The day I was to start canvassing for Barack Obama in Nevada, a crowd of 11,000 filled the stadium in Reno. They were waiting for the senator to arrive form Hawaii. Security men wearing black suits and sunglasses swarmed around the empty stage. Young campaign workers created a sea wave by synchronizing a mass movement in the bleachers -- 1000 people in my section stood, lifted our arms, and sat down. Then the 1000 people to our left stood, raised their arms, and sat. Then the next 1000, and the next. Rock music blared from speakers, and I danced in the bleachers with a schoolteacher and a casino worker.
Senator Obama appeared at the podium, waved, thanked us, and spoke about one America, a place where citizens must pull together to create a society that works for everyone. His speech brought smiles and cheers. Behind me, an African-American truck driver broke down and cried.
That afternoon, I laced up my sneakers and began door-to-door canvassing. As November 4 approaches, thousands of swing voters in Reno and Carson are early voting. The pressure on them is mounting. They are phoned, visited, leafletted, and most are not happy to see canvassers on their porch.
It was a discouraging enterprise. In a trailer park, I met Joe the Logger who said, "I don't want to share my wealth. I wouldn't vote for that n-----." I met others so comfortable with muddled thinking and Fox News that they doubted the patriotism of senator from Illinois and were convinced he has managed to elude investigators for the eight years he's been in politics and for the blockbuster last two years he's been running for president of the country. Many had never heard of sites like factcheck.org and they probably won't bother to look for them now either.
But one in fifteen opened their screen door, changed their mind from undecided to Obama, decided to vote, or were delighted to learn about Jill Derby, the local Democratic candidate for Congress. Some bounced with excitement and drove across town to headquarters to volunteer.
One thousand Californians and countless Nevadans press on. They pound gravel roads and climb apartment stairs. In the thin air of the high desert, they develop fever blisters on their lips. They work until the sun sinks, and grab 8 more sheets of addresses the next morning. Evenings, they share stories and beer. The Californians eat tofu. They meet fellow campaigners -- a black grad student, a Jewish grandmother, a union organizer, the ex-husband of a friend. The lawyers among us work as Election Monitors. Everyone else steps onto the porch of 88-year-old Edna or 19-year-old Charles.
The same thing is happening in Ohio, Florida, Colorado. A movement is swelling. It feels like the Civil Rights Movement, but we have no songs. It feels like a fight for justice, but no one raises a club. It is buzzing in the projects and ranches and suburbs of America. It is the sound of cheers at a library in Florida when a poll worker announces, "We have a first-time voter!" It is not rising from a black America or a white America. It is soaring from all across America.
It is the sound of hope in two sneakers on the porches of voters.