Porch
Politics
Going
door to door with Araminta Hawkins.
Story
and photos by
Nate Puckett
It's a bright, crisp Sunday afternoon in north Eugene,
and Araminta Hawkins has on her walking shoes. The Democratic Party
candidate for state representative is tracking down registered voters,
one front door at a time.
"I usually remember to bring a bag of dog biscuits,"
says Hawkins as she bounds up some front porch steps with practiced
ease. "To some people, those are their children."
Yes, she has all the angles covered. Hoping to represent
the newly created House District 14 — which encompasses the
Bethel area, Junction City, and parts of north and west Eugene —
Hawkins exudes the grounded confidence of the valedictorian who studied
for the art final, just in case.
She has knocked on a lot of doors lately.
"I don't know how often people have asked me if I'm
a Jehovah's Witness," she laughs in between houses. "There's really
no graceful way to answer that."
Going door-to-door may seem archaic in this impersonal
age of tinted windows and mass media conglomerates, an act better
suited to Fuller Brush salesmen in straw hats or earnest Mormons.1
But Hawkins believes it's the best way to garner support.
So she is cheerfully optimistic as she works her way
down the street, shaking hands with whoever happens to be home and
leaving a note for anyone who isn't. A string of no-shows leaves her
unfazed.
Earlier, she had parked her white minivan in front
of a house with a sign prominently mounted in the front window:
NO SOLICITORS
SALESMEN
OR
RELIGIOUS ADVOCATES
Omens be damned; this is a good place to park.
The candidate gathers her stack of pro-Araminta literature,
makes sure she has her backup pen and hits the asphalt. The sign-sporting
house doesn't shelter any registered voters; Hawkins knows this because
she is armed with a detailed list of names and addresses provided
by the Democratic Party. The list rests in her clipboard like a sacred
text: referred to often, adhered to faithfully.
The list says the sign-sporting house doesn't exist.
For the purposes of getting elected, it doesn't — and even though
Hawkins insists her walks are designed to gather feedback, not just
votes, from potential constituents, she also knows there are plenty
of doors with voters behind them. In her experience, most of them
have something they'll want to talk about. There's feedback, and then
there's Feedback.
"I do get wonderful surprises, all the time," she
says. "Meeting so many people around here, you really learn what their
concerns are … but you can never assume you know where someone
stands. They'll surprise you."
Regardless of whether or not a registered voter surprises
Hawkins, she notes what their concerns are, using a personal shorthand
she's developed since she began canvassing the district in April.
When she gets home, she often writes follow-up notes to residents,
outlining her approach to the issues they mentioned. She even has
a rating system, on a scale of one to five ("Four means they're getting
a little cranky"), indicating how supportive each person seems to
be. It all adds up to about 40 hours of work during "slow weeks" and
as many as 80 in the crunch.
And, yes, she has a day job.2
"You have to earn the right to represent the
community," says Hawkins. "You can never assume you're entitled to
such an important job. You have to earn it, and that's what I'm doing."
Journalists, however, are another story — they
can spend a few hours following a candidate around and then, with
a straight face, submit the Complete Profile. And readers have it
even easier, because instead of an exhaustive breakdown that faithfully
conveys the hard-labor, toil-and-drudgery aspect of any serious campaign,
they get the game show treatment: three illustrative accounts of Araminta
Hawkins' thousands-of-doors odyssey.
Let's play!
 |
| TRAINSONG
NEIGHBORHOOD BLACKSMITH CONRAD HODSON MANS HIS RETIREMENT PROJECT. |
Door
Number One
The Trainsong neighborhood near Highway
99 seems to specialize in front-yard clutter. Half-fixed machinery
abounds, although the cumulative result is one of personality rather
than trashiness. A faceless suburb this ain't, and Hawkins appears
to relish finding a path to each front door.
One house has what nautical experts refer to as a
"big-ass boat" occupying most of the front yard. A smaller vehicle
with four wheels and a "Thank You For Not Breeding" bumper sticker
completes the ensemble. Hawkins locates the entrance, knocks, and
a bearded man with a "Squash the State" T-shirt opens the door.
This, it turns out, is Conrad Hodson, a local blacksmith
(true) who professes his admiration for Hawkins' endurance.
"Going door-to-door, man, that's a bitch of a job,"
he says before agreeing to pose for a picture in his someday-to-be-complete
boat. His wife chats with Hawkins as he surveys the neighborhood from
his deck.
Hawkins' signature question, the one she makes sure
to ask every voter she comes across, is: What one issue would you
like to see me concentrate on if I'm elected? When she asks Hodson,
he grins at her like a man who knows he's got something unexpected
up his sleeve.
"I would like to see a substantial tax increase,"
he says. They both break into laughter; even though Hodson is serious,
both voter and candidate recognize the singularity of such an interaction.
"I don't hear that one very often," says Hawkins.
She departs a few minutes later, having heard the skipper-to-be's
spiel on tax whiners and budget shortfalls. No promise of a tax hike
was made, but hey, you can't please everybody.
Door
Number Two
This porch is capital-R Ramshackle. Part
of it is covered; Hawkins knocks on the outermost door. Immediately,
a dog starts barking. It sounds like a big, mean dog, and combined
with the house's peeling paint, blackberry-bushed front yard, and
general aforementioned capital-R-ness, the scene is not one of harmonious
reception.
After a long lapse, the door swings open and a tall,
grizzled man walks out.
The dog is on his heels; he picks it up. It is not
a big dog; it is actually kind of cute, in a very loud sort of way.
Hawkins introduces herself; if she felt any reservations about this
address she gives no indication. There is, after all, a lot of work
to be done, and this house is a tiny portion of that work, and she's
going to do it right now.
Yes, those were her fliers she sent earlier. Yes,
she will be at the upcoming neighborhood meeting. Yes, yes, yes.
 |
| ARAMINTA
HAWKINS, CAMPAIGN MANAGER SHAKTI HAWKINS (NO RELATION), AND OREGON
NURSES ASSOCIATION REPRESENTATIVE MARTIN TAYLOR. |
Then the signature question: What one issue would
you …
Immediately, the man launches into a detailed and
convoluted tale involving a run-in with the police. He carries a pistol
all the time, you see, but he has a concealed weapons permit, but
they don't care if he does, and his friend got pepper-sprayed. This
continues for some while.
Hawkins can't get in much of a response; this registered
voter has hit his narrative stride — when he tried to file an
official complaint, you see, they wouldn't take one — so she
just listens and makes sympathetic murmuring sounds. Eventually, they
agree that what the man wants is some sort of citizen oversight of
the Sheriff's Department.
But Hawkins is in no hurry to make an escape. "I think
I know your daughter," she says, looking at her list, and indeed she
does. The man is pleased. The dog has finally grown quiet. The candidate,
unfazed to the core, departs amiably, making sure not to step on any
of the junk surrounding the house.
Door
Number Three
… is answered by a little boy who
can't be older than four years. A television blares in the background.
More residents cluster around the front door.
A slightly older, more solemn child watches Hawkins
introduce herself; she takes care to say hello to the kids as well.
One of the adults takes a flier.
Not all members of the household appear to speak English
fluently, but Hawkins is content to smile and offer fliers and watch
the children, who are fun to watch — they are not the brand
of screechy spawn a candidate has to pretend s/he finds adorable.
Inside, the house seems a little harried, even chaotic, and it's a
while before Hawkins can find someone to spring the What one issue
question on.
When she asks a middle-aged woman, a profoundly depressing
result occurs. The woman can't come up with anything. She doesn't
know what she wants, but her general demeanor suggests she is far
from content with the current state of affairs.
"Mom," she calls into the other room, "what do you
want 'em to work on? Up in Salem?"
"I want those," the smaller child burbles,
smiling, toddling toward some cigarette butts off to the side of the
porch. No one notices. He doesn't care if, as some members of the
press insist on informing him, the butts are icky. He grins. He'll
wait for some other chance.
Eventually, a consensus emerges from within: health
care.3
This house wants Araminta Hawkins, candidate for state representative,
House District 14, to focus on health care. She says no problem.
Final
Round
Nov. 5 will mark the end of Hawkins' walk-a-thon,
one way or another. It's a true fire vs. frying-pan scenario: She'll
either lose to Republican Pat Farr in a hard-fought race, or be put
to work on a budget crunch that has grown both contentious and unwieldly.
Not that she sees it that way. Although she's never
run for public office, Hawkins has led campaigns for five different
school funding measures out of her own home. She is determined to
make a difference in her neighborhood; she's looking forward to increasing
her impact.
"I have this hopefulness," she says. "I'm used to
dealing with big budgets, with spending other people's money …
fiscally, I'm really conservative. I'll do just fine."
Then she takes a look at her clipboard, scans a few
houses ahead and picks up the pace just a little.
1 And, yes, the Jehovah's
Witnesses. Wouldn't want to lump all our religious marketeers together.
[BACK]
2 Administrator at Sacred
Heart Medical Center, the same hospital in which she was born.
[BACK]
3 This issue and "education"
are the two most common responses Hawkins has received. [BACK]
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