My dear grandchildren, we’d done all we could. We’d called, we’d walked and talked, we’d held up our signs and we’d sung our songs. Now it was time to GOTV: Get Out The Vote. We worked on informing voters so they knew how Scottie and his policies would hurt them. We helped register voters and find out where their neighborhood polls were located. We handed out signs, and we asked every recipient to promise to vote.
We played our tunes, we plied the phones and we still worked our full time jobs and took care of our families – those of us lucky enough to be employed, that is. We donated drinks and snacks to the many who could canvass neighborhoods and make phone calls.
We stood on windy highway overpasses holding lighted signs reminding voters of the best candidate and the election date. Our money was weigh outclassed, I mean way outweighed by the opposition with a margin of 25 to 1. We had our light brigade and our singers. We worked on the ground level. It was exhausting, but we held strong.
Still, we worried. We heard from women who felt they “had to” vote the way their husbands insisted. What?! We were appalled and frightened that such intimidation would happen in the twenty-first century. We worried that the people in power had so much money that they felt they were above the law. We worried that those who made the laws and enforced the laws did not hear us.
We worried that they wouldn’t hear us, so we brought out the vuvuzelas. What’s a vuvuzela? Oh, honey, the vuvuzela was – well, that’s another story. Prepare your trombone embouchure, my dear, and I’ll bring mine out of the basement. Maybe. Later.