Registering Voters

Over Labour Day Weekend I went out to register voters and stump for the Obama campaign.My role in registering voters was standing on the side of a thoroughfare (preferably in the shade), holding a Register To Vote Here clipboard in one hand and an Obama sign in the other.

(N.B. I’d have much rather registered voters without making a political statement. Cursory googling didn’t bring up any opportunities to volunteer to register voters out of the goodness of your heart. All the listing were from political campaigns or shady-seeming businesses with market-research-approved cool names that paid you to register young voters. Registering for money seemed more reprehensible than shilling for a politician.)

So there I was, registering voters at the Bumbershoot Music Festival. I stood on a high-traffic spot between the EMP and the Space Needle with my clipboard and Obama sign. There were scads of people, and many were in a talkative mood.

Most of the crowds were vocal Obama supporters. There were also a number of people who said they were McCain voters, a few bitter Hillary backers, and one guy that said, “I’ve got two words for you: RON PAUL!” I didn’t ask anyone who they were voting for, these all came as responses to my sign or the question “Are you registered to vote?”

On a half-dozen occasions residents of other countries came up to talk about Obama’s policies. They all said that they’d vote for him if they could. The foreigners were the only people interested in discussing policy.

Those were nice interactions. Then there were a number of unpleasant ones. Here’s my unofficial tally:

People that told me to fuck myself: 2
“Fuck yourself.”
“Obama? Fuck yourself.”

People that called me a faggot: 4
“Faggot.” (x2)
“Oh, you faggot.”
“Hey! Hey! Why are you holding a sign that says, ‘I am a faggot’?”

People that told me to fuck myself and called me a faggot: 1
“Fuck you, faggot.”

The bizarre: Countless.
A representative example was a clean-cut guy who looked in his early fifties walked by with three towheaded kids. As they breezed by he pointed at the Obama sign.
“You know, he may be the anti-Christ.” He smiled, so I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. I figured I’d give an ambiguous response with a smile.
“Well, anyone could be the anti-Christ.”
The guy stopped, stood in thought for a second, and then walked back to me.
“Yes, that’s very true. But he’s more likely to be the anti-Christ.”
He wasn’t smiling.

People that called me a communist: 3.
Each of the people who called me a communist did so while walking by very quickly. Red may be catching.

There was an actual communist group about 250 feet away from me, resplendent in red and selling copies of their newspaper and the Manifesto. They were from the Revolutionary Communist Party, USA, a Maoist organization.
One of the Revolutionary Communists came over to talk me out of registering voters. “By registering voters,” he told me, “you’re buying into a rigged game that can’t create change. Can you give me one example of voters electing a leader that created radical change?” Sure I can: Hugo Chávez. The guy didn’t want to talk to me anymore after that, although he did make a half-hearted attempt to argue Chávez isn’t actually a Marxist.

Anyway, working Bumbershoot was an interesting experience.