While societal norms often discourage us from discussing politics, I found that this could not be further from the truth in D.C. Instead of causing a notorious Thanksgiving style blowout, it united people with a common passion. Not because we agreed on everything, but because we had chosen to entrench ourselves in politics to the extent that it would dominate our lives. Ironically, politics behind the scenes remains a mystery to much of the public. Despite its seemingly ubiquitous nature, especially in the past few months, I have always felt the inner workings of the political machine were shrouded in mystery. Of course, members write legislation and vote on bills, but what about the dozens of people working under the name of each representative? This summer, not only did I peek behind the curtain, but I became one of those cogs. From my hometown in Florida, I landed in Washington D.C. at the beginning of June for what would become a summer filled with new experiences, surprising connections, and of course, political discourse.
When I arrived in the office of Congresswoman Ocasio-Cortez, the relative mystery quelled my expectations; I could not be certain of the obstacles I would face. Would I be able to keep up in an environment rooted in esoteric norms and teeming with future politicians all trying to network their way to the top? Well, I had to start with basic training first. I learned everything from security protocols to rules for ethical donations. I came to memorize the script for taking phone calls, procedures for logging messages, and categories for sorting emails. As a general intern, my days were often filled with giving updates on constituent cases, listening to complaints and referring the public to offices that were authorized to handle their issues. This political customer service was eye opening to how offices typically engage with the public. At the same time, I was shocked at the sheer number of people who called our office. As expected, any public facing job has its challenges, namely the public. While it is vital that we hold these offices accountable by having accessible channels of communication, at times taking calls combined the worst aspects of customer service with the sensitivity of politics.
However, once I realized that people just needed a receptacle for their anger and frustration, even the most vitriolic caller evokes empathy. I found this dynamic endlessly fascinating; people calling to ease their loneliness for a few short minutes, to express their unresolved emotional trauma, to showcase their optimism and hope for the future, or to seek help in a time of extreme vulnerability. It was a crash course in handling people, but the support of the incredible office staff made it all worth it. They welcomed me with open arms, challenging the image of a cutthroat battle royale I envisioned. Instead, I found incredibly passionate people who had accrued a seemingly infinite amount of political knowledge. Yet they were also deeply relatable. Despite the advanced age of many Congress members, when walking down the halls of the Capitol I was struck by the tide of young faces. Some question the youth’s ability to take positions of power, but the briefs, memos, and statements that serve as an office’s official internal and public correspondence are largely written by staffers too young to run for president. To an extent, this boosted my confidence in our governing system, but it also raised the question of how much of an effect younger representatives would have. Though I can not deny that they are the change makers willing to shake up the status quo. I had been largely sheltered from on-the-ground action, so when a few people from the office offered to attend a protest, I wanted to sail away from familiar shores to something beyond by comfort zone.
At five o’clock sharp we locked the heavy, wooden office door and trekked through marble halls, past the Senate buildings, and through the Capitol lawn to the supreme court. I was grateful to be wearing a dress in the summer heat though my black leather boots rubbed blisters into my heel with every step. How did anyone do this in pumps? As we approached the polished white stone steps of the I heard them before I saw them. Was that Taylor Swift? Music blared but the cacophony of voices muddled the lyrics. Police officers lined the street. What were we protesting again? We approached the tightly-packed crowd hoisting signs overhead. I struggled to make out the iconography but it hit me like the spiteful waves D.C. humidity. They waved images of mutilated babies accompanied by “abortion is murder” slogans blown up to be seen by the crowds. I let my coworkers lead me past the horde of counter protesters and the metal fence separating them from the pro-choice protesters. We joined the edge of the crowd circled around a woman speaking into a microphone. I shifted uncomfortably in my boots. My supervisor asked how I was doing. Despite the tension, I was not too worse for wear. I clung close to my people and held on to the words of our speaker as they drifted over the microphone. I had attended enough church services to know a sermon. Like a pastor she preached to the congregation words of hope and joy, but also fire and rage. We pulled forward, leaning in to hear.
She passed the microphone off and the crowd erupted in thunderous applause for each new speaker. Poetry and prose cut through the din. A young woman put a “keep abortion legal” sign in my hands. I felt the air shift suddenly as the voices rose from new directions. The counter protesters were already behind us before I could react. They created a barrier of bodies, waving gruesome signs and shouting about the evils of abortion. My eyes darted around as we huddled closer together. Shouts to hold the line echoed over chants. Then they deployed the umbrellas. Protesters hung at the edge of the crowd shielding our gaze from their signs. The speakers at the center pulled out attention forward but before I could reorient a figure in dressed in black demanded my attention. He was relaxed, laid back, too casual and out of place. Over the noise, he asked me why I was there. Oh brother. I knew that tone. Was I really getting debated at the steps of the Supreme Court? Mouth dry, I prattled off something about healthcare, looking for a way out. Shakily, I followed with something about maternal mortality.
“Do you know the rate of maternal mortality?”
“Any is a tragedy.”
“Yeah, but do you know it?”
“No.”
Statistic.
“Any is a tragedy.”
There was not much else to argue with. The counter protesters’ speaker penetrated the center of the circle. He was dragged out by police. My coworkers let me know they were on their way out. Just a friend and I were left amidst the thong of escalating tensions. The march was starting. Twinged with guilt at leaving early, I took that as my cue. We wove through the bodies and began our procession to the metro, striking up a conversation about abortion that shifted into religion. The train rattled into the Foggy Bottom stop and we said our goodbyes. The mass of commuters ushered me up the escalator and through the turnstile as I let my nerves unravel. Ismatu Gwenolyn compared the outrage that fuels protests to drugs and I felt the visceral reality in that assertion. The stimulation, adrenaline, and exhaustive comedown are a built in feature. Yet, here I was more dissociated than anything. This was my first protest and I was confronted with the truth that any real change must entail sacrifice, whether that be time, money, or comfort. Any effective challenge to the status quo can not be be easy. This was the politics unhidden and and fueled by the populus, but at its heart it was a different kind of customer service. We market our cause, demand payment, and deal with rude customers. Perhaps the only difference is the message we are selling.
