West Side Stories: One Thing Leads to Another…

West Side Stories Grand Slam
Mystic Theater, December 4, 2019
Theme: One Thing Leads to Another…

It wasn’t supposed to start until nine, but when I pulled into the main parking lot with other campaign volunteers to set up just after 8:30 am, people already were lined up outside Monroe Middle School, from the main entrance to the street, waiting to register. That Saturday morning in early February, gusty winds pushed enormous white clouds eastward across wide open Nebraska blue skies. The temperature in Omaha might reach a toasty 14 degrees by noon.

In 2008, Nebraska’s Democratic Party decided to hold a statewide Presidential Caucus, first time in maybe 50 years. Need a quick civics refresher? A caucus is a meeting at which local members of a political party register their preference among candidates running for office or select delegates to attend a convention. Think Iowa. Nebraska has about 1.8 million people. About 60% of registered adults vote Republican, and 89 of 93 counties reliably vote ‘Red.’

But, but… Nebraska is one of only 2 states in the country that is not ‘winner takes all’ in the Electoral College. Instead, electoral votes are split by Congressional District. And the Omaha area, heart of the 2nd Congressional District, leans Democratic. So, one could almost imagine a presidential race so close that maybe, just maybe, one lone blue dot from Omaha would pop up in a predictable sea of red, from the Dakotas to Texas, and make a difference. Progressives in Nebraska learn how to hold onto hope.

Here’s how they told us a caucus would work. Each registered voter would check in, given a blue paper ‘ballot’ and sent to the middle school’s gymnasium. Barack Obama supporters were to gather on the Home Team side; Hillary Clinton’s, on the Visitor’s side. Folks undecided or open to change were to hang at center court. Each campaign’s job was to woo them to their side. Voters were to write down their preferred candidate’s name on the blue paper at the end of caucus. Votes would be tallied and delegates distributed accordingly. We were told that maybe 150 or 200 hearty citizens might show up. We thought we were ready.

Just before 9, as our campaign team finished hanging the Hillary banner on our side of the empty middle school gym, I noticed the registration line outside now wrapped around the back of the school toward the football field. Within an hour, the noisy gym was nearing capacity – 800 occupants. About 150 Clinton supporters were pressed up against Visitor bleachers, as Obama supporters swelled to fill the rest. A handful of undecideds stood at mid court, looking lost. Noisy, joyful chaos spilled out of the gym into hallways lined with lockers and into nearby classrooms. The line outside just kept growing and going, and by the time the last person was registered just after 11am, over 1500 people had filled Monroe Middle to the gills. And no one knew what to do.

That’s when the longtime head of the local Democratic Party – Tom Cavanaugh – arrived on site, with the Fire Marshall and a plan. Mr. Cavanaugh made his way to center court, climbed up on a chair, armed with a bullhorn, and called for order. A huge Shhhshhhshh! spread and the crowd quieted, enough to hear: “As Chairman of the Douglas County Democratic Party, I hereby declare an Electoral Emergency!” (I later learned he made that up.) “If you prefer Hillary Clinton, please exit the school by the main entrance and place your marked paper in the box held by a designated volunteer. If you prefer Barack Obama, please exit by the door at the far end of the gym and place your paper in the other box.” Raiding the closest janitor’s closet, we requisitioned two industrial size boxes holding bulk toilet paper, neatly stacked 96 rolls, and headed outside.

I was the Clinton volunteer picked to hold the Obama ballot box. Wearing just a Hillary shirt over thermals, I was seated on a folding chair on an icy walkway, holding this huge toilet paper ‘ballot box’ in my lap. The other line for Hillary Clinton – maybe 300 people - went quickly. But hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of hopefuls queued up in our line: Young and old. Many were folks of color. Girlfriends held hands. And they were in no hurry…this was a moment to be savored. One by one they approached, dropped a blue paper marked OBAMA into my box. Some closed their eyes, made a wish, then tucked it in safe. A few looked at my Hillary t-shirt and held back. It’s okay! we assured them, we’re all on the same team, in the end. They kept coming.

An hour later, almost at the very end of the line, a weathered, elderly Black gentleman, dressed in Sunday finest, overcoat and hat, made his way slowly and stopped in front of my chair. He looked at the recycled box, then straight at me, and leaned in on his cane. Wagging a finger, he said: Promise me! Promise me it will count this time?” Tears rolled down his cheeks. He kissed his tear-stained ballot and placed it ever so carefully, lovingly, hopefully – into the oversized container. As best I can, Sir. I promise. As best I can. And I hugged that box extra tight, protecting it against all ill winds.

I want to believe that somehow that one sacred moment… is what led to all the rest.

Certainly, to what happened on the first Tuesday in November, just after 9 pm. Wearing an Obama shirt just like all the rest, I looked up at the jumbo screens in the raucous, overflowing Omaha Hilton Ballroom: Nebraska’s Second Congressional District – Omaha - and its single Electoral College vote - was called for Barack Obama. There it was! Our lone blue dot floating in a Sea of Midwest Red. The packed place exploded with cheers, and tears rolled down. Twenty years in Nebraska had taught me to hold on to hope. Maybe, just maybe every vote can count.

Even now. Especially now, 335 days from now. Promise…. As best I can. As best I can.