The Ojai Post

-continued-

Silverado Lane is a modest enclave of affordable homes built in Southwest Las Vegas by Astoria Homes during the recently concluded era of flash-housing construction. These linen-colored stucco dwellings may have been built eight years ago. For every thirty homes, four or five have been padlocked by the bank. A few have stern notices from the sheriff stapled from the edge of the door to the jamb, sealing them from entry. The smart two story homes are built on a tiny footprint, with compact, token, landscaped yards. An auto-parking pad takes up what might have better been a flowerbed and more space has been devoted to secure garage parking for a compact car. The outlying community centered around Maryland Parkway at Pyle Avenue is new and nearly new, featuring fresh commercial retail and a lot of it has been loudly proclaiming it is FOR LEASE for a bit too long. The banners are droopy. Tumbleweeds have blown into corners and trapped into small piles. Someone has broken a large window on the side of one building across the empty parking lot from a Starbucks.

Olivia and I are walking the streets of Silverado for the Campaign with clipboards bearing names of registered voters and bags of election literature. The naming of Silverado’s streets reveals a childlike lack of inventory and imagination: Fragile Fields, Crisp Clover, Fine Fern, Swimming Hole and Delicate Dew. Perhaps the city outsourced street-naming to a greeting-card company. You have to flat-out Google-map the streets of Vegas to get the flavor of suburban nihilism in the southwest which Sin City embodies like none other. When I drove up Brass Ring I knew I had made a mistake.

Fragile Fields indeed. We are pawing the doors of unknown kin, looking for stalwarts and the curious, maybe an undecided gem we might help convince to vote Democratic on November 4th. The Obama poll numbers are going up, but if you are not concerned then you don’t respect the Republican Party’s ability to manipulate.

The streets of the neighborhood are narrow by half, leaving no street parking alongside the rounded gutters, painted red from corner to corner; FIRE LANE NO PARKING has been airbrushed intermittently in white on the red line, and we obey at first, then, after observing a few scoff-laws not fully down with the program we park there too, moving ahead from block to block as we discover the addresses on our lists.

The lists have been derived from voter registration records for the State of Nevada. The Obama Campaign has culled all the Republicans and non-registered folks so we can concentrate on proven citizens more apt to vote with us.

Maria Teresa Liebermann, our Campaign For Change field organizer had instructed us earlier how to behave in this work, what questions to ask, answers that might help and important blanks to fill. She urged us to register anyone we might run into who was not on our list.

My first door is a lucky one. Lorenzo, a Latin young man answers and easily engages me. He, and his parents are registered Democrats but he says they are still undecided. The debate did not help he says. Both McCain and Obama seemed to be saying the same thing about the economy. I agree. I wanted there to be a more forceful argument from Senator Obama. I explain to him why I came over from California.

“ I think the main thing for me is that we can’t return the Republican Party to power again. The past eight years have been a total disaster. If McCain is elected he will bring back thousands and thousands of Republicans-many of the same people who worked for Bush-to work again in Washington and they do not deserve to be rehired. The war was bad enough, but now to have failed to protect our economy on top of that, well, I just think its pretty clear they all need to go home.”

This line of reasoning seems to be working. I observe his mother looking past her son’s shoulder to see whom he is talking to. They converse in Spanish. I break into Spanish and explain who I am and what I am doing. She shoulders herself into the doorway and casts a curious but disbelieving eye towards me.

“ They are all the same. All they want is to be rich.”

“ I think that the Democrats need to explain their position a lot better, Madam. I am amazed that working people vote sometimes for Republicans because the Republican Party never works seriously for us, they serve the rich, and the results are plain to see.”

“ Do you think it will be better with this Obama?”

“ It has to be. If he is elected, a whole new group will run the government and they will be more supportive of working people, I am sure of that. His policies support people like you and me.”

I can see they are getting weary of talking to me in the doorway, so I give them a few attractive Obama flyers, and thank them for their time.

“ We’re Ok,” says Lorenzo. “ We are going to vote for Obama.” He’s smiling now.

“ Good. That is going to help.”

I think what he was saying is that he will convince his parents. The conversation was helpful.

Olivia has wandered all the way down Frantic Foliage or whatever street we are on and come back with one success. We turn down Clumsy Can-Opener and start reviewing the lists on our clipboards again. She’s flushed in the heat, but gamely swigging out of her stainless canteen and then marching down the street with her ball cap at a jaunty angle on her head.

Her first contact was a very nice woman who said she was doing the same work we were doing.

We knocked on six more doors without raising any occupants. A man from India opened the seventh door. I notice he has a statue of the Elephant God Ganesh riding an Om symbol fixed to the top of his doorway. Ganesh is the Hindu deity revered as the Remover of Obstacles.

We chat with Gopal for a few minutes about politics and the economy. My experiences with Hindus have uniformly been very pleasant, and I am not much surprised that Gopal engages us for quite awhile in his casual togs and t shirt. I can't recall meeting mean or rude Hindu-even at a Valero station.

Gopal offers us a Pepsi. Olivia will drink the Pepsi this time. She is normally absolutist about canned sodas-but she will abide by Roman custom.

Gopal was unmoved by the debate, which he thought was a draw. He claimed to be still looking for a “ certain something”, but could not explain what that was exactly.

“ Perhaps it is a sense of self-confidence. Obama seems to stutter in his answers in these debates and in interviews, even though he is a famous speaker. And, McCain, you know, he is full of surprises, and for all his experience he seems to not consistently act like he has any. Take his running mate…” Gopal shrugged with both shoulders, and raised his hands as if to ask:

“ What are you going to with such people?”

“ So I am going wait and watch the other debates before I make up my mind. I will say I am leaning towards Obama, but that could change.”

There are nearly one hundred names on our lists. Most of the doors we go to never open.

“ I am sure they are in there. They just don’t want to come to the door,” Says Olivia.

“ Maybe they don’t want to disappoint us.”

I speak with a young Anglo guy in his pajama bottoms who I have obviously interrupted while he is eating. He says its OK. At first I try to make it quick because I don ‘t want to detain him and my leg is beginning to kill me. Its like going 7 on the 10 scale. I put my foot up on a planter box, like I am being casual, but it’s just for the leg.

“So, Terrence, do you know how you want to vote in November?”

“ Not really. Probably for McCain.”

“ Were you favorably impressed in the debate?”

“ Not really. I just like him more.”

“ That’s fair. I am out here working the neighborhood to see if I can explain Democratic Party principles to folks, because I think its clear that one party has always served the interests of working people and one has always benefited corporations and the wealthy-even foreign countries more than our own. Look who the Bush family has always favored: the Saudi Royal family and other princes in the Persian Gulf.”

“ But we need their oil.”

“ We actually choose to buy their oil. We could and should be buying it all from Canada, Mexico and Venezuela.”

“ You like Chavez?”

“ I know that Bush doesn’t like him”

He lets that go, but perhaps I have made a point.

“Do you make $250,000 a year?”

Terrence laughs pretty hard: “ NO!” He seems to be enjoying our conversation, or rather put, his entertainment of the moment. I sense he may have engaged me for the sake of theater. Quickly a young couple darts inside the house from out of nowhere, wanting no part of the eccentric farmhand and his clipboard business.

“Where, or rather what is your line of work, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I work in a casino, off the strip.”

I don’t need to know if he deals blackjack, stares at a security monitor or hires cocktail waitresses. If he owns this house, he doesn’t own much, and if he rents it he doesn’t pay that much. I throw the harpoon.

“I think this is all about their economy and our economy. My income has been flat for years-and it should not have been. Maybe your income has not improved either. But my impression, a strong impression is that things will only get better for more of us if the Democratic Party wins this election.”

“You mean Obama.”

He’s sort of got me on that. I may have a better understanding of how many government jobs are at stake-and the philosophy that those new workers will bring to their jobs-but Terrence thinks I am not selling the candidate as much as the party, and I may be. But its not out of lack of belief or loyalty. What I want to hear more about from the campaign is how this is not just about one person, but all the people who will work for him. I give Terrence the pamphlet and thank him for his time. I want to think I had an effect, but my shinola radar thinks maybe he was jiving me.

Olivia is speaking to someone in another doorway in a house adjoining a narrow grassed park and ten parking places-for visitors. Two Latin boys arrive and I mean to not let them by me without a few words about saving the world from flag-waving, greedbagging hypocrites. Terrence kind of stung me. I wait for them to come to me.

“Are you guys registered to vote?”

“Yeah, I am.” The driver turns to his friend. “Can you vote?”

“I dunno.”

“Do you want to be registered?” I ask.

The passenger is not certain he wants to commit. He looks to his friend.

“Yeah, man. Go ahead and register. You can vote.”

“You want to register?” I thought maybe I would soft-peddle it. I had plenty of help.

“Yeah, OK.”

I sense this might be a manhood thing. I break out the registration forms and ask Javier all the questions. Good thing he has his drivers license. He’s legal, 19 ( looks 16 to me-but I am fully geezed) and they both are for Obama. It’s a good score.

“ Oh yeah, Obama all the way man.” Gonzalo, the driver, says.

“Where do you guys work?” They are wearing identical green aprons and sport small diamond earrings. I figure they are on their break or just off work.

“We work at Smith’s (the regional grocery chain)”

“What department?”

“We unload produce and stuff in the back and put it in storage. In the coolers.”

“ That’s cool. I’m a farmer.”

“ Wow” This is somewhat amazing to Gonzalo. He is impressed.

“Hey, maybe we even get some of your produce.”

“Probably not, but that would be cool. But, I sell all my produce in the town where I live.”

“ How big is your farm?”

“ Sixteen acres.”

“ Not too big.”

“ No. I used to have 27, but I had too many weeds.”

They laugh, like I hoped they would. They seem like second-generation Mexicans. Their conversational abilities are good and attitudes are fair-they seem confident. They should be doing my job. They could get all of Silverado lined up. We have met and conversed and parted without a single word in Spanish.

The Latin boys split. Olivia has been watching from across the street.

“You are pretty good at this.”

“I have practice.”

“From when you were in Texas?”

“ No. Bolivia. You had no idea you were working with an expert. In the missionary field we call this the charla de un concepto. You size people up and see if they want to talk, try to not be all formal and full of scripted bullshit. Then you see if they want a pamphlet. Maybe they will come to church. Maybe they will grow up to be the President of the Mormon Church. Never can tell.”

I go back to move the van to the middle of the next block. Olivia starts ringing bells. The sun is going down and its just as hot but at least the sunlight is not so brutal.

“ Let’s work all the western doors first and then come back to the eastern doors when the sun has gone down some more.”

Now that its nearly four we see more people driving to and from home and doing things in their garages, washing their cars and greasing bikes and such. One Latin woman is a registered Democrat but she is “ not voting this year.”

Another Latin woman scowls as me like I’m the devil. I get rebuffed by some strangers who have moved into a house formerly occupied by someone on my list.

“ This is our house now. We bought it from the bank.”

“ Congratulations. I hope you got a good deal.”

They close the door without goodbye or ceremony. A young woman-maybe another Latin-is either warming up her Mazda ( a doubtful practice given the ambiance) or, yes, she is talking on her cell phone. I hang by the rear bumper for a minute and then as another woman from across the street pauses to see if I am about to predate upon the young woman in the Mazda I knock on the trunk lid. The young woman leans out her window.

I check the list. “Nani?”

“ Yes?” She doesn’t seem to mind me rapping on her trunk or interrupting her conversation. I am probably being too bold. Maybe the sun has erased my manners or I just feel like I am on a roll.

“ Nani Kapule?”

“That’s me.”

“I am working for the Obama Campaign. Are you Hawaiian?”

“Yes. How do you know?”

“I lived on Oahu for four years.”

“ Where?” She might be testing me. I throw it right down the middle.

“ Kahuku and Hau’ula. Are you from Oahu?”

Now she is signing off on her phone call, out of the car and curious. It’s the Hawaiian connection. Maybe she wants to touch base, reconnect, talk about the Islands.

“ No I am from The Big Island.”

“ So Nani, are you going to vote in this election?”

“ I sure am.”

“ For Obama?”

“ Sure am.”

“ That’s great. Do you have family here or friends who are still uncommitted?

“ No. We are all for Obama. But they are all back in Hawaii.”

Next is a guy in a desert mullet with a good growth of beard and a wife-beater t-shirt. A wave of alcohol breaks over me as we begin to chat. The roar and gripping commentary of a football game flows out of the darkness. Texas is on the Arkansas 17 yard line.

“ Oh yeah, I am registered Democrat and Green party too.”

“ Well maybe that’s possible.”

“ And do you know how you are voting?”

“ Probably for Nader. Nader or Ron Paul.”

I don’t really care to discuss anything with Darrel. He’s got a game to watch.

We drive into the next block. On the way, Olivia assails an older man immaculating his tidy garage. The health department would swoon this guy’s garage is so cherry.

“ Are you registered?”

“Registered?”

“To vote.”

“ No I am not a citizen.”

“ Where are you from?”

“ Egypt.”

I have not seen an Egyptian for quite some time. I fail to restrain myself.

“ Wow. I used to sell lots of vegetables to Egyptians at the farmers market.”

“ OK! Real Good!” He can not wait to be rid of us.

Now there is much more activity in the street. Like timid toads unwilling to venture into the glare of the sun, the residents are now more in evidence at dusk. It should be noted that Las Vegas truly never takes a break. Some of these unopened doors belong to people sleeping. Multiple shifts overlap at the casinos, leading to a need for many other services to keep commerce moving so there are a lot of three PM breakfasts.

Since we are here I may as well allow everyone the pleasure of my diatribes and stop merely looking for friends. I stop referring to the list and start going door to door. I get a retired serviceman who has a civilian job at Nellis Air Force Base on the outskirts of town. He is not an ideal potential convert, but I am unafraid. He is going for McCain because of his support for the military. Mr. Mentikoff is an even tempered, registered Republican, businesslike, firm in his opinions but still willing to talk. We shoot the breeze about the debate, but neither of us seems to have derived any heat from the event. The clock is winding down: Time to blitz.

“ Do you think the military has been well served in Iraq? It seems like we have expected too much from reserves and the National Guard to be over there for so long.”

“ We don’t get to choose when or where we go.”

“ But at least the people who do choose should be choosing a little more wisely.”

“ I think we’ve got it right lately though, with the Surge and all.”

“ I think that’s so. US troop deaths are way down and over all violence in the country has dropped. No doubt about that. But is it right to commit ourselves into the future for a cause we should never have bought into in the first place?”

“ Frankly, no. But the alternatives are not acceptable either.”

“ Well, there is no arguing that. It’s a crummy deal. But should more die?”

“ Yeah, it’s a crummy deal. We can’t argue the past.”

“ And if we let the Republican Party run the show, things will change…”

“Change?”

“ Suitably end the war in Iraq. Focus on Afghanistan and Pakistan. Be more credible. Be proactive towards threats …and…”

“ I think everyone knows we need to do things differently.” That sounds like the last word and I am glad to let him have it. Bush and Cheney have squandered our military capability and McCain means to stay the course. But, the crazy voice in my head is telling me that because of my even tempered cordiality Mr. Mentikoff may even vote for Barrack in the sacred secrecy of the polling booth. Such fantasy will help me talk to another vet.

I think of giving Major Mentikoff a glossy but don’t want to embarrass him with it. Besides, I may need it for the next soul. Mentikoff is right about how things are now. Bush’s approval numbers are horrendous because Americans finally wised up to the truth about Iraq.

It does not matter now as much as it should that Obama has been right most of the time about our Iraq policy. The damage is done and now somebody has to clean up the same mess with probably the same broom. Even if McCain wanted to escalate military action there are no soldiers available to fight. What I might have said to Mentikoff is: “ McCain claims we need to maintain a powerful military presence in the Gulf region for decades. Given that military readiness needs much repair, and it looks like we are broke, how can we prepare for that?”

Thankfully, I do not have to continue this line of thinking. Olivia and I meet a pleasant, somewhat ditzy multitasking Latin woman who is talking with us between asides to her friends on the cell phone while she clears the front seat of her car of various items, oblivious that we intrude on her privacy. Neither conversation seems to be a real communication. She is giving driving directions to her friend while now reviewing one of our pamphlets. She is cracking jokes, kind jokes, about us, with her friend on the phone while we are standing there waiting or her to get off the cell. She is in no hurry. Why should she be? We have invaded her space. We are supposed to wait. Leticia is a registered Democrat. Of Course she is voting for Obama. It should have been obvious to us I suppose, but she has no OBAMA-BIDEN placards on her porch. We part amicably. We cross the street and ring bells that are not answered. Olivia does some therapeutic door-pounding.

“ That’s the spirit.”

“ I am not sure they can hear me. Those doorbells are awfully faint.”

“ You have to make sure everybody gets a bona fide chance to hear us. We are not coming back tomorrow.”

A red Chevrolet crowded with young African Americans goes by and stops in front of Leticia. They pile out and after they all giggle and joke around with each other Leticia hails us.

“ Hey you guys, these are my friends I was talking to. They aren’t registered.”

I have never been so happy to see an African American in my life. I feel like a tow-truck has miraculously appeared on dirt road beside my ditched car., that the waitress let me into the café after closing time.

Not registered? My mission will be consummated. My experience with Blacks is paltry, polite, infused with liberalism, but its almost all an experience from afar. I know my Dubois and read my Malcolm and Cleaver, cried when they shot Martin Luther King in Memphis, but this joy of being face to face with the Black presence on the street working for One of theirs is overwhelming. I am too happy, and the motive for the joy is as obvious to me as the elation itself. I don’t want to be overly complex, but complexity governs the moment: these black people are less black because of the racism I have subconsciously mastered because of Obama. I stand to act like a fool but I cannot help acting like I have been searching for them all afternoon.

And yet I am amazed that they are not registered. What? You don’t recognize Moses when his mug is everywhere on TV? I am not appalled, but spinning. Something is not right, and its not them its me. A huge conversation erupts in my head, which these people have inspired but have no part in. We sign up Travis Howard and Amanda and Ashley McWhorter. They live in North Las Vegas. Amanda and Travis work with Leticia at the MGM Grand in catering. Ashley takes care of the mom at home who has diabetes.

Up until this moment on Swimming Hole Street in Vegas I have made it a point to ignore African Americans for being black. But a cellular racism must live in me, one that my conscience or sense of ethics battles like do the good white blood cells when variant microbes want to get out of hand. I may understand race, but now I am immersed in culture. I am inadvertently reeling through strange fast-forward scenes starring Black America and me. TV Set Looter jokes, angry, fearsome, articulate Panthers, the first black student in my high school, folding laundry with Jo, our housekeeper fifty years ago, who drove all the way from Fontana to wash my mother’s huge windows, my grandfather, who sold insurance from Willowbrook to Compton and Lynwood for decades to his black neighbors, suddenly lashing out when he saw two black youths walking on Atlantic Avenue below Century Boulevard.

“ What are they doing down here?”

I didn’t get it. When I was young, I would walk up Atlantic to his office and often find him writing documents for an African American insuring his car or house. He drove my grandmother all the way over to Willowbrook to a Black woman who had done her hair since FDR was President. But the Black boys could not walk Atlantic south of Century. That was not right with Grandad.

O, let America be America again
The land that never has been yet
And yet must be
the land where every man is free.

The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME
Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain
,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

-Langston Hughes