They Face the Storm with Sticks all Raised and Voices Hoarse

What happened to September?

If there’s balance to be had, I’m not sure where to find it. Is balance a privilege? 

Three weeks ago I felt called and compelled. This is the most important election of my life. I fear it may be the last legitimate presidential election of my life, depending on how things shake out. I decided to put my money where my mouth is. I decided to volunteer for Biden/Harris. They said their most valuable/needed area was phone calls so I signed up for that. 

Even though I hate phone calls. 

I took the training. I was nervous and excited. Stick to the script, they say, it’s tested and proven. You’ll get a lot of hang ups and a handful of hostile calls. That goes with the territory, they say. And though I wasn’t excited at the task, for the first time in over half a year I didn’t feel helpless. I had a touch of control. The smallest mote of influence. 

I swear the first ten hung up on me just based on my voice alone. Crack? Meth? Adrenaline. I took several breaths and tried to slow down, but the auto-dialer keeps them coming, one after the other, only seconds between calls. Some were good. Most were short. The script was impossible to stick to. The impatience of a person answering the call of a stranger is the most potent of bouillons, salt palpable on your tongue passed up the waves and wires by the time they’ve asked “who’s this?” The scrip is paragraphs. People want keywords. 

I can’t say it was a negative experience but I left it shaky and sweating and I’ve struggled to motivate myself to do it again. I don’t feel that I was the best fit for that particular job, more likely to dissuade than persuade. 

And with that went the momentary sense of control. 

It felt so good, those few days that I was going to drop my shoulder, straighten my back, dig in, and push. 

So, in chase, I write a bit, but what to write about that isn’t the dire throes of democracy on the brink of global climate collapse? And how to make that a good book or poem? 

I play a video game and I smile a while, but before long the smell of kids in cages sneaks in. I play some music but by song three everything is punk rock broke string and blister bleeding. 

I sit with my family and feel their warmth and love, but the evening sets in and soon I want the biggest stick I can wield to protect them. 

From what? 

We all feel the pressure drop. We all feel the unease in the air. So many of us waving our sticks in the air, not knowing which way the wind is about to bend but ain’t raising your arm in holler better than nothin’? 

My phone rings ten times a day. 

I don’t recognize the number. 

They never leave a message. 

I never pick up.