election | Wing's World

I came to Pitt County, in eastern North Carolina, to ask questions of folks who hadn’t yet voted.

Specifically: Greenville, where the Tar River meanders, in no hurry to be anywhere

“What are the top issues on your mind and heart, heading into this election? Tell me more about that.”

“Do you agree that the economy works better when everyone has access to opportunity?”

“Have you heard of Josh Stein? He’s running for governor.”

In four days of canvassing, I had probably 75 doorstep conversations: most short; some dispiriting, more uplifting. But in the process, I came to feel that my home state was actually canvassing me…ringing my doorbell, asking me these questions.

“What does it mean to be from a place?”

“How much of a Southerner are you, really?”

A: enough of a Southerner to recognize cotton; not enough of one to realize how much grows in my home state!

I combined this canvassing trip to NC with visiting my parents and my three high school besties, in Durham—the wealthier, more educated center of the state. But once I said goodbye to my dear ones, I was 100% in the zone with my blue-state teammates from Common Power (if you want to get involved w/ them yourself, now’s the time! Click here) in flat, cotton-fielded Greenville—a place as new to me as it was to my non-Southern team.

Seriously: was all that cotton here all this time? How come I never noticed it while driving to the beach in the 1970s? Answer: I probably didn’t recognize it w/o the white fluffy stuff.

Common Power’s model is to team with local organizations and become their worker bees. Our org was Advance Carolina,

…and our liaison was Ms. Danisha.

…or you can just call her Ms. Powerhouse

We rotated carloads of door-knocking teams each day. Here’s mine from my second day, taking our lunch break:

The guy who offered to take our picture cheerfully told us he didn’t think a woman was able to lead the country. Sigh.

Even though we were talking mostly to registered Democrats, we ran into some bummers. Bummer #1: Donald Trump came to town, to rally at Eastern Carolina U.

His merch tables were all over town.

Bummer #2: young Black men who told us, A) I don’t believe voting matters; B) God’s in charge anyhow, so whatever happens will be His will; C) some combination of A & B (which I personally took to mean, C): I don’t wanna vote for a woman, I just don’t want to say so).

Some neighborhoods were less well-to-do…

But after a day or so, I got good at turning those interactions into real conversations–by pushing back a little, with humor; by asking more questions; by remembering the mantra “Every conversation an invitation.” And every one of those men hung out and talked with me, so open, so friendly…like we were visitin’ on their front steps.

Because of those conversations, I’m 100% sure I “moved the needle” a little with at least one male voter per day. Multiply that by the # of volunteers out there, and there’s our “margin of effort”: the thing that will make the difference in this election.

…while other neighborhoods were much wealthier. I enjoyed the contrast between these houses with those ol’ cotton fields right behind them. Black families live in these homes.

When Team NC packed up and left, I volunteered to stay an extra day and a half to make up for joining late (because of my family/friends visit). And that’s when the tables turned a little.

Advance Carolina sent me even further east, to Bertie County, a place I knew only because I’ve ordered raw peanuts from this place:

…without ever knowing it’s pronounced “BerTEE County”

There, in the tiny town of Windsor, I was supposed to be a poll watcher, not a canvasser. Only problem: there was nothing to watch.

In fact, I had a good long wait before we even went to the polling place…so I took myself for a walk along their cool swamp boardwalk.

More learning: this is a Tupelo tree! I never knew that’s where the word came from (remember: Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi).

Then, when we finally got to the polls, it was just a bunch of folks sittin’ and visitin’. No scary MAGA pickup trucks circling the block. Locals of both races were greeted, most by name, as they arrived, and thanked for voting as they left.

[not pictured: the polling place; I didn’t care to violate folks’ privacy. But imagine the shade of a nice, big magnolia tree.]

a sentiment most eastern Carolinians would probably agree with, MAGA or not

Me? I was as useful as a fly on the wall. At first I was frustrated. I drove all this way to get WORK done! I could be out there pounding the pavement, chalking up more doors! What a waste of time! Etc.

But as I drove back to Greenville, I considered: those folks were modeling exactly what I had found to be the most effective political work. They were visitin’. Telling stories. Asking how so-and-so was doing. Teasing, laughing. Doing community.

What’s your all-fired hurry? the Bertie County folks seemed to be asking (not that they were paying me any attention). What’s with all the checklists & efficiency? Can’t you see this is how we’ve survived all these decades, here of all places?

Photo from the NC/VA border, ca. 1970 (courtesy musicmaker.org)

Ten years ago, after driving across the country to NC, I wrote a song about my complicated relationship with the South. Most of the lyrics are on the dark side:

Gone to Carolina in my mind, but my heart’s gone mute

One look at a poplar tree and I’m thinking of strange fruit.

This red clay was my stompin’ ground—hardly a boast

When every cotton field is haunted by sharecropper ghosts.

Chorus:

Yeah, it’s another song about the South, y’all,

Just trying to sort my feelings out once and for all.

How can someone feel so in and out of place?

That sweet sunny south where I first saw the light,

If she’s my ol’ mama, I’m a teenager in flight.

Do I want to hug her neck…or slap her face?

big cypress dressed in flounces of poison ivy

But now, as I head home to my blue state, filled with new thoughts about my old red—no, purple!—one, this verse feels more appropriate:

The woods are thick with poison ivy and trumpet vine

More tangled up and twisted than this loyalty of mine

For a countryside that’s suffered more hardship per square mile

Than any place I know—sucked up with sweet tea and a smile.

I still doubt Kamala Harris will win North Carolina, even after all the efforts made here. But I do think she will be elected. And if that happens, I’m going to summon all my powers of visitin’ to help get us through the next steps.

This sign’s in Durham, not Pitt County, not Bertie. But we’re getting there!

For the past couple of weeks on this beautiful island where I get to live, I’ve been enjoying the appearance of some rambunctious fellow inhabitants.

Foot included for scale. If this is a Fairy Ring, those must be some hefty fairies!

I would call them visitors, but it’s obvious that these Short-Stemmed Rusula have been here all along…at least in spore form. Underground. Waiting…for some signal inaudible to the rest of us, which must have been given—suddenly, urgently—about three weeks ago.

I’ve been walking these trails for fourteen years now. Mushroom seasons come and go, but I’ve never seen anything like these: so many, so huge, so close together.

These shroomy monsters come bursting through the crust of the soil full-sized—no cute babies that you get to watch grow or unfurl. And in their thrust, anything on top simply gets lifted: soil, rocks, even good-sized tree trunks.

Which, of course, sets my brain along its favorite metaphorical paths.

Next week, I am heading to my home state of North Carolina to join a host of volunteer canvassers already spread out around the country. They—we—knock on doors, talk to folks, try to energize them to vote and help them over any voting obstacles they might face. Sure, we’d prefer them to vote like us, but the real goal is democratic participation, which is…

The organization that I canvass with is Common Power, founded in 2018, headquartered in Seattle. I’ve blogged about it before; click here to read more about CP, especially if you’re interested in volunteering yourself.

But my point here is how much CP is suddenly needing to act like the mycelia beneath those mammoth mushrooms: it’s calling for heavy lifting.

See, before, when I canvassed in 2022, we knocked on “friendly” doors: registered Democrats. People whose only beef with us, if they had any, would be that they’re tired of being nagged, or maybe we woke up the baby when we knocked.

But these days, given the potential suddenly presented by the 1-2 combo of 1) Trump-fatigue (or outright revulsion) among traditional Republicans (especially women) and 2) the big-tent welcome of the Harris-Walz ticket (hey, they own guns!)…these days, I say, CP is being asked by its on-the-ground state partners to knock on doors of registered Republicans. Even homes with Maga flags out front.

Which means my time in NC might be more challenging than I was expecting. (See previous photo)

The other day I attended a training for folks like me, headed into the field. A handful of volunteers fresh from the white suburbs of Philadelphia and some even-whiter counties in Montana had this to say:

“This is about talking to people. We’re all Americans. We have to start there.”

“Every conversation an invitation.”

“After you knock—listen more than you talk.”

“Folks are looking for any excuse to vote for a person whose character they respect.”

They cited example after example of folks who might have appeared “hostile,” based on their yard signs or their vehicles, actually opening up and talking.* Maybe not agreeing to vote for Harris/Walz, but finding common ground on a certain issue with a down-ballot candidate.

*[Sometimes, if a woman answered the door, these volunteers said, she might murmur, “Come back when my husband’s not here.”]

I thought: wow.

I also thought, Not only is this good canvassing advice, this is good human being advice. This is the kind of human I want to be–able to knock on any door and hold a conversation with almost anyone. (Note the “almost”: folks who are outright hateful to your face? Nope. See ya.)

I don’t know where those mushrooms get their power. But I do know that when I head on out there next week, I’ll be using those volunteers’ advice as my own heavy-lifting mojo. Every conversation an invitation.