A Fighting Chance

Through it all, the volunteers kept coming out. They believed in our campaign, even when a lot of the pundits and bloggers threw cold water on our chances. We opened loads of offices around the state, all dedicated to helping people get organized, make phone calls, and knock on doors.

Vicki Kennedy called with thoughtful advice borne of years of campaigning across the state. Former governor Mike Dukakis, who was now in his late seventies, took Bruce out to show him the finer points of knocking on doors, setting a blistering pace that kept them half-running from house to house. At one home, no one answered the front door, but the governor thought perhaps someone was in the backyard. While Bruce was thinking about the laws of trespass—he’s a professor of property law and takes this sort of thing pretty seriously—the governor bounded to the side of the house and began fiddling with the gate to the backyard. Just as he got it open, a big dog came racing around the corner, barking wildly, slobber flying everywhere. The governor never missed a step. After jumping onto a small side porch, he called back over his shoulder to Bruce with the first lesson of political door knocking: “Ignore the dog. You won’t change his mind anyway.”

The people managing the volunteer effort were incredible. Mike Firestone is a high-energy guy who led a high-energy grassroots organization, and Lynda Tocci, Tracey Lewis, and Amanda Coulombe developed new strategies for turning out voters. Lauren Miller organized a creative and successful online effort as our new media director. The team leaders throughout the state were talented and innovative, and they busted their tails. Over time, tens of thousands of volunteers showed up and said, “I’m ready to work!” I think they went through a zillion boxes of Dunkin’ Donuts before they were done.

Some of our volunteers had worked for lots of campaigns, but many were first-timers. Some volunteered because they were excited about a particular issue—education, research, global warming. Some volunteered because they wanted to do their part for democracy.

And one man volunteered to honor the dead.

I was in a Springfield union hall, talking to people who had come to find out about helping out. It was cool outside, and each time someone opened the door, it let in a whoosh of cold air. I always gave a short speech and took lots of questions, but this was my favorite part of campaigning, standing around and talking with people about their lives and what changes we needed to make to build a stronger future.

The hall was crowded, and people were offering cheerful greetings. Several had asked for pictures, and we’d had fun shouting, “Win!” or “Hi, Mom!” as someone snapped the shot.

I noticed a man off to the side, maybe in his fifties. He was alone, his head down and his shoulders hunched. I reached out to him. He told me his name, and we shook hands. And then we stood quietly for a minute, still clasping hands. I moved in closer, and we shifted away from the crowd.

His face was tired. His voice was quiet, a little raspy. He said his son had graduated from college a couple of years ago with a lot of debt. The boy hadn’t been able to find a good job, and the debts just kept piling up.

The man paused and was quiet for a long time. He explained that people don’t know how that can get you down, what it does to your heart, how depressed you get. He let out a deep breath. “My son killed himself last month.”

We stood there in the cool air. I didn’t say anything. I just held his hand. Finally he said, “We are failing our children.”

I said, “I promise I’ll do my best.”

He said, “I know you will.”

And that was it. He paused, and then he walked away. I held out my hand to the next person, but I knew I would never forget him. Not ever. And I would never forget what this race was really all about.





Finding Peace

I think my campaign speeches were more somber during those months. The race was grueling, and I was still behind in the polls. Well-wishers offered advice everywhere I went. “Focus on different issues!” “Change your bumper stickers!” “Fire somebody!”

I knew the advice came from a good place, from supporters who just wanted to help me win. But the underlying anxiety was palpable. People were pouring their hearts into this campaign, and I could hear the dire prediction whispering in the winds at every pit stop and every rally: She’s going to lose. She’s going to lose.

So I worked harder. What else was there to do?

Moments of peace were treasures, offering calm in an otherwise crazy life. Bruce and I went to Easter services and Passover seders and joined in prayers in several languages. Reverend Miniard Culpepper at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church made a special effort to encourage me, and I joined him in prayer on several occasions. It felt healing to be able, even for a short while, to focus on values and to be in touch with the spirit that moved me into this race.