Hello from swirl country
A week in the life in the largest red county in the swing-iest state
I’ve been looking for signs, not just the ones on lawns. I’ve been looking for clues in this land of parallel universes, where red meets blue and blue meets red like one of those giant swirl lollipops. I’m talking about Lancaster, this giant weird county with half a million people eighty miles west of Philly, where tourists come to stare at the Amish and stock up on whoopie pies and outlet deals. I’m talking about my home for the past five years, in a blue city that doubles as the county seat controlled by Trump-loving Republicans. Where residents took to the streets in the wake of George Floyd’s murder and where a drag story hour at the public library was cancelled due to bomb threats. Where Republicans have won every presidential election for the past hundred years with the exception of 1964, when Barry Goldwater lost by 946 votes to Lyndon B. Johnson. Where the former County GOP chair announces she’s heading up Republicans for Harris in Pennsylvania.
A county in a state where the heat — as in a dead heat — is on. Is that pink I’m seeing? Here’s a peek of a week in the life…
Monday: I’m on Route 23, headed home from one of my orchard haunts. I’ve got a half-peck of assorted heirloom apples in the back seat, some pears and persimmons to keep them company. Right after I pass a soft-serve and burger joint already closed for the season, I spot a giant billboard that shouts: AMISH FOR TRUMP. Trump won twice here, and not because of the Amish, who don’t really vote. It’s a curious display of support from a community that doesn’t call attention to themselves, especially to the outside world.
Thursday: We get word that Trump is coming to Lancaster. Not in a slam-dunk part of the county but in the city, home to 50,000 people, a patchwork quilt of black and brown and queer faces, aging hippies, refugees, Muslims, Jews, where a Trump lawn sign is more the exception than the rule.
Friday: My friend Julie asks if I’d like to canvass with her in Ephrata, a small town about 15 miles north. Ephrata has been in the news lately, a Republican stronghold where the Harris campaign has set up its Lancaster office. Where signs of pink are not just wishful thinking.
Saturday: Julie and I are greeted by a cheery group of Harris peeps. They are multi-racial, multi-gendered, and energized. Using an app to track who’s home and who isn’t, we knock on 50 doors with known Democratic and Independent registrations. But when you’re in swirl country, we learn that labels don’t mean a whole lot. We meet one guy wearing a Grateful Dead skull cap working on his car. The app says he’s registered Democrat. He looks straight at us and says he’s voting for Trump. End of story. Independent, we learn, is possible code for Republican. (As of last week, Independents make up 17 percent of total registrations in the county.)
One woman is afraid to say out loud on her driveway that she’s voting for Harris. One guy shows us his Harris sweatshirt when he comes to the door rather than say her name out loud. One very burly dude in a tight shirt comes from behind his screened door to show us his muscles and say Trump.
“I can’t imagine doing this alone,” Julie says to me. Neither can I.
The two undecideds we meet are the ones who really want to talk. One a Black truck driver in his late thirties and a single dad of four, the other a sixty-something white mother and grandmother and longtime state employee. The dad says the racist things that Trump says don’t bother him. About Harris, he says, he ‘doesn’t know.’ What is she going to do for him, a single dad making 65K a year. Hardly enough to make ends meet but too much to be eligible for assistance. How is that possible, he asks us. Trump might be a racist SOB, but she is an unknown, he says. Before we part ways, I remember the interview Harris did just a few days ago with radio host Charlamagne tha God. That this might be an opportunity to get to know her. His eyes light up.
The mom says she can’t talk politics at work. With us, she unleashes her contempt of Trump. Can’t stand him, she says. Sick to her stomach. And yet she can’t bring herself to fill out her mail-in ballot. She pauses when we ask if she has a daughter or granddaughter. She does. Could this be the thing that helps her get closer to a decision?
Sunday morning: The local paper (where my husband is an editor) runs a story about how Lancaster County elections staff misled students at Franklin & Marshall College (which is located in Lancaster city) on voter registration rules, that the county incorrectly said that students couldn’t register without proof that registration in their home states had been cancelled. This prompts a statement from the American Civil Liberties Union of Pennsylvania, urging the county to honor the student registrations; the deadline to register in Pennsylvania passed yesterday. [Scroll to the bottom of the page for PDF link to story.]
Sunday afternoon: I walk downtown to survey the scene as Trumpers wait for their leader and Democrats gather at a public square/roundabout in the center of town known as Penn Square. Police are fanned out for blocks — local cops, state troopers and Secret Service.
The line to get into the venue snakes for several blocks. There are hats on heads –so many hats -- and hats for sale at all four corners of the intersection of Queen and Vine Streets. T-shirts too, including one of Trump’s face superimposed on a superhero’s body. It’s a carnival but I can seem to find the cotton candy. A man carries a banner that reads: “Know the God of the Bible.” Music blares from cars at a standstill; reggaeton meets country meets the electric bass of a teenaged boy practicing chords. It’s a circus; it’s a shit show; it’s a mile from where we live.
Sandwiched in between tables of merch and the curb is a codger in a wheelchair holding a Harris sign. I ask him if he’s doing alright. “I was in a union for many years,” he says. “I can hold my own.”
I walk back towards the town square where the cops and Secret Service agents have stopped all pedestrian traffic. The motorcade is imminent. I’m standing on the curb. All around me are people who are really happy to be there. I see a boy, maybe twelve, dressed like Trump, in a blue suit, with a wig and a MAGA hat, standing on the opposite side of the street. And then just like that, a swarm of SUVs zoom from the west.
“Ooh, there he is,” I hear someone say.
Men in tactical gear hop out of armored vehicles and stand guard. I know where I am, but I don’t.
At last, the cops give the all-clear to pedestrians. I make my way back to where the Democrats are gathered and I meet three young men taking in the scene. They’re all from Lancaster and working their first jobs. I ask them what they think of all this. They say they’re excited by the resistance. That people are showing up, that they feel optimistic by the turnout for Harris. Their coworkers are registering to vote, they tell me. Maybe they’ll canvass, they say.
The event inside is underway and the traffic is beginning to move again. Honks for Harris resume.
My head is pounding and I know it’s time to get out of here. With each block, the noise starts to fade.
I make a stop at a local market owned by a Kurdish-Syrian couple. The front door is open, as it often is on warm days. She’s behind the counter watching Trump on the television. “I had a ticket to go see him,” she says. “Not because I support him but to educate myself on his talking points. To check the accuracy of the crazy things he says.”
All day, she’s had to worry about whether her customers could navigate the street closures. The cop assigned to the block closest to her store wouldn’t give her a timetable, so business for most of the day was dead, she tells me.
We bid each other a good evening. The air is still warm, the sun faded down to a few streaks above. As I approach Lime Street, I spot an officer on patroI and swirling sirens at every block in each direction for as far as I can see.
Trump’s exit motorcade will be coming through at any moment.
I don’t need to wave goodbye to the emperor as he farts his way out of our town. I keep walking, wishing for peace and quiet and a little less orange (and a little more pink grapefruit) on Lime Street.
Monday: It’s the last day to register to vote here. PA Secretary of State Al Schmidt gets wind of what happened with the F&M students trying to register to vote. He writes a letter to the Lancaster County Commissioners demanding an investigation into what happened and asks “the elections office to properly adjudicate all registration applications in compliance with Pennsylvania law, as well as to reinstate all registrations which have been erroneously placed on hold.” [Scroll to bottom of page for PDF link.]
Fourteen days to go. What else could possibly happen?
This was a fascinating read from the perspective of someone experienced running campaigns on the other side of the pond! I’m curious, but what data does the app use to tell you if someone is home or not, as obviously the other data you’re using on registrations gives you predicted voter intentions but knowing if they’re likely to be in or not is a new one on me! I also feel that we *might* have a different meaning for ‘canvassing’. Was the aim a) to talk to as many likely Democrat voters as possible to make sure they vote (as in any election actually turning your supporters out to vote is key), b) Spend the time trying to win over undecideds, or c) Identify your supporters who you don’t already hold data on so you can make sure they vote on or just before polling day. Or all three?
I think you might be speaking for a shitonne of people in the US now who’d say, “I know where I am, but I don’t.”
Fascinating, KOD☮️