Be the Change

His name was Donald Walker. I remember Donald’s hands because they were large and calloused from what I assumed to be many years of hard work. “Sir, can I register you to vote?” I walked up to where he was sitting at the Terminal Station bus depot where “Colored Waiting Room” is still engraved into the left face of the building. He was waiting for the bus that would carry him across town and out of my life forever. “I’m over fifty years old and I’ve never voted,” he caustically replied. “That’s a shame,” I said. “You don’t think that our society needs to change?” I inquired. He looked up at me and from under his baseball cap I could see the lines that a lifetime of disappointment, frustration, and hardship had etched into his wrinkled countenance. “My vote don’t matta. They gwine do what they gwine do nohow.” He paused and then asked, “You ain’t from around heah is you?” “No sir,” I replied. “I’m from West Chicago.” “What you doin down heah in Macon den?” he inquired. “Well sir, I’m here volunteering with the Obama campaign to register people to vote. In my short nineteen years of being alive I’ve realized that a lot of people are hungry for change but not as many are willing to work for the change that they want to see.” His silence told me that he was listening. I continued, “When I found out that there are over half a million unregistered blacks here in the state of Georgia, I knew that I had to do something to help fix that.” “So they paid fo you to get heah den,” he asked. “No sir, I’m a volunteer. They didn’t pay for me to get here and they’re not paying me to be here talking to you and the other folks out here.” He stared at me wide eyed and unflinching. “I’m here because I want to have faith in our political system,” I continued. “I believe that we have a great thing in Senator Obama. And I have faith that he’s going to fight for people like you and me and the people sitting at this bus stop. It angers me that nine out of ten of the black men that I speak to down here have spent time in prison; I’m mad that in America, black kids always attend the worst schools; I’m mad when I see how so many black people are mentally broken by circumstances that provide them with no way out and that prevent them from realizing the importance of the ballot; I want a president who will be a voice for those who are all-too often marginalized, underrepresented, and forgotten because they are poor or because they are black. That’s why I’m here.” “But you gots to be gettin’ somethin’ out of it,” he said. “Oh, I am getting something out of it sir,” I said to him smiling. “Every day that I’m here I get something out of it. And all I have to do is look at this “Colored Waiting Room” sign still stands right above us to remember that I come from a legacy of people who went to the polls knowing that they’d probably be lynched or that their families would become the victims of white violence. But they went anyway.” His cataract eyes became glazed over. At first I mistook his tears for the sweat brought about by the sweltering Georgia sun. He wiped his eyes profusely then said, “Your mouth is white.” “Sir?” I replied. “Your mouth is white” he repeated. “You been doin so much talkin’ today...you done had somethin’ to drink?” His question surprised me. “No sir” I said. “How long you been out heah?” he asked. “About four hours” I replied. “You been out heah fo’ hours and ain’t had nothin’ to drink” he said almost rhetorically. “Lemme buy you somethin’ to drink” he offered. “You don’t have to do that sir” I replied. “I’d just like you to register to vote.” The tears kept coming. “Naw, I gotta buy you somethin to drink” he insisted. He stood up and began to walk towards the station’s lobby. “Whachu want to drink?” he asked. “May I have a coke?” I asked. “Yes you may.” Donald turned his back and began to walk away. He came back a little while later and I realized only after the fizzy liquid touched my lips how thirsty I was. Coke never tasted so good to me before. “A change is gonna come Mr. Walker,” I said before walking away. “But it’s going to take all of us to make it happen.”

Mahatma Gandhi said, “Be the change that you want to see in the world.” Since being here in Macon, Georgia I have been stretched in so many different ways and have done what I would have never before thought myself capable of doing. With each day that I live to see and with every conversation that I have with people on the street, at the bus terminal, the barber shop, or the fish house, I am reminded of why I am in school. This experience has changed my life and has shown me a side of America that I have heretofore only read about. It feels incredible to be part of a movement that is so much greater than myself; I am living history. While there are some days when I want only to crawl under a rock and pretend that somehow the many problems that continue to afflict so many of America’s blacks and poor citizens, as a result of slavery’s bastard children, Racism and Jim Crow, will simply disappear with time, this experience motivates me to work even harder towards the social, political, and psychological uplift of our race.

Memoirs Part I

Working on the Obama campaign here in Macon, GA has taken me on an emotional roller coaster to say the least. We are currently placing all of our efforts into voter registration and volunteer recruitment due to the alarmingly high percentage of individuals, specifically African Americans, who are not registered to vote. There are over half a million unregistered blacks in Georgia alone and we're working hard to get as many of them registered as possible. There is something very haunting about being here in the south; before coming here I was not aware of the extent to which voter registration laws here in Georgia, specifically where I am working in Bibb County, make it difficult for blacks and for poor people to vote.

In 2002, a republican legislature mandated that individuals submit copies of their IDs with their voter registration forms. The process whereby one procures an ID is cumbersome and the Georgia Election Code enumerates a number of prerequisites that remain intentionally convoluted and ambiguous. The legislature justified this law's enactment by alleging that they would fund a city bus that would drive around to local communities where people could procure IDs with little to no hassle. As one can probably imagine, since 2002 no one has seen this bus. And yet, here in GA when one applies for a hunting license they are automatically registered to vote. In fact, one must opt out of voting when they apply for a hunting, fishing, or trapping license; it remains obvious to me which demographic this caters to.

Prior to arriving here in Georgia I failed to understand why election year after election year this state remains red; now I get it. Since 2000, the laws and the procedures surrounding voter registration have successfully suppressed both the black and the poor vote. This entire process resembles all-too closely the poll taxes and the literacy tests that historically denied blacks a place in the democratic process and that were meant to discourage many of us from realizing the importance of the ballot.

But there are many of us here, as there were back then, who are resolved not to let de jure racism prevent us from registering as many voters as we can. Many people I have encountered here have been so supportive and have donated portable copying machines which we now carry with us everywhere we do voter registration. We intend to look into Polaroid cameras, portable printers, and really anything that will allow us to reach as many people as we need to reach in order to make a difference here.