1,000 Identical Postcards

(I hope I'm "doing something")

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I start writing the postcards when the Stanley Cup playoffs begin in late April.  All have the same encouragement to vote in the Nov 5^th election, so I figure I can keep one eye on the playoffs and one eye on the postcards.  Neither of these activities requires undivided attention. 

The postcards are distributed by Progressive Turnout with the ambitious goal of 40 million postcards sent to swing state mailing lists.  The era of telephone calls or neighborhood canvassing is apparently over.  Calls can be screened, doors slammed in your face.  According to the organization, a handwritten postcard is more effective, and I can choose among four sample messages.    

I write the same message over and over:

Dear xxx,

Thanks for being a voter.  Please plan ahead to vote in the November 5^th election.  Your family and friends may also appreciate a reminder to vote.  Best Wishes, Liza. 

Postcards to Michigan take me through the first two rounds of the hockey playoffs.  I segue to North Carolina and Georgia during the French open at the end of May.  June has a dearth of suitable background sporting events.  With newfound time, I concentrate on my message.  The instructions advise us to use our first names only.  I hope the recipients will wonder about this mysterious Liza.  I decide to up my game to proactively engage my potential voters.  I want my postcards to have personality. 

I revise my opening “Thanks” to emphasize gratitude and positivity.  I give the capital “T” an upwards swoosh and then underline it for emphasis. 

I consider revising the “may also appreciate a reminder” to they “will” appreciate.  However, the “will appreciate” strikes me as patronizing and budinsky – I know nothing about these households, so I leave it alone.  Should I revise “Best Wishes” to “Best Regards” or “Thanks Again?”  I decide the closing is of little consequence.  If the voter has read this far, my card has already done its job. 

I remember the adage “you only have one chance to make a first impression” – a critical consideration for a piece of junk mail.  I consider the color of the ink.  An eye-catching color will create more interest than the pedestrian black pen I’m using.  I reject bright red or blue pens.  These colors are tainted by their underlying political identity.  Purple is a possibility but it smacks of privilege.  Yellow and orange are too pale.  Green hits all the right notes.  Unfortunately, green pens do not come in a homogeneous value pack, so along with the green, I have a lifetime supply of aqua, teal, bright red and blue pens that will last a lifetime. 

We travel in July, so I resume my postcards in August, working my way through a stack of Pennsylvania and Arizona addresses.  Peoples’ last names are an impressive reminder of the diversity of this country.  My Michigan mailing list was filled with names suggesting a Mideast or Eastern European origin, while the names from Florida and Arizona reflect a more Hispanic demographic.  I wonder how many times people have winced as their identities were mangled in mispronunciation.  Some names invite teasing and snickers.  Jeff Growbone for example. 

My peppy cards might further resonate if I sign with a name matching the ethnicity of the recipient.  If the name looks Polish, I could sign the card as “Iga,” or sign “Maria” for a Russian or Spanish name.   The name “Ana” (spelled with a single “n”) seems to span the most cultures and ethnicities.  Ana becomes my go to signature for female recipients.

I run out of low voltage TV to accompany my postcards.  My mind begins to wander, looking out the window, watching my hand as it moves across the card.   I feel the rhythmic contractions of my forearm muscle providing the subtle wrist movements required for handwriting.  On a smaller scale, this same hand/eye coordination fuels my killer tennis forehand and is the core of my athletic identity. Now I give thanks this talent is supple enough to guide my stunning handwriting - smooth, even and entirely legible.  Outside a large pileated woodpecker swoops in, stalls, and makes an elegant landing on the suet I set out for him – another exquisite example of hand/eye (in this case wing/talon/eye) coordination.  Similar to humans, there must be a spectrum of coordination in all animals, and my hope for my pileated is that his will take him through the upcoming harsh winter.

I switch to multitasking and turn on the season opener of the TV reality show Survivor.  My attention to detail falters and instead of writing the triumphant “Thanks for being a voter,”  I write “Thanks for being a Survivor,” a sentiment somewhat true for all of us, I suppose, but not appropriate as a voter reminder.  The instructions suggest White-Out for corrections.  I have a different perspective.  Perfection is not the goal.  Years ago, I bought a sweater handknit by indigenous Peruvians.  The sweater’s tag sought to manage expectations.  “The minor imperfections in this garment are part of its handmade charm.”  I’ve adopted this adage as an all-purpose celebration of creative imperfection.  Forget the White Out, forget wasting a postcard and starting over.  I cross out the first syllable of Survivor, retool the remaining “vivor” into voter, and then add an ooops! This charming human touch will speak directly to the voter. 

My format grows stale as I work my way through the last stack of my Florida cards.  My next step – make my postcards look artistic.  I add “Florida Matters”  between the two sentences and then add arrows curving in from the right and left to create a comforting cocoon around my message.  I test out a few but decide my arrows resemble flagellating sperm slithering along the card.  I add little arrows on the tail to morph the sperm to a feather, but now the arrow looks like a string of barbed wire.  I have limited (to the point of non-existent) artistic talent, but in my collection of pens, I spot a metallic gold one and use it to create swirls around the “Florida Matters” insertion.

There’s enough time to do one more batch of 200 before the October 26^th deadline.  Progressive Turnout plans to collect and mail all the cards at the same time to reach people in the crucial days before the election.  I’m stunned.  The website proclaims they’ve run out of postcards.  They have distributed ALL the 40 MILLION cards to 297,000 volunteers.  I’ve timed my writing.  Each postcard takes 2 minutes to write, though the extra flourishes might add another 15 seconds. My goal of 1,000 cards translates to about 33 hours, and the postage has set me back about $600.  I’m proud.  I’ve responded to Michelle Obama’s plea to “do something.” 

I imagine one of my postcards arriving in someone’s mailbox – an Asif, Ana, Olga, Juan, Tom, Dick or Harry – mixed into the unsolicited shit that passes for mail today.  They’re about to toss my postcard, but they notice the multicolor metallic highlights, the uplifting arrows.  They see artistry, not sperm or barbwire.  “Someone has taken the time to write to ME personally,” they think.  “This note has been written with care and thought.  I trust this person.  I’m going to vote.”

With 20 addresses left, I run out of postcards, 20 short to complete my last sheet of addresses and reach 1,000.  Through all these months and with the echo of Obama’s words, I’ve convinced myself that I hold the fate of the world in my hands.  With my tragic shortfall, Maria, Sameer, Jesse and Christiana won’t be hearing from me, nor will Richard, Anita and Pedro, all of them potential tipping points to organize family and friends into robust ripples of voting commitment.  I await November 6^th with anxious hope.  I’ve done what I can.  I hope it’s enough.