From: bcapps@agora.rain.com (Brent Capps)
Newsgroups: soc.motss,pnw.motss
Subject: Oregon Journal (III)
Date: 1 Nov 92 17:50:29 GMT
Article-I.D.: agora.Bx1tK6.Dxp
Organization: Open Communications Forum


[Third in a series on the fight against Ballot Measure 9 in Oregon]

The Vortex.  That's what the Measure 9 fight has become in the final
week before the election -- a swirling, destructive whirlpool that has
sucked in our lives.  For the Oregon lesbian and gay community, the
universe is shrinking to exactly 2 by 5 millimeters, the size of a check
box on a ballot. 

For over a year now, the undertow has been dragging us ever closer to
toward that little box at the center of the maelstrom.  With so much at
stake, the strain on everyone is incredible.  In the final days the No on 9
campaign is making one last effort to go door to door and talk to every last
undecided voter.  This journal describes my own small part in this effort.

                               *     *     *

It's Halloween morning.  The combination of this stubborn cold and the lack
of sleep makes the alarm clock sound like Gabriel's trumpet.

It's time to get up and go canvassing for No on 9.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I discover that I didn't do too swift a job
of removing all the makeup after last night's Cascade AIDS Project costume
benefit.  Oh great.  "Honest, Mr. and Mrs. Undecided, I'm not a threat
to your way of life.  What's that?  My mascara is running...?"

Later, down at the assembly area, we get our assignments.  I am paired with
a nice man named Dave, who just came out last year after 27 years of
marriage.  Wow, that took guts.  Then we are given our assignment for
the day: inner Northeast Portland, the most dangerous and drug-infested
part of the city.

O *goody*.

A few minutes later, Dave and I huddle against the ice-cold driving rain
on Martin Luther King Boulevard trying to figure out how in the world we're
going to keep these tracts from getting soaked.  We've also got the list of
the neighborhood's registered voters to keep dry, which is supposed to
guide us on whom to contact.  Normally, these registration sheets would
already have the no's, yes's, and undecideds marked based on the phone
surveys.  The idea was for the canvassers to cover only the undecided
households.  But time ran out before this neighborhood could be surveyed, so
we have no idea what to expect as we slog down the street in the pelting
rain past boarded up, burnt down and condemned houses.  The ones that are
still occupied generally have iron bars covering every exposed surface,
or vicious barking guard dogs, or both.

We squish up to the first house.  Knock, knock.  A suspicious, muffled voice
wafts through the reinforced door.  "Who is it?"

"Good morning, ma'am, I'm Brent and this is Dave.  We're from the No on 9
campaign and we'd like to give you some information..."

The door pops open just wide enough for an aged hand to dart out and snatch
the pamphlets we offer, then snaps shut again.

At the next house the treatment is the same.  We ask if they have heard of
measure 9, and they say yes.  But when we ask them if they've decided how
they're planning to vote, it's usually no, they haven't given it much
thought.  They've got more pressing concerns closer to home.

Halfway up the first street, the registration sheet begins to disintegrate
from the rain, which is getting worse.  We've abandoned all pretense of
keeping the pamphlets dry, and we're both soaking wet.

Every once in a while we find someone who says they're planning to vote no.
At other houses, you'd think Beelzebub himself had appeared on the porch to
ask for a cup of sugar.

After an hour and a half of this, the rain finally lets up.  Walking down
the street, we spot half a dozen dangerous looking young men in gimme caps,
beating sticks against a stone retaining wall and looking, no, staring right
at us.  They are directly in our line of march.

"What should we do, Brent?  Should we go around?"

"Don't let them know we're scared.  Just keep moving."

Hearts in our mouths, we walk down the sidewalk toward them.  As we get
closer, I realize that they're all staring at my No on 9 button.  Then,
right as we are passing through their midst, we hear a booming voice behind
us.

"HEY!"

Dave and I freeze.  My heart is hammering in my chest.  I forgot to bring
my whistle.

<ohmigod we're surrounded and there's no one around to help us>

The voice continues.  "Where can I get one of them No on 9 buttons?"

Dave and I look at each other, thunderstruck.  The other men surrounding us
are also asking for buttons.  With trembling fingers I quickly unclip the
button on my lapel and give it to one of them as Dave tells them where they
can get more.  As we continue on to the next house, we look back to see
him pin his new button on while the others look on enviously.

Our guardian angels are working overtime today...

After this little episode, Dave is in dire distress.  There are no
convenient bathrooms out here, and we did drink a lot of coffee before
setting out.  We're nearly done the this street by this point, so I tell
Dave to go off and find a bathroom while I cover the last two houses by
myself.  Afterwards, waiting for Dave to return, I think: I'm cold, wet,
and hungry, and I resent the hell out of the OCA for making me piss away
a perfectly good Saturday like this.

Finally, we're done.  The overwhelming majority of voters in this precinct
have been undecided, so I feel as if we have done some real good today.
After all, I didn't give up my Saturday to spash around in the rain 
just to chat with people who already *know* how they're going to vote.

On the other hand, I also feel humbled.  As household after household
told us they hadn't decided how to vote on 9, it occured to me how
narrowly focused I am on my own problems.  As we told each of them how
injustice against one group affects us all, I thought about how that
cuts both ways, and much of a hypocrite I'd been that I had done so little
to help these impoverished, besieged people.  My list of personal
shortcomings to work on after election day is getting longer.
God dropped me a clue today.

Safely back at home, my husband rewards me with a little rainy afternoon
delight, followed by a trip to my favorite place in the whole world:
Powell's Bookstore.  A little H.P. Lovecraft sounds like just the
thing on this All Hallow's Eve to distract me from the horrors of the
real world.

At the end of the day, as I'm sitting in my office typing this in to the
computer, I can hear water cascading out of overflowing backyard gutters,
another reminder of how many things around here we've let slide because we
were too tied up with this election to take care of the home front.

Three days left.  I can feel The Vortex picking up speed.
-- 
Brent Capps                          | 
bcapps@agora.rain.com (gay stuff)    | okay, but wash it first.
bcapps@atlastele.com (telecom stuff) |
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