Voter Registration Chase, Part 1

The deadline for voter registration in Pennsylvania was Monday, October 6th. It was the last day to change party affiliation, to change one’s address, to register under a new name, or to register for the first time.

Standing next to someone while they filled out a registration form was absolutely one of the greatest parts of the job; because of our work, that individual would be able to participate in the fundamental building block of democracy. Standing outside of a grocery store for three hours with a clipboard and a stack of forms waiting for new voters, however, was not one of the greatest parts of the job. I won’t lie: sometimes it was tedious. Nonetheless, we tested out locations all over our turf to identify where we could register the greatest number of people.

Good locations in Bucks County yielded four or more registrants in an hour, and as the weeks ticked by, we were able to track down the high traffic locations where we could find the most unregistered people: near colleges or high schools, outside some grocery stores, at busy intersections or movie theaters. At my best, I pulled together over thirty at a school in a few hours. At my worst, I stood at train station for two hours and registered only one person. And he was a Republican.

Voter registration, as a note, need not be bi-partisan. Every citizen is guaranteed the right to vote, and they can register at any courthouse and most post offices. But as a staff member for a political campaign, I am perfectly justified in doing a favor for Democrats or Obama supporters by bringing the form to them while they shop, and then dropping it off at the Board of Elections for them—and I need not do the same favor for someone who calls me a terrorist and then asks for a form. The idealistic vision of bringing everyone into the process must, at some point, relent to the practicality of winning an election. This is why we set up tables at colleges and not at gun shows.

By October, the number of registered Democrats in Pennsylvania had grown by over 200,000 voters, and the result was that historically Republican counties like Bucks and neighboring Montgomery County had a new majority of Democrats. Still, we pushed all the way to the deadline to try to increase our advantage.

~

In the days leading up to the deadline, we would pore through our cars and desks to make sure we didn’t have any completed forms lying around. The potential tragedy of someone having handed us a complete form only to discover that her name isn’t listed at the polls because of our mistake was enough to scare us into some thorough cleaning. Thankfully we managed to avoid it.

But we could not avoid every error. Inevitably, we encountered improperly filled out forms on which the voter’s driver’s license number or social security number was missing, or on which the voter forgot to select a party or check off whether it was a new registration or a change of address. Mostly, these incomplete were resolvable with a quick phone call. But some people wouldn’t fill in the optional field for phone numbers. Others, when we were able to reach them, understandably refused to share over the phone the last four digits of their social security numbers.

In those cases, we had to drive to the person’s home and ask that they fill out the form in person, and this was the voter registration chase.

As the registration deadline approached, more forms came in more often and in larger numbers, and we had to chase down more and more information. Several weeks before the deadline, the campaign hired a staff member whose sole purpose was to register voters and bring the forms to the courthouse. By the deadline, every field organizer had to shoulder part of the chase in his or her turf.

~

On the evening of Monday, October 6th, there were nine voters in Bristol that I needed to chase down before the Board of Elections office closed at the extended hour of 9pm. I plotted a route with Google Maps to go from house to house, jumped in my car with the incomplete forms and a stack of blank ones and sped off.

Little felt more rewarding than finding an address, jumping out my car, running up to a door and explaining the situation. At the first few houses, the voters were home and marveled a little at the thoroughness of the campaign. “You guys must really want every vote! I'm so impressed!” said one woman.

At another house, a gentleman had forgotten to indicate his party. He came to the door in a white t-shirt. He had a deep voice and a direct stare. I explained who I was, indicated the blank space on his form, and pointed to the check boxes for “Democratic,” “Republican,” “Independent,” or “Other.” He glanced at my Obama jacket, looked skeptically at it, and hesitated.

“Who do I check off?” he huffed to himself and then paused.

His wife was standing in the corner with a child on her hip, and another child was standing in the middle of the room looking at me. She watched as if she too were awaiting the outcome.

“Which party do I choose?” he said, almost perturbed, and turned to his wife.

She looked at me in a way that seemed knowing, and she smiled broadly. Her voice was slow:

“You want Obaaama.” Her grin grew larger and she nodded deliberately.

He turned to me and looked at the form again, my pen in his hand. “Obaaama,” she said slowly, and you could hear the smile.

“He’s a Democrat!” I piped in cheerily and pointed to the check box.

The man checked off the box for the Democratic Party, handed me the form and my pen, and I thanked him before running back to the car to head to the next house. As I left, I heard the young boy standing in the center of the room say, “What did he want? What did that guy want?”