The door opened to a short man, wearing a faded Harvard shirt, tucked in, pants rolled up. Papers and boxes were strewn on the staircase behind him and a few tattered books were tucked under his arm. “Hi sir, how are you today? My name is Julius. I’m out here knockin’ doors for the John Doe campaign. He’s a moderate Democrat running for State Senate in your district.” How he responded was a jumble of thoughts and ideas unconducive to a direct quote. He made it clear that he wouldn’t be “voting for the donkeys” anytime soon, but he also didn’t like Trump. His face was scrunched up and skeptical, his eyes challenging. He may have even taken a step closer to me. I was getting the impression he lived alone.
“Alright, have a nice-” He hesitated, he had something to say. “Well, do you know what they did?” “Who sir?” “Democrats.” “Maybe, I’m not sure what you’re referring to specifically” “Well they betrayed one of their own, they killed him.” His pitch lowered, like he was trying to make it so no one else could listen in. That’s about the time I saw the Kennedy ‘60 felt flag, flying from the bookcase behind him.
“Yes, well that whole topic is very interesting” I said, thinking I could still get his vote. “But Joe doesn’t really have many national connections to his party.” “Ya, but did he admit what they did? Did he apologize?” “No sir, but um- ” “But you do know, he does know” “I’m aware”.
I couldn’t believe I’d stumbled upon one of these kinds of people, I thought, wishing I had some mace on me. “Got a lot of his policies on the back there.” I handed him a pamphlet, and in one strange motion, he snorted, jumped, reached out, and took it. “I’ll give this a look,” he noted discerningly. “You have a nice day sir,” I ducked under an untrimmed and leafless bush that intruded into the path to his front door and hurriedly walked to the next house.
This particular weekend I was out with the candidate himself. He really cared about these people, he wanted to address and touch the problems in their lives. I, on the other hand, did not. Sure, I thought he should beat his annoyingly good-looking and entirely self-interested opponent. Yet my emotional and moral ties to this district I’d never lived in were limited, to be generous.
It was a good job and an experience I find myself grateful for. On weekends I’d come speeding into innocent neighborhoods, the early 2000s Toyota Tundra I’d borrowed from my friend producing all sorts of face-scrunching noises as the brakes screeched to a halt 20 feet from the first house of the day. Edna Horsemouth, Female, age 74 – my phone would read. I stopped asking for the specific person on my list after the first day. Conventional wisdom says households vote together (however, not in the age of Trump)!
Letting out a long and uncontrolled exhale, I’d squint at the house number and down the rest of my burnt gas station coffee. Then exclaim, “Ready to go!” Smiling torturously at my companion, another friend of mine, equally as hungover, but much less competent. How’d this kid get this job – oh, wait.
“Bro it’s so easy, and super fulfilling,” I probably said. The vision of being shooed away, screamed at, cussed out, chased by rabid dogs, collapsed unconscious from heat stroke, arrested, shot, killed – flashing as I spoke. BUT ANYTHING TO “GET OUT THE VOTE!”
It wasn’t all bad. It gave me a chance to practice my insincerity and social engineering. Sometimes a kind and lonely old woman would invite you in for lemonade or a mom walking her golden doodle would ogle and cat-call us (neither of these events ever occurred). Maybe even our lovely constituents would unoriginally assert, “You’ve got my vote!” Their backs turned and already scurrying back into their homes.
My partner and I would divide up which houses we’d “hit”, his enthusiasm for the job to come making mine look like a righteous mission in the battle of good versus evil. Knockin’ doors is what I’ll call “result-oriented”, an unclever euphemism for transactional. No, he wasn’t particularly happy to be there, but goddamnit if he wouldn’t ring those Ring doorbells with wide eyes and an eager smile. Asking as earnestly as possible, “Do you have a moment to speak?” Knowing damn well he’d be talking at them regardless of their answer. And they’d half listen, but really they’d be watching their dog who just escaped out the door sprint at the toddler across the street.
Sometimes I’d arrive at a house on my list with the sinister feelings imaginable emanating from its door. Evil spirits gushed from the welcome matt puns and festive wreaths. Standing on the sidewalk I’d “really just have a bad feeling about this”. Often, I’d make the calculated assumption that the owners were not home and justify it as, “keeping momentum” as I moved to the next house, marking my sheet “I couldn’t reach contact” Yet sometimes, when I was feeling daring and dangerous, needing a bit of fear in my door to door life, I’d trot on up to the front and knock. And that was the most noble this job would get. Because I’d just saved democracy by ringing that doorbell.
We were disruptors of the peace. Coming in loud, uninformed, and out of touch. We were neither union members, nor business owners, nor women, nor minorities, nor from this district, not even this state. Yes, I knew which endorsements he had. Who he had worked for, where he came from, and his community involvement. But that’s it. Reciting a script, knowing the salience of what I would tout, but never experiencing it.
This is typical of paid doorknockers, who naturally, have some time on their hands. The issues relevant to them are so glaringly disparate from those of whose lives they interrupt. Are we any better than some indifferent Elon Musk America PAC hire? Getting their grubby hands on any poor innocent swing state voter they can.
Doorknockers getting paid, are exponentially less effective than those not. And that’s a fundamental issue with the way campaigns are run. Because us assholes are out there, peddling rhetoric on the gravity of an issue that will never affect our lives, in a district we don’t even live in. And we’ll get a check. Meanwhile, local members of the United Auto Workers of America, are spending their two free days off from work, walking and knocking for miles, and getting no compensation.
So I could stand in some under-informed old woman’s door, and shift my feet while I postulate where my candidate stands on ‘the issues’. The fact that we were paid turned out to be a twisted incentive, producing worse outcomes than if we’d been indentured volunteers sworn to serve the local party chapter for an indeterminate time. If we’d signed up of our own volition for this noble crusade (pillaging) of district neighborhoods maybe the experience would be different. Less transactional. But I doubt it.
I’d still switch my voice, face, and lines depending on who opened the door, looking to find the edge on the stranger in front of me. Or maybe I’d just hand them the pamphlet at the first sign of disagreement. I was going to get paid either way. And I could go back to my WashU dorm in a city I’ll likely be leaving in two years.
In the end, John lost by a couple of thousand votes. But I doubt it was my fault. Probably my partners.
Julius Perez ‘27 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. He can be reached at j.j.perez@wustl.edu.