By Sue Bergeron
My ancient Chrysler, equipped with ski racks and devoid of bumper stickers (in the interest of self-preservation), is groaning up a hill on the Everett Turnpike, passing lonely pines under a blustery New Hampshire sky. I roll the window down for a few minutes to inhale that piney scent I grew to love so long ago, as a Jersey girl. I turn up the radio to see if I can get latest poll numbers from NPR, the only station I'm able to pull in clearly. I'm watching the sky closely. If it rains today I'm screwed; I don't mind too much if it snows but the rain is a non-starter for this aging door-knocker with a bum elbow and arthritis in the bones. Manchester, NH, the current epicenter of the Democratic primary race, is a 112 mile trip from my seaside home in Rhode Island. A four hour door knock canvass session will cost me 10-12 hours from the time I pull out of the driveway until I'm back on the couch with the ice bag.
As of this writing I head into the GOTV “Get Out The Vote" cycle of our nation’s first primary. Soon, I will move into temporary living quarters at an Air BnB, nestled in the heart of Manchester, NH, a key battlefield for the start of the Democratic nomination process. A major snowstorm is headed our way again this weekend and 4-wheel drive and ski wear may be required to get the job done.
Inevitably, on any given weekend, at age 64, I will climb tenement stairs, trudge through slushy woods, dodge traffic and jostle a clipboard and flyers, sometimes with my arm in an orthopedic device, to get to undecided Democratic and Undeclared voters of the Granite State. Most of the names and addresses are culled from voter records. But sometimes I knock on a door and an angry member of Cult45 sees my Joe2020 hat and flings open the door ready for battle: “Get off my property! We're not gonna let you people take our guns away or kill babies!” Sometimes I have a little fun and offer the latest Biden literature. “Are you sure you don't want to read about Joe's latest plans to expand Obamacare?” At that point, as they growl and slam the door I'm running. If there's one thing you can be sure of, it's that all Granite-Staters have dogs and guns. I have never seen so many dogs in all my life. It's a good thing I like dogs. One Trumpanzee threatened to sic his two golden retrievers on me. I laughed at him, calling out, “Not afraid---grew up with two Newfies and a St. Bernard. Look!---They're scratching up your storm door!” I taunted him as I scampered down the steps of his beautiful castle. How, I wondered, did I miss that “Trump/Pence" sticker on the back window of his Cadillac? Damn!
I actually made my choice for Joe Biden back when I was a volunteer on the 2018 mid-terms, working to re-elect the Rhode Island caucus. We are totally blue here and the campaign was 100% successful. I grew up in a blue collar Democratic family in New Jersey and enjoyed a long career on the nation's railroad after moving to New England where I've made my home since the 1970’s. Joe was a friend to the railroads and now retired, I wanted to pay him back. And I do believe he is the best chance we have to get rid of Trump*. I like Joe's health care plan. I like that his motto is: Restore, Rebuild, Unite. A Biden rally in New Hampshire is the opposite of a Cult45 hate rally. There is abundant love in the room and Joe cautions the staff to dispatch the protesters (Trumpanzees in sheep's clothing) with politeness. After becoming a Fall Fellow on the Biden Campaign, I attended a Biden Town Hall in Manchester. I smelled trouble when Trumpies blocked the driveway of the ski resort where it was being held and hurled insults at those arriving. Some walked up the driveway, signed in with fake names, pretending to be supporters, stole our hot cider and donuts, and left their trash in the driveway as they returned to their protest mob. That’s what they do: they give a big old middle finger to common decency. Later in the evening, just as Joe got heavily into the section of his climate change speech, the staff had to corral about 20 protesters who stood up and began to shout loud enough to disrupt the speech, and escorted them out. Some of the miscreants were being cursed at by attendees in the crowd. I was working the event that night and my first hand account is as such: Mr. Biden called out, “No,no,no! Don't do that! That's what Trump* does. We don't do that here.” It is classic Joe. He’s a decent guy. Although you never saw this stuff on TV, there was a heavy presence by the press corps. I think they have some kind of policy against giving these kind of clowns publicity.
What about Hunter? That's the #1 question I get in Manchester, Goffstown, and Hooksett. And I don't really know how to answer that. The so-called Ukraine Scandal had not broken until after I went to Philly on May 18, 2019 to sign up to join the campaign. If I knew then about the shitstorm that was brewing underground I'm not sure I would have jumped into this roiling cauldron of controversy, nor would I have relished dealing with the GOP using the impeachment process to dirty up Joe. And who knew I'd end up pushing back against 23 other candidates of my own party!
Joe Biden's kick-off rally was a beautiful sunny spring day in Philadelphia and I didn’t mind the 600 mile round trip for a chance to be back home for a visit and another chance to see Joe speak. An interesting side note: it was while waiting at a bus stop in Center City that I discovered who Andrew Yang was. I had asked some young people how to get to the Aikens Oval and we started talking politics. “Ever hear of Andrew Yang?” they asked me. Not surprisingly, the kids were very interested in that free $1000 a month version of “a chicken in every pot.” All joking aside, I really like Yang and hope he stays in politics. But I'm ridin' with Biden.
I do remember being pissed-off that no one would take my resume while I was in Philly. The army of “smurfs”---kids in blue Biden t-shirts said I had to submit on-line, which ensured an eternal flood of emails begging for donations. So, after the rally I stuffed my resume down one of their compost toilets, purchased a few campaign buttons from an unauthorized vendor (“Fuck Trump" “Cats Against Trump" and “I'm Ridin' With Biden”) and headed for the Patco high speed line. Whizzing along over the bridge, nestled among the Saturday shoppers, in my pretzel mustard smeared “Not A Joke" t- shirt, I peered down into the tiny backyards of the Camden neighborhoods below. I was amazed how nothing had changed in 40 years. The postage stamp lots displayed old tires strewn about, junk car parts, broken furniture, scrappy dogs, laundry hanging, and shirtless brown children bouncing whiffle balls off the back of their red brick row homes in the brilliant sunshine. I was filled with hope. It had been a good start to what would surely be an exciting 18 month journey towards returning our nation to a civilized democracy, by and for the people. I would personally participate in helping to stop a surrealistic slide down an Orwellian rabbit hole toward Kleptocracy, division, openly racist governance, and the final descent into a Vichy-style America where our duly elected officials become nothing more than sycophantic members of a political cult. This was my plan to avoid the alternative---a life dependent on anti-depressants as I headed off into my Golden Years. Staring off into the uncertain winter sky I can't bear the thought of growing old and fat with a bottle of cheap wine in my lap as “One Life To Live" drones on in the background, where once Andrea Mitchell had stared back. Consider a life where all the truth tellers have been rounded up and arrested by A.G. Barr and where Trump* perverts the Constitution even further---stretching it to allow Trump*’s third term, or even making him president for life.
*Third impeached president of the United States
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