I’ve heard candidates say, ”The real heroes in any campaign are the canvassers, who are willing to walk on the front lines for change.” I hate it but I know it needs to be done, so I did just that
and got a real taste for what’s happening in the US. It was a Sunday afternoon on an overcast, windless, muggy October day. The Halloween decorations were up and colors were turning in trees here as I hit the pavement with my literature and mobile route plan.
It was enlightening. The divide is real. I was surprised by how many people were home, having canvassed before. Cars were in the driveway and some people don’t want to come to the door witnessed by the peak from behind the moving curtain in the window. Some have ring tones and let you leave a message.
Some people tend to keep to themselves. One woman told me she’s “not interested in that kind of thing (politics) anymore.” Her husband is, though. Judging from her digs, she’s gained a feeling of comfort and has options should this grand experiment no longer serve her. Her eastern European accent indicated there was a story there. Given the chance, I would have loved to hear more, but she indicated that there wasn’t much to talk about and I got the hint.
Another guy I visited was from Ukraine. He was an older gent, had his thumb wrapped in a significant bandage, and he couldn’t speak English, so I gave him literature written in Ukrainian. He was able to eke out the word “incision” in Ukrainian. Funny I could understand this word and he nonverbally shared with me the story of how he felt. Neither one could understand the other, but pain is universal and wincing facial expressions go a long way in being empathetic.
With his good thumb he gave me a thumbs up, as I spoke broken English to communicate he was in my prayers. “You…” “Prayer…” “I pray for you,” I said, placing my hands together like a monk commencing in lauds. He smiled and raised his eyebrows and the glint in his eye expressed appreciation. I wish I knew more.
One guy showed up at the door unable to talk, as the game was on. Well, there are priorities, aren’t there? I couldn’t stand the thought of watching misery unfold before my eyes, hence the reason for doing something active that would force change or at least attempt to do my part. I wish I knew more there.
Strangely, I didn’t see the criminal immigrants. I met a diverse number of people with accents. Some were homeowners who kept up their lawns and greenery. They were welcoming and listened intently and respectfully to what I had to say. They shared a limited perspective and we fumbled to get to know each other – as much as you can when you are only going to share a brief moment and probably will never see each other again.
I’ve been hearing in places like Springfield, Ohio the Haitian population has been “eating dogs and cats and your pets.” Recently Trump stated that there are Venezuelan gangs in Aurora, Colorado. The Republican mayor of that town has put to rest these claims stating that this is a lie just like the Republican Governor has stated this in Ohio and told citizens of the state the Haitian people were recruited to fill job vacancies that cannot be filled. There was no indication in the least that these migrants were the bloodthirsty villains they’re made out to be. They’re just people going about their business, trying to make a better life for themselves and their families, holding their own in a dignified manner; greeting a stranger at their door with a humble smile and heartfelt appreciation for the opportunity to discourse about the pros and cons of positions in a democratic republic.
Some signs had Harris/Walz and various local candidates like Sherrod Brown. One yard had to signs in front, “Trump 2024” and “I’m Voting For the Convicted Felon”. The bold and brash message was clear there. On the other hand, I visited an individual whose mind would not be swayed, but we expressed mutual respect for participating in the process.
It was a quiet neighborhood in Parma Heights, Ohio. When the madness of the political season is over, you will not be able to tell who is for whom. You will see rows of houses, cookie cutter colonials built in the 40s and 50s post WWII when the baby boomers were born. You’ll see people who share the roads and sidewalks, go about their business making ends meet, sometimes struggling to get ahead, sometimes riding a wave of joy at the birth of new child, a promising promotion from work, a meal train for neighbors caring for their fellow human when loved ones have passed – consoling, caring for and letting them know they are not alone on the long road of grief that awaits.
The older I get, the more I’ve learned about the art of reading hearts. I’ve been around long enough to know that evil is real. I’ve encountered characters in my life where I had a creepy feeling and needed to get out of strange situations. Although I’ve misjudged people in my life, I’ve also trusted my instincts and nine times out of ten those trusted instincts have served me well in life. When you get to know people, you get a sense of fear. When I’ve been in the presence of greatness, I’ve felt the profound auras – that special something someone has tapped into to make life better for themselves and others; a cosmic glow of attainment.
There’s no substitute for experience. There were a few doors where I didn’t get the chance to meet the person, but I’m mindful of a friend who once told me, “Leave a blessing wherever you go – even if you don’t encounter someone.” It’s advice that’s served me well.
I left my literature in the door handle with a little blessing hoping for good to come to whoever lived in that house.
spirit beat 