Man, I hate flying. I hate flying even more when I don’t have my “drugs”. I hate it even worse when I am going somewhere I have never been before. Allow me to explain. For years now, I have been anxious about flying. I didn’t used to be. I used to find flying exciting back in the “good old days”. That was prior to my trip to France. The first leg of the trip was from San Francisco Airport to New York. After we boarded the plane and pushed back from the gate, we had to pull back in. We spent about an hour on the plane before being advised that they were troubleshooting a faulty fuel valve. After about another forty-five minutes, we were advised that it was repaired. It had been caused by a "loose wire", but they assured us that it was not loose anymore. Having spent years in technical support, this was not a particularly comforting explanation. On the one hand, if it was true, had they really fixed it? Had they checked the other fuel valve wires? Or was this a generic explanation intended for us rubes who would ideally be able to relax and enjoy their flights?
It goes without saying that I did not relax and enjoy my flight. Or any flight since. The combination of that event and my carefully honed hearing skills, fine tuned during years in the Navy where I was always listening for something that didn’t sound quite right, mean that I spend the entire flight time anticipating something going wrong. For that flight, it was any change in the engine pitch that would indicate that the wire had come loose again. As my flying has continued, my imagination has run wild in terms of trying to interpret any noise as a sign of something grim on the horizon. This is literally hell for me on long flights as I try to fight off a constantly pending anxiety attack by reasoning with myself.
A few years ago, I got a prescription for anti-anxiety medication that makes flying a breeze. I simply seem to forget to be afraid. This is a wonderful development. The downside, however, and yes, there is always a downside, is that I forget other things as well. One example of this occurred on a trip to Singapore. My trip had been unexpected and I had some major work that I needed to complete during my time away. Specifically, I had a big executive presentation that I had to prepare to present upon my return and I hadn’t started on it. I took my meds an hour before the flight, as directed, and the rest was a blur. When I got to Singapore, the tasks at hand were not conducive to me developing my presentation. I put it off for a few days until I ran out of time, and had to get it done the night before my return. Since it had already been a long day, I was dreading this prospect and I sat down wearily at my computer. When I booted up Power Point, there was a message on the left side bar asking if I wanted to recover a file. The file in question was the presentation that I was about to begin working on. What the heck? I opened it and reviewed it page by page. It was a great presentation! The only thing I can figure is that I had done the presentation during my flight to Singapore. Why I hadn’t saved it, I can only guess. Maybe my battery died before I could save it. Maybe I fell asleep before I saved it and my battery died. In either case, I was relieved, but at the same time concerned that this could happen without me being aware of it or remembering it.
My return flight was equally worrisome. When I got home, I could not remember anything about my trip. My last memory was sitting in a massage chair in the Singapore Airport immediately before popping my pills. I tried to remember the flight but I couldn’t remember anything. I couldn’t remember arriving in San Francisco and going through Customs. I couldn’t remember picking up my bags, but I had. I couldn’t remember anything at all about my drive home. I felt the need to go downstairs and check for any damage to my Camaro which would indicate that I had been involved in an accident. Phew, nothing to worry about there. My last surprise was when I was getting ready to wash my clothes and I found a ticket stub in my pocket. Apparently I had been upgraded to Business Class. What a waste! While I joke that these pills could come in very handy after a really bad day, who couldn’t use a memory wipe from time to time, they have felt less like a blessing and more like a deal with the Devil.
Anyway, that is a long-form way of saying that I forgot my pills for this flight and was not provided the option of whether or not to take the Devil’s deal or not. That is normally when I resort to my second coping mechanism. What I do is to try to picture myself arriving at my destination. I do believe, in my irrational brain, that this makes a difference. Scientific folk, a.k.a. those who are a lot smarter than me, may say that what I am doing is choosing my parallel universe in which I live through the ordeal in some quantum manipulation of space and time. So far it has worked so I guess that is evidence, huh. On the day that it doesn’t work, I will admit that I am wrong about it. This is a good mental trick, but it only works if I have been somewhere. This is critical to me being able to create the mental picture of arriving. If I can’t picture the airport, it doesn’t work. I have never been to Columbus, Ohio before so I had two strikes against me.
The third strike came in the form of my seat-neighbor. Why is it that I always get the guy who lacks any sense of personal space? It is always the annoying jerk who insists on overlapping the armrest and touching my arm. Today, this jack-ass also had the complete lack of decency in other areas as well. When he was handing his empty cup to the stewardess, for example, he dropped ice cubes on my computer. He clearly saw this, but it took this imbecile a full ninety seconds to recognize that he should apologize, and then go back to being a seat hog. I am so sick and tired of these folks. Civility truly is a lost art and the majority of the population are clearly not aficionados.
I shouldn’t complain. If the objective of travel is to arrive at your destination, I had at least made it half-way as I stepped off the plane in Dallas, Texas. I couldn’t wait to meet my next seat-mate! In the meantime, I struggled to find an airport restaurant without the word “Grill” in the name and finally found a veggie wrap at the far end of the Terminal D concourse.
As luck would have it, I was assigned a center seat which meant boarding the plane and spending the next several minutes wondering whether I would be sandwiched between two people or whether I would be spared. This is an exercise in hope and, in most cases, disappointment. That was the case today. Fortunately, it was a short flight at just over two hours so it was bearable. The only annoyance with this flight is the fact that people blow off the “Fasten Seat Belt” light so prodigiously. I don’t know why this bothers me so much, but it does. If nasty glares could injure, I would probably have a very guilty conscience. As it is, I should feel guilty for letting something so petty get to me. I guess it all comes back to the civility and adherence to rules. Maybe I am too old to change now.
When the plane arrived at the gate, it seemed to take forever to deplane. My bladder was stressed and I could suddenly empathize with what may cause someone to ignore the “Fasten Seatbelts” light. With various starts and stops, the human cattle in front of me shuffled their way forward and the flying experience was over. I was proud of myself for flying without a “safety net”. Of course, these flights had been pretty calm and smooth. We will have to wait to see how the return flight goes if there is more chop and excitement.
As I strolled down the jet way to baggage claim, I wasn’t sure whether I was going to be met by someone or not so I kept an eye out for any signs with my name, or anything vaguely resembling my name. After running the gauntlet of folks waiting for their loved ones and not seeing anyone on the look-out for me, I made my way to the rental car area. I am not sure what is going on in Columbus this week, but apparently there is something because there seemed to be no cars available at the normal agencies that I would use. I ended up settling for a Dollar Rental car, although they need to change their name to “One Hundred and Fifty Dollar Rental Cars”. It was obvious that they were taking advantage of the shortage to gouge any unfortunate customers left without an alternate means of conveyance. I was tempted to point out the price gouging and the questionable ethics behind it, when I decided better of it. As it turned out, I got a “discounted rate” of one hundred and twenty dollars a day which hardly made the sting any less severe.
My exorbitant rental cost did not entitle me to a map, so I was very glad that I had thought to bring my GPS with me. These devices fall into the category of useful technology, in my book, unlike Blackberries, iWhatsits, and most of the crap that only clutters our already crazed and manic lives. After working through some satellite precision issues which placed my car in the middle of a field rather than in a parking lot, I was on my way to the hotel. The Columbus Days Inn Fairgrounds seemed like a nice enough place. It was the type of hotel that I would normally pick to stay in on my own dime. It resides in the same luxury level as the Orland Inn. It’s nice enough that you can sleep under the covers, but lacks anything in terms of fancy amenities, including an internet connection. This was going to be a problem. While I had remembered to bring a lot of stuff, I had counted on being able to access my e-mail to get David’s contact information. David was my point of contact for this trip and I had no way of reaching him, unless he called me.
In desperation, I asked the clerk at the desk if he knew how I could reach the Farm Sanctuary team who was at the hotel. He was familiar with them and decided to provide me with David’s number. Almost immediately, I could tell he regretted this decision since it was clearly a breach of protocol. He made a point of mentioning that a couple times, so I decided to call David from the lobby so that the clerk could overhear my call and be relieved that I was not a stalker or anything of the sort.
When David answered, we chatted for a couple of minutes. Apparently, the early morning routine had been replaced with a late day routine which had proven more successful and they were still out and about somewhere. He told me that they would be meeting the following morning at eleven thirty and that we would then head to the office in Columbus before receiving our assignments for the day. I could tell he was otherwise engaged, so I let him go, but asked if we could meet before the next morning. Whenever I am meeting new people, I always prefer to have some contact before the meeting. That way when I walk into a room, I know whether or not the people I see are the ones I am looking for or not. He told me they would be back at around eleven and since that was only eight Pacific Time, I told him I was sure I would be up and about still.
When I met David later that night, he was very cordial. As with most of the folks I meet in the movement, he is younger than me, by at least ten years I would guess. He gave me some information about how the campaign was going and some of the tactics that had been tried and adapted. For example, the first uniform of Polo shirts had not been successful so a more casual approach had been implemented. Patriotic shirts were good, animal activism shirts were out of the question. As we discussed the “camouflage”, I couldn’t help but recognize that I probably represent a very different path to the movement that David’s. As he talked about the patriotic T-shirts, it was clear that this was a disguise for him and potentially one that was very at odds with his world view. I don’t want to generalize since he and I do not know each other, so let me be clear that this is my first impression and it may be subject to revision later in this chapter. For me, the concepts of sincere patriotism and animal rights could co-exist easily, even with a dash of conservative values tossed into the mix. In fact, in my mind, it is the patriotic individuals among us who have paved the way for the civil discourse that we were currently engaged in. Having spent eight and a half years in the Navy, I didn’t see much difference between that and the crusade for animal rights. They both involve making personal sacrifices with the goal of safeguarding those who need protecting. I guess the bottom line is that when I go to Walmart in the morning to get my “Ohio camouflage”, I will be able to wear it without feeling like I am compromising my integrity in any way. I think that Farm Sanctuary could learn a lot from people like me. I suspect that among some, someone with my background may be seen as the enemy rather than an ally who has heard and understood the call to arms.
In a way, I think it is important to look at ourselves as tools. There are times when you need a blunt tool and there are times when you need a precision tool. I tend to see myself more as the latter, which will be a challenge for me in a situation like this. Here in Ohio, it is about speed. It is about getting as many legitimate signatures as possible in the allotted time. It is less about conversion. It is less about influence. It is very impulsive. My experience to date has been the opposite. In my dealings with family, friends, and co-workers, it has been about establishing a position of integrity and sincerity, building a reputation of strong character. On top of this, I have layered my beliefs. Everyone I work with knows about my Veganism and my commitment to farm animals. Even people in Germany and Asia ask me about how my volunteering is going. My cubicles walls are plastered with adoption photos and pictures of me with my animal friends. Until recently when the company policy changed, I also had brochures at my desk, although I must admit I probably only ever moved five of them. I am the guy who takes great pride when someone comes to him with questions about his diet and why. I enjoy discussing cruelty-free life choices, even if it only involves moving someone to a less cruel alternative. I love it when people e-mail me that they are making changes to their lives. I am thrilled when someone asks me for recommendations for going Vegan, as was the case when the director for the WBRC asked me last Friday.
I had a particularly proud moment last week when one of my co-workers stopped by to chat. He had recently been in New York for his niece’s wedding. He had never met the groom, but over the course of dinner the night before the wedding, he had mentioned that he worked for a farm animal sanctuary in New York. My co-worker remarked that a year ago, this would have been something that may have creeped him out a bit, but since he knew me and my commitment to the same cause, somehow it felt right. By association, the groom must be a good guy.
These are the ways that I have tried to be an ambassador. “Message T-shirt Fridays”, my Farm Sanctuary water bottle that accompanies me to every meeting, my cubicle decorations, my computer desktop with pictures of farm animals which I purposely leave up whenever I am giving a presentation, all of these things are about branding and association. If people like me, if people trust me, if people look up to me as an example, they will be more receptive to things that they may not otherwise be willing to consider. I haven’t converted all of the heathens by a long shot, but I think this has been very successful. It takes time, however, and this is not a luxury here. I will have to be able to disengage from conversations and focus less of quality and more on quantity.
In the morning, I stopped by Walmart to get some “America-ware” to help me to blend in. Fifteen dollars bought me three shirts to choose from. While it was not intended as a deception, I had to concede that it would be less likely to cause adverse reactions than my standard fare. Standing out is not a good thing when you are rallying support.
When the time came to leave, we headed over to the office. There were about nine of us at the hotel and luckily there were two cars. The ride to the office was brief with a stop at Starbucks. My lack of interest in morning coffee was viewed as odd, so I had to explain my “caffeine-free” choice a couple of times. I guess I could have honestly stated that I just don’t like coffee, but I didn’t. In a way, I am proud of the fact that I have overcome this addiction. In another way, I am proud of the fact that I have set aside money from my various addictions to donate to the farm. Maybe I was hoping that this example may prompt others to do the same, but I don’t think it did.
At the office, there was a quick huddle before everyone was cast out to their respective canvassing areas. I was going to do residential areas with David, Lisa, and Kim. I met Kim briefly at the hotel and I can’t get over how familiar she looks. I can’t say exactly where I know her from, but while I suck at remembering names, I am good at recalling faces. When I asked her about this, she revealed that she had been at the Thanksgiving for the Turkeys last year in Orland. While it is quite possible that I remember her from there, I don’t think that is it. I will have to check this out when I get home. Maybe she was in one of the brochures or newsletters. My need to know will drive me to find the answer.
We were heading out to Clinton County for our workday. As we got away from Columbus, the Ohio laid out before us began to morph more into what I had expected before my arrival. There were lots of fields of corn and other miscellaneous crops. This was farm country. Our trip suffered its first set-back when one of the other cars carrying volunteers had a fender bender on the interstate. Fortunately, no one was hurt on either side. While the damage was minimal, this opened the door for a lot of paperwork and a police report. The rest of us waited in the car while David supervised the data collection. It was nice to chat for a bit and get to know my fellow volunteers.
Kim is also from the Bay Area and she works for In Defense of Animals, a non-profit. Prior to that, she was a paralegal, looking for something of more import. She decided to train as a veterinary technician and specializes in birds, for whom she is particularly fond. She was a really sweet lady and I enjoyed hearing her story. I hope that I have the chance to meet up with her again at some point, either at the farm or at another event like this.
Lisa is attending law school and is involved with CoK, another non-profit. She is younger, probably twenty-three and was experiencing her first foray into work as part of her schooling. She discussed many of the challenges faced by lawyers as they try to sift through volumes of legal information for nuggets of relevant precedence. I reserved being judgmental, although the discussion only seemed to affirm my belief that the legal profession exists only to deal with a society that lacks accountability and for whom loopholes and excuses have become a science. She was also really nice though, and I enjoyed getting to know her better. The only downside was that my neck felt like it was going to twist off since she was in the backseat and I had to keep my neck craned to maintain eye contact.
We arrived at our first destination about thirty minutes or so after we got back on the road. This was it! Our baptism by fire would occur here in a mobile home park. At David’s recommendation, we would be starting at the far end of the court. After a lot of jockeying regarding how we would proceed, would it be in singles, in pairs, as a group, we decided to pair up. Lisa and I mentally psyched ourselves up and approached the first house.
As we walked up, I could feel a little bit of nervousness in my stomach. I hadn’t really rehearsed a script and I was worried that I would get tangled up in my words as I tried to rattle them off in rapid fire mode. After struggling to get an answer, the door was opened by a young man who called for his mother. After going through the spiel, we found ourselves batting one-hundred to start. It was a really good feeling to have.
The next house was also a success. Once we pointed out that we were campaigning for farm animals, the gentleman became less agitated about the fact that he traps and kills “nuisance” animals. Since the objective was to get support, via signatures, and not to judge, alienate, or offend, we didn’t argue the humane nature of trapping and killing animals that were clearly driven to his yard by his own behavior. While he stated a love for squirrels, the fact that his raccoon/skunk trap was in close proximity to the feed he laid out for the squirrels either completely escaped him or he enjoyed trapping and killing them as a byproduct. In any case, he was eager to talk about his distaste for blackbirds and other animals who he felt abused his car. We slowly, but surely, extricated ourselves from this uncomfortable conversation in a manner that was intended not to be rude. We were off to a great start and suddenly those thirteen signatures that we all had to get seemed like it would be a breeze. That euphoria would not last long.
The next couple houses were no-shows. We chose to believe that no-one was home rather than accept that people probably just wouldn’t answer the door for us. This belief system was seriously challenged by the fact that we could hear the television from at least one of the homes. We didn’t have the time to keep knocking and waiting, so we kept moving on. The next door would be answered by a woman who stated, “I don’t speak English” in perfect English, albeit with a slight Russian accent. We must stay positive, we told ourselves, as I questioned inside whether I was really cut out for this. I had thought that the rejection would be easy to take with a grain of salt, but it wasn’t. While I said the right things to Lisa, inside it was difficult. My only past experience like this had been going door to door offering to cut lawns or selling candy bars for fund-raisers. Rejection in that context was frustrating, especially because I was young at the time, but it wasn’t like having your belief system rejected. This was a whole new thing. When people won’t give you thirty seconds to communicate something that is vitally important to you, it hurts.
That was then compounded when Lisa ran into a couple who I will refer to as the “mean patio wenches” (Hey, that’s fair since I don’t know their names). They were apparently very rude and adamant that we had no right to be here. Since the office for the complex was closed, we had not been able to ask permission and we worried that this would end up in an escalation if we continued. When Lisa told me what had happened, we moved on to another area to avoid provoking anything further. This road wasn’t working out that well anyway. We had each struck out about a half dozen times in a row.
Starting on a new road yielded little in terms of progress. Several folks would let you get all the way through your pitch before saying that either they weren’t interested, wouldn’t support, or had friends or families who were farmers and didn’t see any problems with what they were doing. The opportunity to counter this with appreciation for these cases but a request to extend the same dignity to all animals state-wide, was seldom presented. After another door was answered by someone questioning our right to be here, it was becoming clear that our time was coming to an end at the trailer park. I was fortunate enough to end on a high note when I ran into a couple who were cleaning one of the homes and they were willing to sign on. In this case, it involved me entering the house which was not encouraged, but since they were an elderly couple and since he needed a firm surface to write on, I felt it was worth pursuing. This would also be the first time of the day when someone would thank me for doing what we were doing. The rejections and cold shoulders suddenly melted away.
By now, all of us, with the exception of Kim, had been asked to leave so we let her do a couple more homes before loading up and moving on. There was some other drama transpiring as it seemed that one of the volunteers on another team may have some bipolar tendencies. From what we could overhear, this had shown itself the previous day when she had launched into a vicious tirade against one of the volunteer coordinators and it sounded like it had happened again. Since David had to deal with this, he dropped us off in a residential area to continue our work. Lisa and Kim were racking up signatures as we started, but I struck out on the first two tries. The first home was very pro-farming status quo. The second door was never answered. These non-answers were taking up a lot of time since I felt compelled to wait and wait to ensure that I didn’t seem rude if someone answered later. The fact that the houses were practically side by side would make it particularly awkward if someone answered while I had moved on to their neighbor. The third door was answered by a woman who didn’t seem very interested at first. I hate to generalize, but she was well dressed and well-spoken so I tried a different tactic. While it would take longer than we were supposed to spend, I thought she may be more receptive if she were allowed to read the text of the petition and requested amendment to the Ohio constitution. It turned out I was right. After a couple of minutes while she read, she was happy to sign on and, for the second time of the day, I was thanked for what we were doing. While I was still well under the necessary thirteen, I was re-energized.
I picked up a few more signatures as we moved down the street to an apartment complex. When we arrived there, I was fortunate enough to pick up some more. The folks at the apartments seemed more receptive than their counterparts down the road in the houses. There were a number of younger mothers with their children and they were very willing to sign on. I was up to eight signatures for Clinton County and one for Warren County, on different sheets of course, since this is required by the rules.
When David returned with the “difficult volunteer”, we were wrapping up at the apartments and readying to move on. Kim had developed a blister on the side of her foot and was asking if anyone had any band-aids. I hoped that I would still have some in my backpack since I had packed several for my Mission Peak hike, but I was out of them. Something told me that I could find some down the street, so I started walking along the side of the road for about half a block before I ran into a small clinic. I figured it was worth a try and the receiving nurse was very accommodating. I left with a handful of band-aids which helped extend Kim’s day without unnecessary discomfort. Despite the reception that we had received at many of the doors, the people in Ohio generally seemed very nice.
Throughout the afternoon, I had questioned whether being out in the sun was a good idea. My tattoo was definitely healing, but all the sunscreen that I was lathering on it didn’t seem to alleviate the feeling that it was getting burnt. I did my best to stay out of the sun and to position my body so that the sun would not hit the back of my leg. I was glad that I had brought a lot of balm and sunscreen with me and hoped it would be enough.
We received notification that we only needed another fourteen signatures between us in order to hit our targets. We hoped that the next street would yield those signatures. Privately, I hoped that I would at least be able to get my thirteen. That meant I needed to get four more quickly. I had a promising lead when one car pulled up and asked what we were up to. I chatted with the lady for a couple minutes before she made a shaky commitment to think about it and moved on. Another lady let me walk with her while I explained what we were collecting signatures for, but she would also only commit to think about it. Time was ticking down, so I resumed the door to door operation. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. Strike four. This was not going how I had planned and there was only one more house on the street we were working. When I knocked on the door, a woman answered and she cheerfully agreed to sign on. Equally importantly, she said her husband would sign as well, so I went inside to meet him. He was a friendly guy and when he passed it to his son, I was feeling like I might actually make my target. When his son passed it to his daughter, I thought I was home free. As I looked closer at her though, I became alarmed because she looked like she was probably fourteen. Knowing that the petition had some strongly worded warnings about people signing without being registered voters, I had to ask whether she was registered to vote. To my pleasant surprise, she was. I joked about how much I missed the days when people would mistake me for younger than my actual years and it felt less awkward. With the stroke of her pen, I had my thirteen signatures for Clinton County and a bonus one for Warren Country. While I don’t think any of us got as many signatures as the folks working the commercial districts, we had all done our best and contributed to the cause.
As I walked out of the house, David announced that we were done for the day. Talk about finishing at the buzzer! We rounded up the rest of the troops and began the drive back to the hotel. We had some interesting discussions along the way, and it was nice to hear about some of the “behind the scenes” activities and personalities at Farm Sanctuary. It was later than I thought when we got back to the hotel, and after a long, and long overdue talk to my brother on the phone, I grabbed dinner and got ready for bed. Tomorrow would be a short day, due to my travel plans, but I was really hoping to get some more accomplished.
Day two got off to a late start on account of more drama from the unnamed problem child of this volunteer endeavor. While I waited for that to be resolved, my attention was drawn to a nest of birds on one of the hotel support columns. They were very noisy and I watched as one bird would leave and return with a mouthful of food which he would deposit atop the nest. This repeated several times before I climbed the stairs to try to see the other birds, who were clearly audible. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a few of them. There appeared to be a mother and some older “baby birds”. I say older because they looked more like miniature versions of their parents than the typically scrawny baby bird. As I watched this transpire over the course of half an hour, I was struck by the delicacy of this little microcosm of life. The birds in the nest were clearly dependent upon their provider, who kept flying off to remote locations for food. If he were to get injured, say hit by a car or eaten by a bird or shot with a BB gun by some jackass, the lives of the birds in the nest would be imperiled. It seemed eerily similar to the human experience where there is a transaction between providers and beneficiaries. I couldn’t help but recast some of the people I had met yesterday in these roles. It had been shocking to have a woman answer the door, only to defer immediately to her husband as the apparent decision maker. This seemed very archaic to me, although this could just be because I view this through glasses colored by California progressiveness, but it was still bizarre. What happens to these women when their man dies or becomes dependent on them? Do they die too, or do they step up to try to survive? After decades of deference, can they recover and do they possess any survival skills of their own? Obviously I know that birds and people are very different, but while the relationship seemed beautiful to behold when displayed by the birds, it was more than a little disturbing with humans.
After a while of wondering where the steady stream of crickets and other insects were coming from (Probably “over yonder” in the local dialect), we saddled up in our respective Dodge Calibers for the ride to the office. David and I had both been grossly overcharged for these cars with their poor gas mileage and unbelievable blind-spot on the left side. His was burnt orange colored and mine would be best approximated as blood orange. Following him to the office was an adventure. I had grown to like David during our short time together, but his ability to lead a convoy of cars, even the smallest one that can qualify as a convoy, leaves a lot to be desired. Kim had come along for the ride in my car since David’s was full and I was determined not to let us get lost.
Once we got to the office, things transpired in a similar fashion to the previous day. Folks circulated in and out and we received our assignments. We were going to Pickaday County today. This was not the first attempt to harvest signatures here, but they still needed about six-hundred and forty to get to a ten percent level for the county. It was about an hour drive there and I drove again so that I could have the ability to depart when necessary to get to my flight. As Kim and I sat in the car, we joked about how the California lifestyle had tainted us and caused us to lose our patience. Sitting and waiting with minutes ticking by, minutes that were very limited in my case, was truly an exercise for both of us. When we finally pulled out, it was only a few minutes before we stopped again, for gas this time.
When we arrived in Circleville, our destination in Pickaday County, we flooded a local gas station for bathrooms and then hit the streets. Today it was David, Lisa, Kim, Cameron, Sam, and I. Sam was another recently arrived volunteer so she shadowed David for a bit while the rest of us fanned out. While yesterday had focused on more urban housing areas and trailer parks, today we were in suburbia. As we glanced around at the houses, I think we all suspected that people with houses like these would probably not be sitting at home on a Friday. Odds were they would be working to afford the mortgages.
Cameron and I took one street and we each walked down opposite sides. My suspicions were confirmed when very few folks came to the doors. Like yesterday, this ate up time due to the need to wait to confirm that no one was coming. I had what I thought was a lucky streak when a few younger women answered and were supportive of the message, but it turned out that they were not registered voters. While I can’t fault them since I am just recently registered, it wasn’t helping my tally. I hit about ten houses before getting my first receptive person who was actually registered. The first one was an elderly woman who was a little confused at first, but eventually warmed to the idea. The second, and unfortunately last signature for me for the day, was another older woman with a dog. “Hello, my name is Brian and I am a volunteer for Ohians for Humane Farms. I am gathering signatures from registered voters for a ballot measure to prevent cruelty to farm animals. Would you be willing to support us?” After chatting for a while about her dog and my dog, she signed and I navigated her sidewalk lined with flowers and dog sculptures.
After that, it was strike after strike for me in the form of more non-registereds, non-answerers, under-aged, and vehemently opposed. I felt a little embarrassed when I turned in my sheet, but in the grand scheme of things, two signatures is two more signatures for the cause. Things like this aren’t supposed to be easy. I buoyed my spirits by telling myself that I had prevented others in the party from having to deal with some jerky, in more ways than one, old men and by virtue of my bad luck of the draw, I had assumed most of the empty houses leaving others with more promising prospects.
So, what did I learn from this trip? First, I learned that there are more nice people in the movement that I have yet to meet. This is a good thing. Second, I learned that my success rate seems to be best among women with dogs. While guys with dogs could still be counted on to be insensitive, the women were uniformly compassionate and accepting and often thanked me for what I was doing. I guess the third thing that I learned is that I can control my temper pretty well. I am good at this at work and at home, but in both of those environments I feel that it is required of me. Out here, there were plenty of times when I wouldn’t have minded giving some of the old men a piece of my mind. It didn’t make me particularly proud of my Y chromosome, that’s for sure. This is probably why people look at male Vegans a little different since it is somewhat of an exception for men to be in touch with their compassionate sides. I am glad that I kept my cool, at least figuratively since I wasn’t physically. Whether I like them or not, these are fellow people who are nothing but the product of their upbringings and environments. There was a good chance that many of them had retired from farming after a lifetime of depending on it. There was also a strong chance that there were aspects of it that they may have numbed themselves to or were not particularly proud of. Modern farming is an inherently dehumanizing process that must crush the spirits of all but the most ardent animal hater. If I assume, I think correctly, that the number of true animal haters out there are an extreme minority, the rest of the folks involved are forced to rationalize what they do or have done by whatever means necessary. A thirty second exchange at their door is not going to crack that shell, but I am glad to have tried. This baptism of fire and rejection only serves to strengthen my resolve and, if the Ohio Constitutional amendment initiative makes it on the ballot, I can honestly say that I was there doing my part. And now I can feel like I have made my amends for not being involved in Proposition 2 in California.
