I just received an email from Jon Carson, National Field Director of Obama for America. The opening line:

“Bree --

I've never asked you to make a donation before.”

Well, Jon, I hate to be the one to say it, but that’s just not true. You’ve asked me many times to make a donation. I get emails from all manner of people—you included—asking me to make a donation. The first time I went to Barackobama.com, I was asked to make a donation. Every subsequent time I’ve been to the site, I’m asked to make a donation.  Sometimes I wonder if “Change we can believe in” should be translated to “Change we can retrieve in…your donation.”

It’s not that I don’t believe my donation is valuable. In fact at this point, I’m fairly convinced it’s invaluable, as much as they’re needling me for it. I just find it a little vexing that, once I finally succumbed to peer pressure and did give a donation, they started rewarding donors with free T-shirts…the next day. The moral of this story: give money too early, you get a thank you email and a warm feeling inside. Hold out for a while, and you get free merchandise that actually keeps you, like, warm.

I don’t hold it against Jon. I like his friendly emails, and for the most part, I believe his message.

“Every day I see firsthand how much more we could do,” he says, “and how far your donation will go.”

I understand what Jon is trying to say. But however far my donation may go, it’s going to come right back at me in the form of another email, asking for another donation.

It’s better than a boomerang.

I brushed two rapid streaks of peachy blush onto my cheeks and gave myself a once-over in the rearview mirror. Twenty minutes before, I had flown out of the gym and into my car, trying desperately to make it to this meeting by 8. Now I felt strangely nervous, like a kid who’s just gotten a haircut on the first day of school. Would I fit in with everyone else? Or was I about to stick out worse than a headful of dreadlocks at boot camp?

Grabbing my laptop, I jumped out of my car and skipped down the street.

I was attending a local canvassing meeting. While eagerly checking out my candidate’s website the night before, I had punched in my local zip code to see the events in my area. After scanning the options, I found just what I wanted—a low-key meeting where different ways to get involved with the campaign would be discussed. Perfect. I could go and feel things out without committing myself. After all, as a first-time voter, the last thing I want is to be chewed up and spit out by the system like a stick of Juicy Fruit that’s lost its flavor. Ugh. Who wants that?

It was time. I was ready. I breezed into the front door of the inn where the meeting was being held.

“I’m here for the canvassing meeting?” I said to the concierge, trying to sound confident even as my voice slid up an octave, turning my statement into more of a question.

He nodded. “Down the stairs, turn left, first door on the right.”

I followed his instructions. The door was open, but the speaker had already begun. I checked my phone. It was 8:05—I was only five minutes late.  Hopefully that was okay.

Ducking my head slightly, I nodded as I walked past a row of eight or nine men dressed in nice business suits. I should have worn a skirt, I thought to myself, as I slipped quietly into a front-row seat in my sweaty gym clothes. And why are they all guys? I glanced around and found one other woman, dressed in a silk business suit and heels. I felt uncomfortable. Also, no one looked under forty-five. Geez—this political party’s older than I thought, I mused, and then chastised myself for being ageist.

This is weird, I thought. Is it just me, or is everyone looking at me strangely?

I settled back into my seat and scanned the paper. It didn’t say a thing about the Presidential Election. How odd. On the contrary: it seemed to be minutes for an agenda dealing with city contracts and tourism.

A sickening feeling started to sink into my stomach. I turned to the kindly old man next to me and emitted an urgent whisper.

“Um, is this meeting…”

He finished my question for me. “For canvassing?” He shook his head with a jolly grin, thoroughly enjoying this. “Nope.” Oh, no.

I’d walked into the Chamber of Commerce meeting by mistake.

Oh, yes.

There was one short moment that seemed much, much longer—it involved me silently replacing the handout on the table, gathering my things, and voicing a high-spirited apology as I walked back out of the room and made a beeline for the stairs. Behind me I heard the man in charge say, “That was one for the other meeting!” The room erupted into a chorus of chuckles.

I made my way back to the stairwell, and this time I took a right. I made it the correct meeting by 8:08 without further event.

I only hope that that concierge gets his Right and Left sorted out before Election Day. Nothing like being at the wrong party!

Last night, while hobnobbing with the locals at a neighborhood bar, I witnessed something phenomenal: people—young people—passionately talking politics.

In fact, politics was all they were talking. As I sat on the patio for two hours, my hand poised simultaneously over a pint of ale and a notebook as I tried to surreptitiously take notes, I was privy to a flood of impassioned conversations. Sometimes I participated, and sometimes I just listened, jotting down fragments whenever I could.

“Roe vs. Wade is NOT ABOUT ABORTION,” a bartender on break said to her younger sister. “It’s about CHOICE.”

“But it’s a life!“ her sister slurred, tugging on her sweatshirt.

“What if you needed a kidney transfer?” Angela, the bartender, asked, tapping her cigarette impatiently on the side of the ashtray. An interesting choice of organ, I thought to myself, eyeing her sister as she slid unsteadily off of her chair. “Would you want someone telling you you’re not allowed to get it?”

“A baby’s not a kidney!” Angela’s sister cried, before weaving her way back inside to get another beer.

As she pushed through the door, a round, jovial woman with spiky hair was on her way out. I recognized this woman. Earlier, when I’d breezed by the bar en route to the bathroom, I’d distinctly heard her say, “I love McCain! I think he’s brilliant.”

She sat down and lit a cigarette.  I couldn’t resist.

“So I heard you’re a McCain fan?”

From my peripheral vision, I could see Angela tense up and clench her jaw. The blonde woman nodded, unsure of how to answer.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I asked, leaning forward, “what do you like about him?”

She emitted a nervous grin. “Are you a reporter?”

I laughed. “No.” A blogger isn’t the same as a reporter, right? “I’m just curious.”  

“Well…” she took a long drag from her cigarette, “I feel safer with McCain.”

Angela blew a puff of air audibly from her nostrils.

“What do you think of Palin?” I pressed.

“I like her,” she responded. “She’s down to earth. I like the way she speaks. She knew she was going to have that Down syndrome baby, and she had it anyway. And come on,” she said, after a brief pause. “I mean, we can’t have a president named Barack.”

I nodded, utterly intrigued, silently encouraging her to go on.

“And I don’t like his wife,” she continued, gaining confidence. “She’s got no class. Dresses like a slob. Cindy McCain is just so cute.” She leaned forward a little. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like how Obama looks.”

“Oh?” I said, aiming for nonchalance. “Because he’s black?”

She pressed her lips together, obviously unwilling to answer in the affirmative. “It’s his eyes,” she said, failing to look me in mine. “I don’t trust him.” She giggled a schoolgirl’s laugh. “My daughter hung up me on the other day when I told her that.”

Angela, who’d been sitting quietly beside us, chimed in. “I’d have hung up on you by now, too.”

“I’m a registered Democrat,” the blonde woman said with a shrug. “I’ve always voted Democratic before. But not this year.” She finished her cigarette and stood to go back inside. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” she said with a sigh. “Sylvia Browne already said Obama would win.”

“Who’s Sylvia Browne?” I asked naively.

“The psychic!” both women said in unison, marveling at my ignorance.

When the blonde was gone, Angela turned to look at me. “You know the KKK still meets here,” she said. “They have a chapter in this county. Right up the street.” She shook her head. “It’s not just them, either. My boyfriend’s dad is a good guy. But yesterday, he said to me, ‘It’s a white house, Angela. Not a black house.’”

“Wow,” I said, amazed that this kind of thing still happened in 2008, and then amazed at myself for being amazed.

Two twenty-something guys came outside. The conversation quickly turned to football. “Did you see that?” one of the boys said, mimicking a pass. “Freakin’ unbelievable!” And in a flash, the spell of politics was broken.

Freakin’ unbelievable indeed.

Last night I did something crazy. I infiltrated the ranks of two political parties. That’s right: as the first Presidential Debate loomed on the evening timetable, I bridged the partisan divide and attended two debate-watching events: one Republican, and one Democratic.

As you might imagine, I didn’t have a thing to wear.

I’m not quite sure why I did it. I mean, I know who will be getting my vote in November. At least, I think I know. Sometimes, I wonder.

The Republican get-together was first. After thoroughly browsing JohnMccain.com (not the easiest site to navigate, in my opinion), I found a debate-watching event taking place in my area and Mapquested it. After one wrong turn that landed me in the middle of a state park, I wound my way through the tortuous dark roads until I finally arrived, 45 minutes before the debate began.

The address led me to a two-story shingled home belonging to a Mr. F, located off the main street of a small town. As I lifted my fist to knock, I noticed an array of five stickers on the front door:

National Rifle Association.

North American Hunting Club.

U.S. Marine Corps.

U.S. Military: Proud to Serve.

American and Proud.

I couldn’t help but smile. It’s like this man’s door was stumping for stereotypes.

“Come in,” a faceless voice said from inside. So I did.

To my surprise, I was the only one there.

A man with a crew cut and a walking cane stood to greet me. He sized me up as I extended my hand. “I’m Bree,” I said quickly, wondering if I was crossing some invisible line. Was I a Republican? If I wasn’t, was it wrong to be here?

Slightly nervous, I babbled on. “I hate to stop and run, but I can’t stay very long…” I trailed off. “There’s another event I’m trying to catch tonight.”

“That’s fine,” he said, nodding agreeably. “That’s what most people have been doing—they just stop in to get their stuff and leave.” He motioned to a table in the center of the room where a veritable pile of McCain paraphernalia lay. Pages, pamphlets, brochures, bumper stickers, round stickers, notepads—and of course, massive McCain yard signs. “Here,” Mr. F said, hobbling to the table and collecting a hefty pile. “Take some.”

I took them in my hand, feeling slightly fraud-like. “Be right back,” he said, “and don’t mind the dog.”

“Dog?” I hadn’t seen a dog.

“Name’s Cupcake,” he said over his shoulder before disappearing into the bowels of his house.

I took the opportunity to analyze his living room. There were two bowls of potato chips on two wooden tables.  Two televisions were nestled into the bookshelves, both set to CNN. There were even two fish tanks, identical in size and color, facing each other from opposite walls. It was like everything in the room had its duplicate. The effect was somewhat eerie.

Cupcake materialized from the kitchen. He wandered into the living room, a Beagle mutt with sad and baleful eyes. When I reached down to pet him, he winced and moved away.

“He was abused,” said Mr. F, ambling slowly and carefully into the room. “Want to give me your email?”

We chatted for a few more minutes, Mr. F talking about some of the local Republican politicians and, when I commented on the medals in his glass case, his thirteen years of service as a Marine. He wrote out some information on a notepad.

I couldn’t help but ask a pointed question. “You think McCain’ll win?” I asked, my heart wiggling like Eggs Benedict.

“McCain’s gonna take it,” he said, without even looking up. “Some of the local guys’ll be closer, though.”

I helped myself to some candy and chips from the bowl before I made my way out.

As I closed his front door behind me, I noticed seven hot dogs roasting on the grill. Had Mr. F expected more guests? Maybe he’d envisioned watching the debate with others, reminiscing over his days in the first Gulf War and discussing our country’s glorious future. I felt a twinge of sadness.

But I hurried on my way. Besides—the Democrats had free beer and chicken wings.

When I got to the inn where the Democrats were preparing to watch the debate, it was a lively crew. No liberal vegans here—on the contrary, there were several pitchers of beer and a heaping pile of spicy chicken wings. Very left wing.

“This is gonna be good,” said a man as he stumbled toward a table, extending a shaky hand to touch the chandelier overhead. “Obama’s ideas are just so…they’re so perfect!”

I settled myself into a corner and turned on my laptop, preparing to take notes.

The moment the debate began, someone hit the lights and all 21 people crammed into the room fell silent. A mystical darkness fell over us as all eyes looked up at the television screen. You could have heard a bone crunch.

But it didn’t take long for the whispers to begin. Midway through the first ten minutes, as both candidates struggled to answer Jim Lehrer’s questions on the economy, a rippling groan of dissent went through the room.

“He’s not answering the question,” said a woman beside me, shaking her head in disgust at John McCain.

“And not only that, but the Republicans are refusing to sign!” another woman said, referring to the latest failed bailout deal.

The debate continued, and every once in a while, someone would pipe up, “Are you out of your god damn mind?” when McCain said something they found to be ludicrous.

I typed away furiously, trying to capture everything I could. “The war has cost us 600 billion dollars and more than 4,000 lives,” intoned Obama, “and yet Al Qaeda is stronger now than ever before.” I couldn’t help but marvel over the fact that, when I erred in my spelling of “Al Qaeda,” Microsoft Word spell check was quick to offer me the correct alternative. What a testament to how much times have changed since 2001.

Around the time the phrase “fundamental difference” had been used for about the ninth time, I noticed my laptop was running out of juice. I took a furtive glance around the dark room and located the only open outlet—directly under the television.

There was only one thing to do: I got on my hands and knees, desperately trying not to attract attention to myself, and crawled toward the outlet with computer cord in hand, ever reverent to the almighty god of electrical current.

When I got there, I noticed one of the two sockets in the outlet was occupied by a black cord. I didn’t think much of it as I thrust my laptop cord into the remaining socket.

Then suddenly, silence.

The room was strangely quiet and dark. I looked up. The television was off, completely powered down. 20 people emitted simultaneous groans and objections as my heartbeat ground to a screeching halt.

 “Oh my god,” I said, “did I do that?”

And sure enough, I had. I had unplugged the first Presidential Debate. I hadn’t even unplugged it—I'd simply plugged my laptop in, and in so doing, disrupted the electrical current and turned off the Presidential Debate while 20 impassioned Democrats were watching with bated breath. And to make matters worse, it wouldn’t go back on.

The next thirty seconds were the longest thirty seconds of my life. I jimmied, I unplugged, and I replugged, all the while offering profuse apologies to the rest of the room. I blew on the socket. I shook it. I pounded it furiously with my fist. Silently, I cursed it. I also noticed the sooty burn marks around each of the sockets. Oh, god.

Somehow, it came back on. I was so very thankful, so very thankful that I crawled out of the room with my laptop in hand.

Obama and McCain talked about Iraq next, or so I heard. By that point, I was at the bar, cowering in shame over a Blue Moon and actively avoiding a roomful of perturbed Democrats. I even made a new friend, a guy who’d completed two tours in Iraq. It cost him 60 percent of his hearing in his right ear and most of the ligament in his shoulder. It cost him his faith in our President, too.

Obviously, I didn’t exactly succeed at watching the debates. And quite frankly, I’m not sure the debates succeeded, either.

I still haven't unloaded my car from last night. All day, I’ve been driving around with a McCain yard sign in my back seat. Right next to it, an Obama sign rests contentedly on the plush burgundy fabric.

I wonder what the neighbors think.

Welcome, one and all, to the introductory session of Bree Barton at the Ballot Box.

…except for the fact that “ballot box” isn’t quite accurate.

That’s right, folks: in America, the days of the ballot box are long gone. In fact the entire history of voting has taken a fascinating trajectory, through urns, stones, and boxes to punch cards, papers, and screens. I remember peering at grainy textbook photographs in high school of Ancient Roman artifacts—little black and white stones that senators and citizens deposited in coal-black urns. These were the kernels of a culture, a culture whose legacy is still alive and well in these United States. From a black and white stone to a black and white candidate, we’ve come a long way.

There are still kinks, of course, some of which need an industrial-sized iron and enough steam to power a locomotive. These days, we’re highly dependent on technology, whether it’s using optical scans or touch screens. Different strokes for different blokes, you might say—except that some voting systems seem to work a lot better than others. Senators in Ancient Rome could slip an extra black rock into the box; modern-day computer hackers can slip a virus into an electronic voting machine that possesses an uncanny ability to flip votes. Idle conspiracy theory? Perhaps. But strange things can happen in the voting booth. When they do, our hard-won suffrage is at stake—and with it, one of the cornerstones of our vibrant democracy.

What I know about the iconic ballot box—besides the fact that we share snappy alliterative qualities—is limited to what I’ve read and studied, books I’ve pored over and yellowed pictures crinkling at the edges. But today, I’m putting aside the ancient artifacts and picking up the newspaper instead. Election news is everywhere, and I’m no longer willing to stick my head in the sand. On the contrary: I actually dig it. Despite the nastier sides of politics, I am totally gung-ho about being a part of the system.

As a virgin voter, this will be my first year to cast a ballot for the next President of the United States. Four years ago, I didn’t think it mattered. Today, my fingers are burning for the ballot, my soul longing for the box. Am I voting this year? You bet. And as I voiced in my USA Today piece in March, my most pressing question has now become: Will my vote be counted? 

With 41 days to go until Election Day, I’m terrified, exhilarated, and, most of all, impassioned. No one can say my generation doesn’t care about politics. The 2008 presidential election has charged and energized us, the young voters, like never before. This year, we’ve simply come alive.

The days leading up to November 4^th will be one crazy trip, full of discovery and hope and challenge. Care to come along for the ride?