Ditz

Issue date: 3/18/08 Section: Outside the Bubble

Media Credit: Ciarra Schmidt

It's a great opportunity, it's a great opportunity, it's a great opportunity.

I mutter this mantra, like Dorothy without the red slippers, as I watch Barack Obama's Myspace inbox shrink ever so slowly. I swear my nails are growing faster than this process of social network upkeep.

"Great opportunity." That's what everyone called it when I got offered this internship at the senator's campaign headquarters in downtown Chicago. Don't get me wrong, I agree, it's just hard not to mock such an overused phrase. And it can get difficult to keep that positive thinking intact when you're fending off all the Ron Paul spammers leaving smarmy Facebook wall posts.

Another nuisance of office life was the dress code.

The laws of physics do not allow for well-endowed women to fit in button-up shirts, and it is impossible to keep the whole world from knowing this when the buttons are gapping and your bra is showing through. The other options to appear "professional" include suffocating turtlenecks and ridiculous-looking sweater sets. Would you like pearls with that?

Getting all gussied up according to the dress code on my first day seemed antithetical to what we were trying to do. I don't know about you, but when I hear "grassroots," I picture granola hippies in Levi's offering inspirational speeches at 3 a.m. while waving a Bud Light in
one hand and perhaps some poll results in the other. Maybe I've let James Carville affect my view of politics a bit too much. Or maybe I was just hoping against hope that denim was allowed in this office.

Upon entering the shiny new 11th floor space in a central Chicago skyscraper, it was clear that many people were out of their element. Yes, jeans were worn, though apparently casualty was reserved for those who spent nights on the hammock in the corner. These boss-types had come from various political backgrounds--some thrived on the big city feel and took to wearing suits and leather shoes, while others ate their brown bag lunches off of Frisbees. I fell somewhere in between.

I managed to avoid squeezing my chest into unrealistic fabric scenarios most of the time, though, and I forgot all about the clothing rules and irritating social networkers when I came across the nice messages-ones that echoed my own reasons for supporting this campaign, or even offered up new ones. Sometimes 15 year olds on Myspace are surprisingly eloquent, and their messages would often justify me sitting on my butt staring at a computer from 8a.m.-6p.m. with no pay. Someone could be on the fence and inquiring about the senator's position on a certain issue, and I'd direct them to the appropriate literature to find this information, or just explain it myself. Some of the best moments of my job included receiving responses from these people, something along the lines of "Thanks! Wow, I didn't expect anyone to respond so quickly. I agree with that position. I'm definitely voting for him now!" Never did I feel more useful than on those days.

It's hard not to get distracted by the ridiculous nature of social networks, though, and we had fun poking fun at our generation for its vanity or desire for instant gratification. It was humbling to remember, however, that we were the voices of the senator. The pressure was on those days I worked in the Call Center, getting the same types of messages (the good, the bad, and the very ugly) directly from people, in real time, in their own voices. As a representative of Obama, the anxiety of saying the right thing was at all times immense.

Given this pressure, the whole not-getting-paid thing was a bit of a downer, especially after work when all my friends with paying jobs wanted to go out. There were a couple things that made it worth it, though. And I'm not talking about how sweet my resume is going to look now, though that helps, too. I can think of two specific reasons I continued to show up each morning, continued to placate angry callers and curb my own anger when people accused the senator of being an Islamic fundamentalist.

First of all, the senator's visits to the office. Whenever he came in, there was buzz around the cubicles and it was almost impossible to focus on work. He would make the rounds every time, making sure to greet even the lowliest of interns like myself. One time, he asked me what part of Chicago I hailed from and continued to talk about my high school and how much he loved the neighborhood. Of course he would say that, I know, but that didn't make it any less magical. Or any less touching that he would take the time to make those connections with people who, for all intents and purposes, were clearly already voting for him.

And the second, more important thing that kept me from caring about my empty wallet--clean money. This was a campaign fueled by much more than greed. As someone who got started as a community organizer, Senator Obama wanted his campaign to reflect that sense of community support. It isn't about how much money you can make, but about who you're getting money from. If a PAC gives you a million dollars, that represents one group of supporters. If a million people give you one dollar, that represents a lot more.

Unfortunately, however, this method isn't as easy as taking money from wealthy businessmen. There's a bit more grunt work involved. This movement was building itself from the ground up, and at the end of the day, I was happy to have contributed. I even donated $5 to it on occasion, money saved up from my glamorous high school days of $6.75/hour. But I think it's safe to say I got more out of the internship than I ever got from being a sales clerk at a suburban pottery studio.

It was a great opportunity, after all. I couldn't down beers and wear a flannel to work very day, but that didn't make it any less exciting. Even if there was a dress code, and even if Senator Obama donned suits each time he visited, it's worth noting that, yes, he always said hi to us, and every time I peeked into the conference room on his office days, there was a bottle of green tea and a bag of granola on the shiny mahogany table. I guess you can take the man out of the grassroots, but you can't take the grassroots out of the man.

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