Feeling a bit unsure today? I am. I’ve been confused throughout this entire election. Quite frankly, I’m just not happy either way. Luckily, this is not a political blog. It is, however, a personal blog. So, in the spirit of election day I want to share an experience I had 8 years ago leading up to the 2004 election. Below is an essay  I wrote and hope you use to take a break from the shenanigans that today promises:

Campaigning At My Father’s Door

“When women vote, women win.” I chanted intermittently as I waded through thousands of volunteers. Flown in by the pro-choice group EMILY’s List, we would spend the next four days knocking on doors encouraging South Florida to vote blue in the 2004 presidential election.

I reached van 182 and was handed my clipboard. The front page was a maze of Palm Beach County streets highlighted in green. I traced the map with my finger, thinking it would be funny if Grandma Pearl were on my route. Instead, my eyes froze over another address.

Chills ran down my body, my eyes swelled, my heart raced.

Just weeks after I was born, my mother – a thirty-four year old with a Masters degree, three daughters, and the illusion of the perfect American family – discovered my father was a drug addict, philanderer, and a con man – actions that would eventually lead him to prison. One night, this man we still adored came home late and left pieces of Bazooka gum under my ten and six year old sisters’ pillows while they slept. And that was it. His disappearance was sudden and final; twenty-one years went by without a word. Despite being an infant when my father left, his absence had always defined me. My obsession with trying to comprehend how he could desert us led me to track him down through private detectives and countless Internet searches. I carried his Palm Beach address folded in my wallet.

“Time to go!” Miriam, my American University classmate, said hanging out the van’s sliding door. I stood still as a tree trunk, my feet rooted deeply into the ground. Of all the political groups, of thousands of EMILY’s List volunteers, of the many places they campaigned, of the four hundred vans in South Florida, and of the eight people in my van, I had been assigned to my father’s street.

As we approached I-95, I explained to Miriam and my story made its way around the van. The strangers stared at me, begging for more information. For so long, I had imagined meeting my father. But, no one in the van could fathom the consequences of taking this opportunity or ignoring it; the fear of what he would or wouldn’t say; the pain of his lack of emotion or the overwhelming confusion of his explanations.

First, I called my mom who quickly said, “Knock down that bastard’s door.”

My middle sister Jodie thought it more than a coincidence. She knew immediately I was hesitant to go without her and wished she could fly to Florida that afternoon. Every part of me wanted her to, but it felt too impractical to say out loud. Before we hung up Jodie joked, “Knock on his door and say, ‘Hi. Do you know John Kerry is against the death penalty in most cases? Yeah, except for dead beat dads!’”

Melanie was cautious – unsure how to advise her baby sister. She asked if I felt comfortable with my fellow campaigners. Was I prepared for a bad reaction from him? I wasn’t.

I avoided his street for the rest of the day, sometimes triple knocking on one home from other parts of my route.

 “Here, Kim, take a tissue,” a van mate offered a crumpled, possibly-used tissue from her jean pocket, “I can go with you.” The offer was genuine, but she wasn’t prepared for the potential meltdown that accompanied twenty-one years of fury, grief, questions.

Later, our van driver asked if we should head back to the hotel or do one more neighborhood?” She asked the whole van, but only looked at me.

I envisioned myself at his door. I wanted to meet him, but not without my sisters. Together, we would be courageous. We would be prepared. We would give each other the strength to say what we needed. As the silent van drove away from his street, I was certain someday we’d be back at my father’s door.