Advertisement
Commentary: The Fifth Estate
Dispatch from a swing state: Going door-to-door in Scranton, Pa.
Like many of you citizens of good faith, I’ve spent the past few months in a froth of anxiety over the presidential race, lamenting the media’s callow coverage, riding the always-nauseating pollercoaster and absorbing the daily deluge of demagoguery that constitutes the GOP platform.
Thank God for my daughter, Josie, a passionate climate activist (and Cog contributor) who suggested — rather ardently — that I drive her and two friends down to Scranton, Pennsylvania, to canvass voters in one of America’s most vital battleground counties.
Canvassing means going door-to-door to interact with voters directly. The Harris-Walz campaign has a sophisticated ground operation that Democratic officials hope will put them over the top in the ultimate swing state.
As a first-time voter, Josie was determined to help Harris boost her numbers in Lackawanna County, which Obama won by 20% back in 2012, but Biden carried by only 6% last time around.
Unlike her old man, Josie is one of those people who knows the best way to quell anxiety is to take action. Hopefully, this dispatch from Swinglandia will inspire you to do the same over the next few weeks.
Friday, Oct. 4
7:01 p.m.: After a six-hour journey to Scranton, our crew stumbles into a church lobby filled with 50 other Boston-based activists, double the expected turnout. An exhausted-looking Harris campaign worker named Austin coaches us up on the use of our canvassing app and explains our mission: to visit the homes of “inconsistent” Democratic voters.
8:43 p.m.: We arrive at our Airbnb in a quiet neighborhood in north Scranton and do our best to ignore our new neighbor’s yard sign (Trump Safe/Kamala Crime). As the swingiest of the swing counties, Lackawanna is littered with such signs, running 2-to-1 for Harris, by our count.
Saturday, Oct. 5
9:51 a.m.: Revved up on the unholy fuel of Dunkin munchkins, we head to our first “turf,” a leafy neighborhood in the hills above the city’s eastern flank. The ugly truth about canvassing is that no one answers the door half the time. My first human encounter is with an athletic dad who declares himself an independent and voices a refrain I’ll hear several times over the next six hours: “Harris has my vote. The Republicans have just gotten too crazy.”
When I ask about other voters in the home, he says, “My wife doesn’t pay attention to politics; she’ll vote for who I tell her to.” I find this both distressing and a relief. The Minivan app (which collects public data from voting records) lists three voting-aged daughters in his house. I want to ask if they’re going to vote Harris, too, but I sense that telling this guy we have all this data will upset him, so I let it be. This could be the only personal contact he has with either campaign — I want to make sure it’s a positive experience.
10:28 a.m.: Through the screen door, I can see a giant TV showing a football game. I knock and wait for a minute. Just as I’m preparing to leave some campaign lit, an elderly woman in a Penn State sweatshirt opens the door. “Oh gosh,” I say. “I’m sorry to take you away from the game.” The woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry it took so long to get to the door, I just had my hip replaced!” We talk about that for a bit then I get down to business: Can Kamala Harris count on her vote? “I’ve got my mail-in ballot on the counter. I was just about to send it in!” I propose a deal: she can watch the first half in peace, but she has to fill out her ballot at half-time. We shake on it, and I wish her and the Nittany Lions well.
11:43 a.m.: Jos comes bounding over to my side of the street. “I just met a woman who drove all the way up to New Hampshire to canvas for Jimmy Carter when she was my age!” It is, of course, the absurdity of the Electoral College that forces people to drive hundreds of miles to have an impact on the presidential election, but I love the historical symmetry of the story.
12:29 p.m.: A white guy in a button-down shirt answers the door and tells me he hates Trump, but that Harris hasn’t convinced him yet. He explains that he’s the general manager of a grocery store and prices have gone up too much. “She’s trying to take that on now but it’s too late. People’s lives are already ruined.” I ask if there’s anything she can do to earn his vote. He shrugs. I tell him I’m on his doorstep because my daughter convinced me to drive down. She wants a president willing to fight climate change. Another shrug. I wonder if this fellow could be a “shy” Trump voter — someone who knows how reprehensible Trump is, and thus won’t disclose their allegiance.
1:37 p.m.: After a quick stop for lunch, we scooted over to a middle-class neighborhood in central Scranton. Josie’s friend Bogi and I approach an apartment door with trepidation, because there’s a car out front with a Trump sticker. We can hear a very loud TV. The guy who answers the door has a smoker’s cough and a combover. Brace for it, I think to myself. But when we tell him we were from the Harris campaign, he says, “Yeah, we’ve got to win this one!” He then launches into a fascinating harangue about how Putin will take Ukraine and Poland if the U.S. doesn’t send military support. “The munitions we’re sending have been decommissioned! They’re no longer stable. So it’s not even costing us money. Tell that to the undecided voters! Tell the Polish voters! There’s a lot of them around here. Set them straight!” His name is Dom. We’re like: Go Dom!
Harris has my vote. The Republicans have just gotten too crazy.
- Scranton, Penn. voter
2:07 p.m.: Our last turf of the day is a housing project south of Scranton, 100 or so small units, mostly occupied by Black and Puerto Rican voters. Most of the folks I encounter are young woman of color, but few of them show any discernible reaction when I ask if they’re planning to vote for Kamala Harris. I can feel the huge disconnect between their day-to-day lives and the entire political noise machine. After knocking on one door, a woman’s exasperated face appears in a second-story window. She tells us she’s already registered. “Have you voted?” I ask. She doesn’t seem to know. I’m not sure she’ll make it to the polls when Election Day arrives.
3:22 p.m.: My last visit is to a unit where two guys are camped on the front porch, smoking impressively large joints. Kenneth, who’s Black, says he’s for Kamala the whole way. He nods, somewhat mournfully, at his white friend. “Marty here, he’s gone the other way.” Marty, bearded and sheepishly stubborn, says, "What did Kamala ever do for you?" I mention the Inflation Reduction Act, which includes a tax credit for my kids, the infrastructure bill that fixed up a park near my house. Marty shakes his head. “Trump did the same thing when he was in there.” I’m tempted to correct him, to point out the Trump gave huge tax breaks to corporations. But I know arguing is pointless, so instead I say, “Well, I'm down here with my daughter, and for her, being able to control her body and medical decisions is a huge issue.”
Kenneth nods. "And this mother***er has two daughters!”
Marty: “By the time they’ll need all that, abortion will be legal again."
Kenneth: “See, that's why I got to drive this guy down to Florida, so the gators can eat him. Then I'll take custody of his daughters.”
The last thing Marty needs is to be shamed. “Hey, I’m glad you guys can be friends, whatever your differences,” I say. And then I joke: "Marty, remember to vote on November 6."
Through a plume of skunky smoke, he promises he will.
7:39 p.m.: Having knocked 200 doors between us, our quartet retires to our Airbnb for a dinner of pasta and a couple of episodes of “The West Wing.” The show is cleverly written, but feels sadly antiquated, in its evocation of a president who flaunts his idealism. Talk about a nostalgia trip.
Sunday, Oct. 6
9:17 a.m.: As we pull out of Scranton, Josie is still buzzing. “I’ve caught the bug,” she says. “C’mon, dad. We need to come back and canvass again!”
My emotions are more tempered. I’m inspired by the Boston volunteers, who will wind up knocking on 6,500 doors in two days. I’m impressed by Kamala's robust ground game. But I’m also haunted by the handful of folks I met, like that grocery store manager. My sense is that the 2024 election may come down to this: Can the Harris campaign activate enough inconsistent voters in cities like Scranton to counteract those who dare not disclose their devotion to Trump?
The fate of our nation shouldn’t rest on such a narrow and wobbly question. But it does. So the big question for the rest of us is this: What are we going to do to make a difference?
