Blank. Canvass

My first time was immensely embarrassing. I just couldn’t get it going, and it didn’t help that the waiting woman was a dominating and impatient one. I gathered my thoughts and tried to concentrate, to no avail; she slammed the door in my face. “That will take some getting used to,” I thought.
In my combined two years working intermittently as a canvasser, I’m not sure I ever did get used to people slamming doors on me. But to keep my morale high enough to push on through the nights, I got very used to brushing it off. I learned and honed many a precious skill working that job – sales, negotiation, guerrilla sub-division bathroom location – but none am I more grateful of than learning to brush things off.
Literally fresh off the farm, I graduated hippie-organic-farm-Quaker-boarding-school in no mood to pursue college or a job working for the Man. That there was even a section in the Tribune classifieds for jobs in “activism” further affirmed my conviction that there was a life in the outside world where people didn’t need to be trained in their passions. Because it sounds like such an odious occupation, you’re nearly knocking on your first door by the time they tell you what your job is.
But, masochistic as it may sound, the idea doing door-to-door fundraising for a not-for-profit environmental organization seemed ideal to me. I’d be working for a good cause, talking to people and raising awareness; plus, I’d get to be outside all day. I liked to brag, in those early days, that the righteousness of my job helped me sleep at night; upon reflection, the twelve-hour days were the more likely sedative,
It is a hard job. The repetition is brutal, both when people aren’t home – write address, ring doorbell, force friendly smile, wait twelve seconds (sing Pointer Sisters' "Pinball Number Count" à la Sesame Street [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-YcBVEnLT8]), next house, repeat – and when they are. Of the people who were home and would answer their doors, there were basically three groups: nice liberals, nasty liberals, and conservatives. Figuring out which group the person standing in front of you belonged in was of primary importance; the pay is 100% commission, so it’s best not to waste time on the curmudgeonly old guy who says “Far as I can tell, jury is still out on global warming”, other than being glad the that opinions of Fox News pundits don’t actually preside over legal matters. Bitterness and anger flowed freely from the foyers of the conservative homes. If they weren’t immediately irritated that someone -- particularly, one donning the deviant dreadlocks I did at the time -- would come to their door for money, they were bound to be enraged at my liberal, hippie agenda. Our campaign to save the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from oil drilling was the first time I heard the phrase, “Fuck the Caribou, go back to France!”
The nice liberals were the best. They offered up hefty checks, and, often, healthy snacks. For them, the only real job was bumping up their contributions as much as possible without offending them. Most of the job’s success lied in finagling money from the nasty liberals. They weren’t all nasty; in fact most of them were quite nice, but quite unwilling to part with money. I couldn’t fault them for this; I was showing up at their house asking for money with no tangible return beyond some marginal assuagement of guilt. I call them nasty because the hard fought battles often went their way, leaving me to further train the short-term memory loss of refreshing for the next house.
The method of burning off the lard of frustration formed by the failures at a former door depended on its consistency. A light grease was easy to shake off by whistling Cat Stevens on my stroll/dance to the next door. When I came across someone genuinely vile, and vindictive of my presence, I might mutter some insult on my way to the next house and make vast speculations on their personal lives to snootily judge the hell out of. But that approach was ineffective for the same reason the Cat-dance approach was effective. The individual asshole wasn’t really all that frustrating, it was the abundance of assholes that was truly troubling, and it was best not to dwell on that for long. There were times when the lard congealed and the load became so oppressive, only a cigarette could cleanse my mental palate.
Eventually it takes its toll. I stopped believing the words of anyone who wouldn’t give me money. I had completely burnt out, and the resentment I felt towards those who didn’t give me money piled onto my back exponentially. I refused to lash out at anyone, to give them any excuse to castigate either cause or canvasser; but forcing it all inside found me rotting from a once optimistic core.
In my first month canvassing, I was greeted by a woman in Glenview who seemed nice enough, but responded less frequently and emphatically as our conversation went on. This was typical; a lot of people would blank out when they realized you wanted money, and felt it respectful to let you finish your point before shutting the door. But this one was different.
“And that’s why it’s really important that everyone who’s with us on the issue get involved at some level tonight,” I said brightly, with an attitude wholly uncharacteristic of all who knew me.
“Oh…well, I don’t think I can…my husband…see,” her gaze veered downward and became waterlogged, as if her thoughts were melting through her eyes, “…he just passed, and…” Then she began to cry, and, crumbling inward, nearly fell when I caught her. She wrapped her arms around me, and through sobs buried against my chest said things like, “It all happened so fast,” and, “I’ll never really know what to do next.”
I hugged her back and stayed with her like that for a few minutes. She gathered herself, apologized, and closed the door with the same hand she'd wiped her tears with. I walked away from that night so happy with my job.
The last day I canvassed, I met a woman who was entirely sympathetic and supportive of the issue (as I recall, we were fighting the BP plant being built in Indiana and promising to pollute our beloved Great Lake) but when I asked for cash, she said – and I believed her – that her husband had just died, and that the funeral costs alone might put her in debt. I offered my forged condolences, said thanks and walked off, fully despising the avaricious...widow? I couldn’t believe I could be angry with this woman in any way.
I saw clearly that day that my heart was becoming callused, and that I was about one month of canvassing shy of becoming desiring a fascist dictatorship – a far cry from save-the-planet fundraiser. I came back to the office that night and said my goodbyes; they asked me to stay, but they were never surprised.