Valarie Kaur's Blog

Our Philadelphia Story -- by Sharat Raju

Valarie Kaur — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 16:12:16 EST

November 9, 2008

I still have sore knuckles.

A few days have passed since we left the street fight in Philadelphia and polls closed across the country.

About week ago we arrived in this cradle of American democracy, where Independence Hall still stands – but really, it seems like it was a lifetime ago. It was.

We arrived with hope and left with even greater hope. We arrived with Candidate Senator Barack Obama and left with President-Elect Barack Obama.

We arrived in Philadelphia in one era and returned to New Haven in another.

And in between those eras, I knocked on doors – nearly 200 households three or four times each, and returned with sore knuckles.

Sore knuckles – an appropriate metaphor for this version of fighting. Valarie, Tafari, Tanya, Jess, joined me and thousands more as foot soldiers in the Hope Revolution. Our voices and words were our swords. Enthusiasm and fearlessness was our armor.

I wish an invisible camera crew was following us around so you all could see it unfold on the ground as we did. Our time in Philadelphia was so thorough and rich that no amount of explanation, no matter how vivid, will do the experience justice. So I will try to describe it through snapshots and images and stories.

We drove three hours from Connecticut on Saturday afternoon to Pennsylvania, plugged into the campaign and they placed us in Northeast Philadelphia. We navigated through the old city to our Obama field office and saw dozens of people at street corners holding signs that read "McCain-Palin," "Country First" and "Another Democrat for John McCain."

The New York Times wrote a story that weekend describing Northeast Philadelphia as John McCain's best chance to win Pennsylvania; if he got a big enough margin to offset the rest of the city, he could win the state.

Their campaign was counting on sewing the seeds of racial division – union-working Whites who wouldn't vote for a Black candidate. Tactics of another era. Two houses shared one lawn around the corner from the Obama field office – one side of the lawn screamed "McCain: Country First" and the other "Obama-Biden. "

We were in the teeth of the storm.

GROUND GAME

At our request – by that I mean Valarie's insistence – the campaign gave us of a section of Northeast Philly. We were responsible for Ward 35, Divisions 29 and 30 – Roosevelt, F, Smylie, Montour, Mayfair, Adams, Tabor and Garland streets – and we set out to do what we did in Santa Monica, California and Pflugerville, Texas. Our job was simple: Get every single Obama supporter in Ward 35 out to the polls.

The neighborhood is mostly lower income African-American, with some Latino, East Asian, and White voters. From afar, the neighborhood blocks looked as if each contained a single gigantic, two-floor house that spanned the entire block. But up close they were dozens of individual homes linked to each other, sharing tiny yards and front patios.

All were humble, built around WWII, and a few were in bad shape or boarded up. But most exuded the pride and love of American homes across the country. It warmed my heart to see the individual nuances of each place – a wind-chime, an ornate knocker on an otherwise rickety door, Philadelphia Phillies 2008 World Champions signs. Children tossing a football around in the streets.

The neighborhood was full of life. But not full of working doorbells, to the dismay of my poor right hand.

In the days we pounded the pavement and banged on doors in Ward 35, we got to know individual homes and faces and stories. I asked people if they're still planning on voting for Senator Obama. Most of the time I got the response, "Of course I am!" Meaning: "I can't believe you're asking me that question – what are you, stupid?"

A young Black man, probably my age, said to me, "I can't wait to get out and vote!" (Some version of this was repeated again and again – the excitement to vote was amazing.)

A 22-year-old woman asked me what she should do on Election Day, she had never voted before. She was afraid of the unknown, but excited to participate. I walked her through the process, tried to demystify it, and assured her I would be there on Tuesday to help if she needed it.

A Puerto Rican family was standing outside when I asked if they're still supporting Obama. The father, wearing Phillies gear and displaying visible tattoos, was very excited, telling me his entire family is voting for Obama. He introduced me to his wife and voting-age daughter, telling me he had just earned his citizenship and it was his first election. And although he didn't get his voter registration card in the mail, he was going to vote no matter what.

The convenient store owner, an Indian-American from Kerala, made me a fresh pot of coffee Monday morning and told me was voting Obama, that we need a change.

A middle-aged Black man with white specks on his temples lifted groceries from his car up the steps to his home on Roosevelt – a traffic heavy tree-lined thoroughfare with small condo-like homes. He said, yeah of course he's voting Obama. Then he looked at me and said, "You better make sure all these (expletive deleted) come out to vote!" He laughed and I said I'm trying to do just that.

Getting people excited wasn't the problem; getting them to actually vote was.

"I came all the way from California to make sure you vote on Tuesday," was my standard greeting. To which some responded, "Oh God Bless you" and others "Wow – really, what's California like?" Others who might not have otherwise cared seemed genuinely surprised to see someone actually coming that far just to their home to ask them to vote. (If nothing else they'd be letting me down!)

As I crossed the street, a group of kids asked me, "Is Obama going to win tomorrow?"

"If your parents and everyone in your neighborhood votes, he'll win the city, the state, and he'll win the White House." They walked off to school, a piece of Obama literature in their hands as a keepsake, a printed memory that perhaps they'll find in their scrapbook decades later.

That afternoon school let out as Valarie and I were nearby, and we were surrounded by excited children cheering Obama's name. We passed out literature with a painted picture of Barack's face, saying "You Have the Right to Vote." I thought, These children will grow up knowing they can become President some day. It will be … ordinary. Ordinary to have someone who looks like them as a candidate or a nominee or…

That evening, two white police officers stopped by the field office with their lights and siren. We were confused, perhaps some were a bit worried. But they only wanted "Obama-Biden" yard signs. We smiled at them as they drove off with signs and metal posts.

A car-load of people pulled over to that same curb – middle-aged Black women in the front and teenagers in the back. They shouted out to the office that they wanted signs. After they got some, they asked about helping Election Day.

"You want to volunteer?"

"Yes-we'll do it-oh yeah-of course!"

"You'll come out on Election Day?"

"Yeah-you know it-uh huh!"

"Okay – be here at 6am tomorrow morning."

Brief pause. Then…

"We'll be there!"

After our final round of calling and walking the ward on Election Day eve, our night was filled with inspirational speeches by the governor of Maryland who told us that change happens by "small margins" so expect a fight, not a blowout. A local field director later exclaimed, "Our ground game is incredible! They won't know what hit them tomorrow!"

ELECTION DAY

Creighton School seemed indestructible, built in that era of industrial American can-do – just like all the houses in Ward 35. But before dawn on Election Day 2008, Creighton was sleepy and dimly lit, our tiny corner of the electoral world, and it was dark and sleepy an hour before the polls opened in Pennsylvania.

Voters were already there, sitting in the auditorium's wooden folding seats, waiting for the electronic boots to be set up. The custodian, a large African-American man lifting desks and chairs in his arms, displayed a T-shirt with Barack's face on the front and huge words "I'm Asking You To Believe" on the back.

A dozen or so people were there. And then more and more and more. Once the starting gun sounded on Election Day, it soon became apparent that we had to organize a better system to prevent a quagmire. And the slower the line the greater chance people would leave and not vote.

So, we efficiently re-organized the lines. Valarie was stationed by the entrance to the polling site with neighborhood maps to help direct voters. Tafari was the Wal-Mart-style greeter, occasionally speaking in impeccable Spanish, filtering people in the proper direction.

We would ask people, "Do you know what division you live in?" Response: "I only know I'm voting for Obama!" "Shhhh! That's good, but shhhhh!"

Despite our efforts, one of the three lines was so long that a few people left before voting in order to get to work on time. We begged them to come back later, and they promised us they would. We called for backup. Soon, a few dozen donuts and hot chocolate were delivered by a White middle-aged man with an Obama-Biden pin, and we handed them out to voters.

We saw people in line who knew us, who saw us walking the neighborhood or met us at their door. Old, young, pushing strollers, using walkers and canes, bringing their children or their elderly parents with them. Black, White, Asian, Latino. It was an American postcard, a picture of modern democracy.

A Black man in his late 20s recognized Tafari and told us his name wasn't on the rolls even though he had a registration card. The poll worker asked him, "Have you voted before?" He said, "Of course not, I never had a reason to vote before!" We made sure he got his provisional ballot and cast his vote for Obama. And he went back and called everyone he knew to vote.

An elderly White woman pinched my cheek, saying "oh, aren't you adorable?" as I tried to help her to the correct voting table. (She might have been blind. Not sure.)

The election officials – nearly every one of them including the oldest one who was probably in her 80s – smoked. I mean smoked, like they were getting paid for smoking. I don't know why, but the sight of it made me laugh.

As the work day began, the lines began to shorten and we decided to hit the streets and our neighborhoods to make sure people had voted. We would take them there ourselves if we had to, Tanya's car standing by. And we did – Valarie found at least a dozen people who wouldn't have otherwise voted. One of them, a very frail elderly Black woman who just returned from the hospital wanted to go but had no one to take her until we offered a ride.

Valarie and I talked to everyone we saw, on the streets, in stores, even in McDonald's – "have you voted yet?" One voter, a 37-year-old man Bernard, was moved by the note Valarie left at his door that he offered to help us that afternoon. So, Bernard drove around Valarie and myself and helped us knock on the remaining doors of our ward, making sure that every single voter we could find made it to the polls on time, just as night was falling in Philadelphia. He even took a couple of voters to Creighton.

An incredibly sweet Latino family on Valarie's block even offered us umbrellas, as the rain started to sprinkle. Valarie and I took two and returned them when our day was over.

The final voters trickled in to Creighton before the polls closed. We waited inside the auditorium for the count – an immediate tally the machines spit out so we can report back to the campaign office.

The verdict in Ward 35, Divisions 27, 29, and 30: 334 Obama, 57 McCain. And two dozen or so provisional ballots uncounted.

We doubled turnout. We made a difference.

Kim, a law student from New York also volunteering at our poll, got off the phone with a friend who works at NBC and said the network was about to call Pennsylvania for Obama. We didn't believe it. At least, I wouldn't believe for at least a few more minutes until I got calls and texts from around the country, friends and family confirming it.

We did it. We all Pennsylvania was ours.

LOCAL VICTORY, GLOBAL CELEBRATION

Rising Sun. Our makeshift Obama field office sat on the corner of this inadvertently appropriately named street. Rising Sun – a new day on the horizon, full of hope and promise. The office was a tiny basement beneath a crumbling home for rent with a large porch near a business district. This is where we made calls and plans and returned on the brink of victory. This is where we helped make history.

We watched as results came in from states around the country. It was still early in the count, but Pennsylvania was marked Blue – by a large margin. They didn't know what hit them.

Needing to eat, we watched returns come in at a local Italian restaurant, toasted to the steady feeling of victory about to set in, and then joined others at a local bar to watch the West Coast polls closed.

Time ticked down in California, and I imagined the sun going down in Venice, into the ocean just blocks from my apartment. Sun setting on an era, I hoped.

We counted down like it was New Years Eve, counted down to the dawn of a new beginning. The moment polls closed in the West, CNN called the election. Before we realized it, John McCain conceded with humility, honesty, and thoughtfulness. I wish he behaved like that throughout the campaign. (But then again… if he did, it would be a lot closer…)

Cheers went up, and we quickly got in our cars to an Irish pub downtown where all the Obama campaign staff and volunteers were awaiting the President-Elect's victory speech.

News vans with satellite antennae extensions lined the street. Horns honked and shouts came from cars passing by. The bar, "Finnegan's Wake," was dark and full of hundreds of people, dozens of TV news cameras with broadcast cameras and on-board lights. Flat screen TVs that usually play football or baseball or basketball games showed Grant Park in my hometown Chicago, buzzing and bright and beautiful. I longed to be there, in that park I've walked a hundred times. But I was happy I was on the battlefield, too.

The next President spoke but no sound came from the bar's speakers. Moments passed, and we ached and shouted for the audio to come on. A riot was about to break out – a hope riot?

Then the sound started, part way through, as Barack said: "We are, and always will be, the United States of America."

The bar cheered, and the speech flowed loudly through the speakers. We listened quietly, attentively. Valarie wept, and I tried to simultaneously listen, fight off tears, and photograph faces in the crowd – White, Black, Hispanic, South Asian, East Asian, European. Old, Young. We are, and always will be, The United States of America.

"To the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you've sacrificed to get it done." Everyone in the room was a part of that campaign team, and a roar went up. I imagine our cheers ringing like the Liberty Bell from coast to coast, from sea to shining sea.

The speech ended, and the music resumed, and Valarie – what camera doesn't love Valarie? – was immediately interviewed by Reuters TV. I was only a few feet away, taking photos of the crowd, but I could only catch tiny bits of what she was saying, "He represents the hopes of my generation… our new President's name is Barack Hussein Obama… Now is our time…"

The celebration continued and swirled and I caught a glimpse of more people in the bar. Hats, t-shirts, a guy in a moose costume with a sign that said, "Moose for Obama." (Who else would the moose support?)

Tafari, meanwhile, somehow was crowned with a straw-type brimmed hat, like the ones you see the press wearing in old movies. He was dancing. I mean, dancing! Valarie, and Tanya, and I decided that we wanted to drive back to New Haven, that our energy was high enough to make it back, but not high enough to party all night. Tafari said, "This is our night! I've been waiting for this for 24 years. Just leave me here!" So we did. (Don't worry – he made it back to Connecticut in time for class the next day. Though I'm not exactly sure how and I prefer to leave it up to my imagination… I believed it involved the moose…)

We drove through the mostly empty streets of Philadelphia on the way to the highway, dark, decaying neighborhoods, in the late night, beneath elevated train tracks. Tanya, Valarie and I chattered in that exhausted, elated way people get after a hard-fought victory that drains you of your energy but not your excitement. We were fueled by happiness.

We approached three Black teenagers, dressed in a way that most people would assume they were gangsters or hoodlums, probably up to no good. As we passed near them, we saw they were holding up a large sign – the iconic Barack Obama "HOPE" poster. It was nearly 2am. We smiled and honked and drove into the future.

Twenty-four hours after we first woke up, we were on the New Jersey turnpike speeding through the night. We stopped at the Woodrow Wilson turnpike rest stop. Valarie slept in the passenger seat and Tanya went to the rest room while I got coffee to start my driving shift. As I was waiting in line, I saw a Black man across the rest stop watching the TV screens above as he poured cream into his coffee. The report was about the Obama victory rally. A smiled slowly stretched across his face. Mine too.

It was my turned to drive, just before daybreak. I listened to the BBC as reports came in from around the world, reports of spontaneous street celebrations in Kenya, in Europe, Australia and in Indonesia. I was unprepared for the global celebration. This was the world's victory, too.

Although drained from our days in Philadelphia, I couldn't help but smile broadly, teary-eyed, hearing about people in slums of Nairobi, waving American flags. There was talk about naming a street in Mombasa on the Indian Ocean coast for Barack Obama. A crowd of people gathered around his father's grave in Kenya, chanting, "Obama, you have sired a king!"

My swollen knuckles clutched the wheel of Tanya's hybrid car. The sky started to lighten, ever so slightly, as we passed the New York skyline and crossed the George Washington Bridge. We arrived in New Haven as day broke at the start of a new era.

THE BEGINNING

When we were canvassing and getting people out to vote in Ward 35, I left behind a personal note about why I'm supporting Barack Obama. In it, I mention my parents who came to this country with nothing except their smarts, their values, and their hopes. They have worked hard, without complaint, their entire lives for a better life for their kids.

They succeeded.

Because of them, I can live a life doing what I love, pursuing a career as a filmmaker. Because of them, I can survive long periods of drought with their support and without their question, without hesitation.

Because of them, I can live a life of conviction, can take long periods of time to pursue what I believe is a righteous cause many others might view as folly or as recklessness.

Because of them, I had a chance to take a tiny chisel and hammer and help pave a way for Barack Obama to be President. And, as the new President said – this is not the change we seek. It's the chance to make change. I had a chance to get a chance to make change. I will never forget what it was like to do it.

A lot of you have thanked Valarie and me for all the work we did. But truly, we all have a hand in this. There are so many here who did so much, but here's a snapshot.

Barb, David, Wendy and Jack in Philadelphia gave us their couch and their floor and made us breakfast so we could work in their city.

Jeff Eldridge put down a lot of cash, even in the year of his sabbatical, for the primary and election.

Chris Farah joined us in Santa Monica in the primary and the streets of Las Vegas last month, knocking on doors.

Mike Farah produced the video of Ron Howard supporting Barack Obama.

Nitasha Sawhney organized that Vegas trip and countless other fundraisers and fought to get her community behind Obama.

Lutishia Lovely and George Gonzales fought with Valarie in Texas to win Pflugerville for Barack.

Amar Bhalla, a turban-wearing Sikh who is our hero in Divided We Fall for his work fighting discrimination in NYC and everywhere, went door-to-door in New Hampshire back in January for the primary.

Nikhil Jayaram phone banked and canvassed in Nevada, registering Indians and South Asians.

Bernie White wrote and directed a play in Venice about Barack and his estranged Reverend, and worked in Oregon for the primary. And spent the final day of the primary on our couch, toasting as Obama earned enough votes to be the nominee.

Kal Penn swayed college students and people of all ages across the county, giving the word "celebrity" a good name.

Penny Ronning tried to turn Montana blue and almost did.

Judge Brar switched parties to vote in the primary and called South Asians around the country to get them to vote for Barack.

Valarie's grandfather Captain Gurdial Singh Gill (Papaji) who fought for freedom in World War II with the British Indian Army, who despite being in the hospital and very close to being gone forever, voted absentee and returned home the day before the election. Hopefully on the mend, we pray.

And of course all of us who confronted ugly racism or fear or skepticism or cynicism in our own families – all of you own a part of this historic turning point. From many, one.

"We will remember that there is something happening here in America."

I don't want to over-state this moment. There will be a lot of disappointment ahead. It is up to us to make the change, to hold our government accountable, to pull up our sleeves and to finally, once again, be proud to call ourselves "Americans."

But for now – this is our moment. Remember this. The future generation will ask us where we were and what we did when the first minority was elected President in our homeland. How did it happen? We will tell about stories of racism, bigotry, lies. But, ultimately, Hope. Hope that trumped everything else.

So thank you all – you made this happen. Valarie and I were happy to be on the ground on your behalf.

Thanks Mom and Dad. This is a step towards an even better future for me, for Valarie, Manu and Archana and the future of our families.

For that, the sore knuckles were worth it.

To the future,
Sharat

Our Victory in Pflugerville, Texas

Valarie Kaur — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 02:25:11 EST

We delivered our piece of Texas for Obama: precinct 222 in Pflugerville north of Austin, a largely white conservative town with a 9% African American population. For four days, my teammates and I canvassed the neighborhoods from morning to night, leaving personal notes on the doorsteps of 400 households for the morning of the election.

Election day was nothing short of extraordinary. There were record turn-outs for Democrats at the polls and at the caucus. Last time, four people attended our caucus. This time, nearly 300 people showed up on election night and voted 222 for Obama, 57 Clinton. Our precinct alone will send 21 delegates for Obama to the county convention.

What happened in Pflugerville happened all over Texas: one million people turned up to caucus on election night. Since one-third of the delegates from the state come from caucus results, Obama won Texas. Clinton's declared victory is more rhetorical and psychological than real. Obama leads in delegates, the popular vote, and funds. We need to keep fighting: donate, blog, call voters, grow the movement. Just like we did in Texas. Read on...

After four days canvassing Pflugerville, our team decided to go where we were most needed on election day: Laura stayed at headquarters to work with other lawyers on voter protection, George promoted visibility at a busy polling place in Austin, and Lutishia and I got permission to return to Pflugerville for our final get-out-the-vote effort.

From the minute we arrived until the minute the polls closed, Lutishia and I drove through the streets, knocked on doors, and literally sprinted through our neighborhood, passing out Obama signs and telling everyone we met to vote and caucus that night at Windemere Elementary School. We were shocked to find that most voters had no idea about the caucus, so we gave them our cell phone numbers and made people promise to come. Those who found our notes on their doorsteps in the morning called to ask us questions and thank us for all our work.

During our final rounds a half-an-hour before the polls closed, we pulled up to an open garage with a group of kids playing video games. "Any of you old enough to vote?" I yelled out of the car.

"I am," said Jevon, a 19-year with corn rows and baggy jeans and a shy mature way about him.

"Get in the van," I said.

Lutishia and I drove him to the polls and stood with him in a long line that ran down the hall. There was nearly no line for Republicans, but the turn-out for Democrats was record-breaking.

"I always liked Obama ever since Iowa," Jevon told me as we waited. "I just didn't know how to vote. I want to be a psychiatrist when I grow up. You know, to help people."

When Jevon got to the front of the line, they couldn't find his name in the books and turned him away. He was about to leave when I stepped up and demanded a provisional ballot. They gave it to him, and I stood aside and watched him vote for the first time in his life. When I dropped him home and told him I was proud of him, he said in his shy quiet way, "I appreciate you too."

Back at Windemere Elementary, they opened the doors at 7pm for the Democratic caucus. Last time, four people came to caucus. This time, 280 people filled the school cafeteria, sitting on the ground, standing against the wall, most of them African-American. Lutishia and I nearly cried. We recognized half the faces in the crowd; they simply would not have been there if it weren't for us. We stood back, eager spectators to the process.

The caucus began in chaos, questions flying about what to do and how. Lutishia and I stepped up with rules in hand and were swept up into the whole thing before we knew it. We explained the procedure, helped them elect the chair and secretary, organized the crowds, signed in and registered voters, even managed the tallying of the results. Despite the long wait, people was patient and gracious, no one complained, everyone felt something important happening.

After five long hours, we announced the outcome: 21 delegates to Obama and 5 to Clinton. We called in the results in at midnight, and I imagined the caucus numbers besides Obama's name on CNN going up by 21 -- because of us.

After it was all over and the cafeteria was empty, I slumped on the floor next to Lutishia. "Did that just happen?"

When we reported the results to our field organizer, he dropped his jaw. "I anticipated these numbers from precincts in Austin but Pflugerville?!" he told Lutishia and me. "You were in the heart of Republican country. I can't pay hard-core activists to go where you were begging to go."

We were directly responsible for the overwhelming turn-out, the smooth process, and the landslide results. We had never felt such a hand in our democracy. It was humbling and gratifying.

As we left Pflugerville, Laura called and told us about the reports of voter disenfranchisement and caucus problems all throughout the state. And then it hit us. If we as spectators found ourselves essential in getting people ballots, telling people about the caucus, and even organizing the whole thing, what had happened around the state? Who was turned away at the polls who shouldn't have been? Where was the paper trail for Texas voting machines, and who was overseeing the count? How many people never knew about the caucus at all? And in all those caucuses that began in confusion and chaos, who stepped up and were they honest and fair? Suddenly, our democracy felt extremely fragile and volatile.

We didn't get the news about the popular vote going to Clinton until we drove back to Austin. We were deeply disappointed -- we had all hoped the nominee would have been decided that night. Even worse, we couldn't help but feel weary about the fairness of the entire process. In an election this close, when there is so much at stake, we cannot risk voter fraud, disenfranchisement, and misinformation. I shudder to remember how Florida's recount disaster in the 2000 presidential election changed the course of human history.

Now that I'm home and have slept fifteen hours, I wake up to the reality that Obama still leads in delegates, the popular vote, and funds. And that he could very well win Texas once the caucus results come in. When Clinton called her victory in Texas, it was more rhetorical and psychological than real.

In the days leading up to the recent election, Clinton and her supporters have turned to shocking negative attacks steeped in racism and xenophobia. For them, the ends justify the means. They will say and do anything to win. In response, we must learn to be tougher and smarter, but we cannot -- we must not -- give in to the temptation to use sexism, ageism, or fear to defeat our opponent, whether Clinton today or McCain tomorrow, even if it costs us in the short-term. For our fight is not just about winning. It is about bringing about a new kind of politics, a new kind of unity, where each one of us owns our integrity and recognizes the humanity and intentions of those different from us. Our lasting victory lies not in the outcome but in how we fight the fight.

As we face desperate tactics of fear and racism, our commitment to truth, justice, and unity will be tested. I stand with Obama because I do not believe he will compromise himself. Neither must we.

We can draw resolve from how far we have come already and our very-real victories on March 4th, starting with Pflugerville, Texas.

Door to Door in Pflugerville, Texas

Valarie Kaur — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 11:08:24 EST

Good morning from Texas! The polls are just opening around the state, and my team and I have spent the last three days knocking on doors in Pflugerville, Texas from morning to night. Before we begin our day's work, giving people rides to the polls, let me steal this moment to tell you what it's been like here.

Pflugerville, Texas is a suburban sea north of Austin: an endless maze of cookie-cutter houses divided by wide country roads. Driving into our assigned neighborhoods, we passed the occassional Texas Music Hall and the typical strip mall with the Starbucks and Subways. Most of the voters here are Republican, and their progressive neighbors are too scared to put signs in the yard: "I don't want my car scratched."

My teammates Lutishia, Laura, George, and I spent hours each day, knocking on doors up and down the endless streets. We met many Ron Paul supporters, only the occassional Clinton supporter, and many undecideds. We met people leaning toward Obama but not enough to show up at the polls -- until we talked to them. We helped people who didn't know to caucus or even when or where to vote. We became advocates for democracy, thanking even the Ron Paul supporters for exercising their right to participate in the political process.

Each of us has our own stories. I will remember the kindness of people when I told them I flew all they way from California just to knock on their door and ask them to vote. I will remember the Texan who said he could never support the Clintons, because he lost friends in Waco: "It's personal for me." I will remember the Vietnamese woman who learned about the candidates for the first time when we talked, and the young black man who liked Obama but wasn't planning to vote until we gave him the address of his polling place.

And I will remember the undecided black mother who told me her son wants her to vote for Obama. He stood behind her, a shy smiling 10-year old. His school becomes a place where people vote and caucus today. "Do you know what that means?" I asked him. "Something historic is going to happen at your school tomorrow. The whole country will be watching what happens at your school, and your grandchildren will remember it too."

He grinned from ear to ear.

Most of all, I will remember the incredible resilience of my teammates, all who flew out here on their own dime to do something that scared them. George is an academic, Laura a lawyer, Lutishia a novelist, and I a filmmaker. We each have our own story, we we are all different colors -- black, latino, south asian -- and we all came here from different corners of the country to work together as one team and walk the streets for a movement greater than ourselves.

And this is why each of us decided to write our own story about why we're here in Texas, volunteering for Obama. We printed these stories on cards, personalized and signed them, and jogged through the streets last night delivering these notes on the doorsteps of 400 households in Pflugerville. Hundreds of people will wake up this morning with our stories on their doorstep. Our hope is that it will change the mind of just one undecided voter. (We had the idea after I first did this in my neighborhood in California, where we won our precinct.)

The movement is filled with stories like ours -- people taking the campaign into their own hands. In fact, our campaign headquarters in East Austin is a little house painted blue with two rooms filled with hand-made signs and people from all walks of life working away inside. It feels as grassroots as it can get.When I first arrived at the little blue house, a black man walked past me with a handful of Obama signs for his neighborhood. A Vietnamese American woman handed us a hot plate of egg rolls she had just made. And a 7-year old white girl walked by with a t-shirt of Obama that read "He is black and I am proud."

"There is no color in this house," one volunteer said to me. Her mother is a superdelegate in Idaho, a white woman who was one of the first to support Obama. "We're all different people coming together. That's what I love about this movement."

We have come far as a nation, and I see this in Texas. Walking the suburban streets of Pflugerville, I imagine what it was like hundreds of years ago, open fields where different peoples and cultures fought for their own survival. After 11,000 years of life on this land, native tribes were conquered by the Spanish, and Spain fought with the French to keep it. Texans joined people to the south to fight for their independence from Spain and won freedom as Mexico, only to then fight Mexico for their own independence. Texas was its own country for nine years before joining the union -- and then fought with the south in the civil war to keep its black slaves. It wasn't until 1944 that Texas allowed blacks to vote in the primaries.

Native tribes conquered by Spanish blood, Mexican heritage inherited by Anglo-American immigrants and black slaves. All different people battling out the right to live. A beautiful tapestry woven in blood. That is what we are. That is what Texas is. That is what America is.

We caught a glimpse of Michelle Obama at the little blue house last night. I asked Lutishia what she would say to her if she had the chance. "I would express my absolute joy, amazement, and gratitude..." -- she paused for a moment -- "to have someone in the white house who looks like me."

I felt the tears well up in my eyes and realized that I'm used to it by now. This political campaign, now movement, has become a deeply emotional and spiritual journey, which is how I know it's real.

All eyes on us tonight, Texas. We have come far. Let's go farther.

---

A deep thank you to our friends and family who donated so that Lutishia, George, Laura, and I could volunteer in Texas this week!

Why I'm in Austin Tonight

Valarie Kaur — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 03:26:04 EST

It's late at night here in Austin, and I've just settled into my hotel room downtown. My second time ever in Texas, I am here to call and knock on doors for a campaign -- but not just any campaign -- a movement. And like all movements, once you realize that the stirrings of your own heart don't belong only to you but to an entire generation, it has you.

Some warn that all this enthusiasm is setting us up for disappointment. President Obama will not be perfect, he won't usher in a golden age, and he won't make everyone happy. This is true, but it's also missing the point.

Obama is here to lead us, not save us. It is our time, not his. The movement is not about him; he is simply the face of it. And he knows it.

"I'm asking you to believe," reads his central message. "Not just in my ability to bring about change in Washington... I'm asking you to believe in yours."

This movement is about all of us who are ready to believe in our own sense of empowerment again. It's about fulfilling our desire for own renewal and transformation. It's about our willingness to work for it.

This is why I became a precinct captain in California, calling and knocking on the doors of neighbors and strangers, asking them to get involved in a process I never believed in until now.

It's why I took the risk of offending my own faith community and shared my political conviction with Sikh Americans who traditionally back the Clintons.

It's why my best friend and I stayed up all night before California's primary making 300 hand-written notes to tell our neighbors why we support Obama, only to jog through suburbia at 4 in the morning delivering them on front doorsteps, hoping they would sway just one undecided voter on election morning. (We won our precinct).

It's why I wept when I punched his name on the ballot. It wasn't his name on the ballot; it was mine. It was the name of all of us who are in this movement together.

And this movement is the reason why I accepted a place at law school this fall. I am beginning to believe again in my own power, and I'm not alone.

I saw this tonight when I stopped by campaign headquarters downtown, a loud cavernous office filled with rows of people on phones, with laptops, sitting beneath hand-painted signs with messages of hope. Colorful chaos with order and purpose.

"You know what I'm dreaming of?" I heard a field organizer say. "Sleep."

She's been traveling with the campaign ever since she graduated from college last summer. Others are still in college, on leave. And I remember taking time my own leave from college after 9/11 -- to document stories of hate violence against my community. What a different moment this is. It is not a moment of tragedy that is defining these college kids, this generation, but a moment of hope.

This hope is shared by all generations, I was reminded when talking with my father tonight. He is a life-long Republican who temporarily switched to the Democratic party just to vote for Obama in the California primary.

"You know, I was thinking about it and figured out I could do something from over here," he told me, in epiphany. "I could make calls! Can I help you make calls?"

It's been a big enough deal for my dad and me to want the same person to be president. Now working together to get him elected... this is getting to be too much.

"That's what's so amazing about this campaign," a friend told me in response, "watching so many different people come together. I wish I could be there in Austin with you," he said.

He is a turbaned Sikh American who canvassed neighborhoods for Obama in New Hampshire.

"You know, I never felt fully American until I knocked on those doors and talked to people," he said. "It really makes you feel part of a community." A democracy. A country. That's what it feels like.

That's why I'm here.

No matter what the outcome. This campaign has already changed us.

Barack, My Father, and Me

Valarie Kaur — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 17:03:13 EST

This morning, my father called. He is a principled Republican who voted for Bush twice. For the last seven years, it's been hard talking to him about politics at the dinner table, but it's been even harder hearing my progressive friends talk about "all those stupid people who voted for Bush." "My father is not stupid," I would retort, exhausted by the political rancor. That's all beginning to change.

"I read the book you gave me," my dad said this morning, after finishing The Audacity of Hope. "I don't agree with all of Obama's politics, but I hear myself in him. He doesn't demonize people. He's the voice of a new generation; reminds me of Reagan and Kennedy. I'm a pragmatist, but I feel really hopeful and inspired by this movement. It could really bring the country together."

My father has switched to the Democratic party for the first time in his life just to vote for Barack Obama in California's primary on Tuesday. I take it as a sign. Obama alone can reach people like my father, who would never support a Clinton dynasty in the general election. Obama alone can unite conservatives and liberals, young and old, people of faith and non-believers, black and white and everyone between. Obama alone can inspire an entire generation of disenchanted young people like me to take ownership of our country.

In the end, the choice between Clinton and Obama is not between their policy differences, which are nuanced, nor between their respective experience, for Obama's two decades as a public servant is plenty preparation. The choice is between two different kinds of presidents: Clinton is an executive, Obama a visionary. Clinton proposes to accomplish a set of goals, Obama aims to transform and revitalize our very culture. Cliniton reinforces the old walls, Obama breaks them down so that my father and I find ourselves standing on the same common ground.

The choice is between a well-polished argument that only reaches people on the same side and a poem that touches the very core of who we are:

http://www.dipdive.com

If we listen carefully, there is a bit of hope singing inside of every single one of us. Yes. We. Can.

Why I Support Obama as a Sikh American

Valarie Kaur — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 00:38:28 EST

As a Sikh American whose family settled in America 100 years ago, this election is different than any other my family has seen. This is the first election where I believe the future of my community and country rests on our support of a single presidential candidate: Barack Obama.

Sikhs will have a choice on February 5th: we can stick to politics-as-usual, or we can join a movement in this country. A movement where people divided by race, religion, and politics are finding the courage to recognize themselves in one another and come together in a common cause. A movement that would end the old politics, in which Sikhs are forever minorities asking to be accommodated, and usher in a new politics of unity that ties Sikhs to all Americans in the same struggle for freedom.

Obama alone represents this movement. Its momentum is real. We are already part of it. I have witnessed it.

For more than a year, I have been living out of my suitcase, traveling the country with my film Divided We Fall that features stories of Sikh Americans after 9/11. From California to New York, Nebraska to South Carolina, our community's stories have reached tens of thousands of people – white, black, brown, liberal, conservative, non-believer, believer, young and old. After the film, people applaud with tears in their eyes and talk about how attacks on Sikhs threaten their freedom too.

"My father was a guard at a Japanese-American internment camp," says a white woman in Montana. "I refuse to be gripped by the same fear and hatred."

"Just as I stand up for the right for gay people to come out of the closet," says a gay man in New York, "I promise to stand up for the right for Sikhs to wear their turbans. It is the same freedom."

"Your story is my story," an evangelical Christian in Nebraska tells me. "I too remember when I was seen as an outsider."

And in rural Illinois, an African-American man points to his braids, and says: "My braids are my turban."

People see themselves in our stories.

It is time that we, as Sikhs, return the gesture. We must stop thinking only of our own struggle, our own pain, and begin to see that we are not alone in the fight. We have a stake in the freedom of every other community in this country – Black, Latino, Jewish, Muslim, Gay – all of them, because all of us ache for a country where we can be recognized for how we see ourselves.

This recognition means we must confront our own community's discrimination against African-Americans, Muslims, and homosexuals. It means opening our eyes to the hate violence other communities face as well as the issues at stake for our country -- the coffins coming home, the threat of global warming, the growing poor, the crumbling schools in the parts of town we never visit, and the sick who can't afford to see the doctors in our families.

And it means ending the old way of fighting. For too long, Sikhs have learned to depend on individual politicians in halls of power to champion our cause. We have given our money and votes to any politician who promised to pose with us for the cameras and defend our community when needed, regardless of whether they were Republican or Democrat, George W. Bush or Hillary Clinton. This is politics-as-usual, the only way we knew how to fight for our right to be seen as American.

We can no longer afford to fight this way. We must end self-interested politics, for as long as we advocate only for our own equality, we will never fully own our place as Americans. And we will always be dependent on politicians who defend us when it benefits them.

Hillary Clinton is one such politician. She stands up for the Sikh community when politically expedient. On the campaign trail, she made several cancellations to appear with Sikhs in public and refused to join Obama in supporting the Sikh Coalition's appeal to the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) to protect turbans from searches at airports. Trapped in the political and racial binaries of the 1960s, she represents a political left that aims to accommodate minorities only when convenient.

In this great hour of need, it is time for Sikhs to support a leader whose vision integrates all of us into one nation, a leader who inspires us to take action together, a leader who not merely accommodates diversity but stands for it in his very being and breath -- a leader who truly represents us.

Like us, Obama inherits a mixed racial, religious, and national heritage. Like us, he belongs to multiple identities and moves between them. Like us, he has learned to claim that in-between space as his own and speak from it. If he can speak from it, we can speak from it. His voice is our voice.

Last week, in honor of Dr. King, Obama voiced the need to "recognize ourselves in one another; to understand that we are our brother's keeper; we are our sister's keeper." He beckoned us to "stand in somebody else's shoes" and change "the division, the stereotypes, the scape-goating" in our own hearts.

Yes, it is time for Sikhs to join the movement. It is time for us to draw upon the courage we are famous for and fight with Obama in the name of unity.

Our very future as Sikhs and as Americans depends on it.

--
Senator Barack Obama has dedicated his life to public service as a community organizer, civil rights attorney, a leader in the Illinois state Senate, and currently as a US Senator from Illinois. His historic campaign for the US Presidency is remarkable for bringing together a broad coalition comprised of progressives from across the racial, economic and religious spectrums from throughout the United States. His political vision has much resonance for South Asian Americans. On issues such as immigration, hate crimes, racial profiling, religious freedom, the War on Terror, small business promotion, and educational access, Obama has consistently emphasized his desire to work in the interest of the South Asian community. To learn more or to get involved, please visit www.safo2008.com

Join Sikhs for Obama on Facebook and on My.BarackObama.com

Valarie Kaur is a filmmaker, writer, and lecturer in religion presently on tour with her documentary film Divided We Fall. She is also founding director of Harvard's Discrimination and National Security Initiative. She can be reached at valarie@dwf-film.com

A Bit of Hope Singing

Valarie Kaur — Sun, 06 Jan 2008 14:27:51 EST

A letter to my friends on the morning of the Iowa caucuses -- Jan. 3, 2006

I woke up this morning a mess of nerves, and I realized it was because the Iowa caucuses are tonight. I walked along the ocean and prayed hard, and then I realized that perhaps my prayers would be better served if I shared them.

My days protesting the war in college left me deeply disillusioned with politics and the political process. In a chance meeting with John Kerry when he was running, I told him this. He told me not to be disillusioned. That still didn't change anything.

For the last year and a half, I have been traveling with my film Divided We Fall all over the country talking to people. All kinds of people. Students, liberals, conservatives, evangelicals, believers, nonbelievers, immigrants, people in the south and the north, white people, black people, and everyone in between. And I discovered I was not alone. Whether in a red state or blue state, a small town or a big city, I heard the same thing -- people are tired. People are tired of war and car bombs and coffins. People are tired of the environment going to hell, terrorist threats, and hearing about how the world hates us. People are tired of hearing how divided we are. And the funny thing is, I began to see how we are all united in this longing -- this ache -- for something better. We are aching for a better country, a country where we can be seen for how we see ourselves. And for personal authentic leadership to take us there.

The cynical part of me believes that this is not possible. It's the same part of me that shrinks away from turning on the news. The part that would rather not hear about the violence in the world than face my own smallness to it. But there is another part of me buried deep inside...

A few weeks ago, I heard Barack Obama speak. With an edge of fatigue in his voice, he spoke with passion and conviction. He spoke about his own impossible journey and his vision of unity. I heard my voice in his voice. He saw what I saw. He wanted what I wanted. His vision was my vision. And he could be president. Despite myself, I began to cry. Had it been this long since I felt any faith that my country could produce a leader who spoke my truths?

I could be wrong. He could not be the one. All I know is that the part of me that was buried is alive and singing. It is the hope in me. It is the dreamer who sings. He could be president. He could change the world. I could change the world.

And so I read his books, learn his positions, watch speeches, make donations, talk to people. This is the first holiday season my family did not have a political argument. For the first time in our adult lives, my Republican father and I want the same person to be president. I take it as a sign. The very best article I have read about why Obama should be president was written by a conservative commentator -- his reasons are mine: http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200712/obama

"At its best, the Obama candidacy is about ending a war—not so much the war in Iraq, which now has a momentum that will propel the occupation into the next decade—but the war within America that has prevailed since Vietnam and that shows dangerous signs of intensifying, a nonviolent civil war that has crippled America at the very time the world needs it most. It is a war about war—and about culture and about religion and about race. And in that war, Obama—and Obama alone—offers the possibility of a truce."

Thanks for reading this. And whoever you choose to support, may there be a bit of hope singing inside you. It's a bright shiny new year.