.jpg)
But on a hot July night, my sister Leslie and I sat in her bedroom, she ironing while I planned lessons. The TV was on and it was Clinton's night to speak, to accept the nomination. He sounded like Elvis and he strung simple words together in a mesmerizing way. Nothing wonky about that speech. My lesson plans and phonics cards slipped off my lap as I listened to, no, FELT the cadence of his words: "That's what the New Covenant is all about." I noticed Leslie paying a bit more attention: "But this is America. There is no them. There is only us." Finally both of us were sitting at the end of the bed, transfixed: "We can do it. We can do it. We can do it." We looked at each other. I don't know which one of us said it first, but we both knew what we had to do: "Let's go work for this guy."
Which was how we found ourselves in the newly-rented Democratic State Headquarters in Raleigh in late July with a toilet brush and a broom. Full of enthusiasm, we had presented ourselves ready to change the world and found that it first needed cleaning. It wasn't exactly what we had in mind, but it had to be done and we were certainly qualified for the job, so we dove in. It was a rabbit warren of offices, far too big for a state not expected to be in play, and the party chairmen were walking through, deciding who should be in which office. As they came to the room we were cleaning, Leslie piped up: "Have you thought about having a childcare room?" They looked at her silently. Yikes. "You know, for volunteers who would like to help, but would have to bring their kids?" My voice trailed off as they turned their attention to me. Okay, obviously a bad idea. The silence continued. They looked at each other. "That's brilliant!" one of them finally said. "Let's choose a room."
Which is how we found ourselves sharing the position of State Volunteer Coordinator. Our job was to recruit and assign volunteers to the myriad tasks that had to be done: looking up phone numbers, setting up chairs, running materials to people who needed them, answering phones and questions. One of our first tasks was to set up the Family Values Childcare Room, and it was used, a point we were proud to make when Hillary Clinton toured it. There were nine candidate or candidate's wife visits, along with a few celebrities, but it was the volunteers we met who left us in awe. Sanitation workers in bright orange shirts came in after work, so tired they could hardly stay awake, but determined to help in any way they could. More than one elderly woman sobbed in our office, telling about the illegal abortion their mother or sister or friend had, and their determination to make a procedure no one wants to have legal and safe. College students came in great numbers. There were African-Americans and white people, gay and straight, long haired guys on bikes and men with sunburned arms in pickups. There was no them; there was only us. It was heady stuff.
As the summer moved into fall, the race became more competitive in North Carolina, and things heated up around the office. Lindsay, Leslie's daughter, was three at the time, and Leslie and I both had full-time jobs, but that was no deterrent. I'd work late afternoon until she got there bringing Lindsay. We'd both work until about ten, eating kung pao chicken in large quantities and trying to come up with ridiculous numbers of volunteers for the ever increasing number of tasks. Lindsay moved from desk to desk, occasionally falling asleep under one. Once I looked up to find her showing Ron Brown around the office. Another night Valerie Harper walked in holding her. Around ten, I'd take her home, leaving Leslie to finish up and close down the office. It was a 40 minute drive to Hillsborough; she'd sing Christmas carols to keep me awake, but a couple of times I was so tired I forgot to stop and went all the way to Greensboro.
In September, one of the state chairs came running into our office. Al Gore was having a press conference at the Ronald McDonald House in Durham about the Family Leave Act. One of the families who was part of the press conference had to drop out. Our boss was asked to find another family on very short notice. "Well," he said. "We have one, but it's not a Dan Quayle type of family. It's two sisters raising a child." Send them over, he was told.
Which is how we found ourselves sitting in a 100° room with several other families, waiting on Al Gore to make his appearance. There was a phalanx of bored-looking press types helping to raise the temperature with their sheer numbers. At this point in the campaign, everyone knew there were no surprises with Gore. The jokes about his woodenness are so true that he collects them. On the bus tour we took with him and the Clintons, you never knew what Bill was going to come out with, but you ALWAYS knew what Al Gore was going to say. We stood behind the stage at fairgrounds and courthouses, unseen by the crowds, like a small army of zombies, reciting the speech from memory, complete with his jerky and rehearsed arm movements.
Gore arrived, was introduced, and proceeded to move through the press conference like an automaton. I saw one of his aides close his eyes in exasperation. Another desperately suggested he meet each of the families who were present, so he moved around the room introducing himself to each of us. As our turn came, I leaned down to Lindsay. "Do you know who this is?" I asked. She looked up at him with a wrinkled brow, obviously disappointed. "Yes. It's Al Gore. Where's Bill Clinton?" Gore started laughing and then asked if she'd come sit with him. Lindsay, who has never met a stranger in her life, jumped up and sat on his lap, while Leslie and I silently prayed for her to remember her newly-acquired and somewhat shaky toilet-training, at least for that day.
And he . . . relaxed. As Lindsay covered him with her blanket and offered to share her pacifier, he patted her arm absently while he waxed eloquent about why we needed the Family Leave Act, about how families with a sick loved one need to be able to care for them without fear of losing their jobs. Four years before, his young son was critically injured when he was hit by a car; he had lived this. This was something he was passionate about, and it showed, finally. Of course, I thought, as I watched him with Lindsay, he's a dad. He knows how to do this stuff. The press no longer looked bored; indeed, it sounded like the machine guns in old war movies as cameras clicked continuously.
The press conference came to to a triumphant end and his aides found us in the crowd. "We owe you one," they said.
Which is how we found ourselves in the front row of Bill Clinton's inauguration, sitting next to Jesse Jackson and the Marine Corps Band and a Blood and a Crip. But that's a story for another time.
