Symbols are easy. People are complicated.

I spent last week canvassing Big Ridge, where I lived for fifteen years. Fairview Road, which runs along the ridgetop, feels like a rollercoaster if you drive it fast—and a lot of folks do. The intersecting roads have hairpin turns and steep drop-offs, but people who know the turns take them fast too.

Driving those roads is one thing; walking them is like playing Frogger. In between them are sprawling subdivisions with steep hills. It can be tempting not to walk to that last, hard-to-reach house.

It was worth crossing the street to hand my literature to a man sitting on a glider. He asked who I’m running against, then smiled and said, “Let me tell you a story.” He’s a Republican, but not an election denier. He asked my opponent about the 2020 election and got a squirrely answer. I got his vote.

It was worth walking up the driveway to talk to a man watering his yard. He told me he’d immigrated to the United States alone with a college scholarship, $150 in his pocket, and advice from his dad: “Work hard. You’ll be fine.” He’d lived the American Dream, but he was worried about American democracy.

“I always considered myself a conservative,” he said, and shook his head. “I don’t know what that means anymore.”

It was worth intercepting a young woman as she walked from her house to her car. “I have one question for you,” she said. “What are your views on Gaza?”

My answer felt inadequate, but it was honest. Then I told her it didn’t matter in this situation because I was running for state legislature. That’s where she lost her reproductive rights.

I asked her if she voted. She said she wasn’t registered.

“I’m knocking doors six days a week because you deserve better from our state government, because we all deserve better,” I said. “Do me a favor. Please register to vote, even if you just vote for me.”

She looked at me for a long second and then nodded. “I will.”

It was worth stopping to chat with the energetic guy on the riding mower who saw the literature in my bag and asked, “Whatcha got?” He’d voted for Trump but thought Americans should unify behind whoever’s president. “We’re all in this together,” he said.

He said he didn’t live on the ridge—mowing lawns was a side gig—but he lived in the district. He took several pieces of my literature and bumped my fist.

“You do realize I’m a Democrat,” I said.

“I vote for the person,” he said.

Allison
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