage and trash, and porches reeking of cigarettes.
The competition.
Logging trucks with cargo.
And there he was, right in the Berlin HQ!
Phonebanking.
Look who's here!
Obamadog!
