Dramatization of Campaigning in North Urbana
In a cold wind and under gray skies, I began on the deserted streets of northern Urbana. The dilapidated shacks always brought me such great despair, but medication was making the impoverished black community tolerable. I knew that if I tried to explain this to anybody, I would come off sounding like a rabid racist.
I went from house to house, campaigning. The homes were mostly small, wooden, and in disrepair. At one, an old man with a gray beard, drinking a beer, came to the door. "Hi, I'm Dave Rosen, Socialist Workers Party candidate for mayor of Urbana."
"Damn politicians," yelled the man. "You're all a bunch of crooks." He started to close the screen door.
"I agree with you," I called out. "That's why our Party wants to overthrow the whole system. We want black people to take control of the black community."
"You serious?" laughed the man.
"Yes I am," I said.
"Well come on in. Have a beer with me." I felt obliged. We sat and talked for almost half an hour about socialism, racism, and black control. The old guy was hooting and hollering. "This takes the shit," he cackled.
"As a gay man, I've experienced first hand abuse by the police. This has made me more sensitive to the same crap going on in the black community."
"Amen to that brother." The reaction pleased me, until I considered the possibility that the man had no idea what the word ‘gay’ meant.
"Remember to vote for me," I remarked as I left.
"You bet," laughed the old guy in response. I wondered if he was even registered to vote.
Many of the people I called on were afraid to open the door. In a loud voice I explained who I was and slid the campaign literature through the mail slot. One lady, after scanning my positions, called me back for tea.
When I walked down Tremont Street, I heard a bark and looked up to see four or five mutts assembled into a pack. They bared their teeth, growled and started slowly moving in my direction. I walked away, as nonchalant as possible, although I was trembling. Much to my relief, the dogs stopped at the street corner, the end of their turf. From then on I kept my eye out for dogs and skipped those areas under their control.
I distributed flyers for another two hours, until the day grew dark and I reached the far north end. It was time to turn around and return back towards campus. In doing so, I again noticed the junkyard dogs. They had become more aggressive. My path was blocked. Just a few houses away, the pack, skin, bone and teeth, were growling. I walked west a block, but the dogs also went west, only to thwart my path south again. Frightened, I continued moving west, but then noticed two dogs, just ahead. "Shit," I swore. There was no way I was going further north, deeper into the trap. I was trapped on Eads Street. It grew darker and colder. Fifteen minutes passed and the two dogs ahead of me seemed to lose interest. The ones to the south were still lying in wait. I slowly ventured further west. "So far, so good," I thought cautiously. Then, halfway down the block, the western dogs regained interest and decided to charge. Growling and barking they reached me just as I made it to a screen door, but not before one of them ripped the cuff of my bell bottoms. Holding the screen door close to my body, I was able to avoid the bloodthirsty snout that attempted to poke its way into the gap. The other dog clawed furiously, baring its teeth as it tried to break through the screen.
I fell back, as the door behind me opened. "Lord have mercy," cried the woman, "those damn dogs."
"Thanks," I said, relieved but still shaking.
She shook her head. "Somebody ought to do something about those dogs." I noticed her odd getup. She was at least fifty, wearing blue leotards and a maternity top.
“As a matter of fact," I began, "I'm running for mayor of Urbana on the Socialist Workers Party ticket. We believe in black control of the black community. The rich white people downtown could care less about the dogs on Eads or Romine or Tremont." I named the streets where I had encountered the vicious hounds.
"You're running for mayor and you came into this neighborhood? You're the first one to ever do that."
"I hope you will vote for me in April. That is, if the dogs let me live," I said with a nervous laugh.
She went to the curtain, pulled it up and examined the street. "They've headed east. You'd do best to head west to Wright Street and then go straight down to University."
I thanked her, gave her my campaign literature, and continued west. Turning south on Wright Street I glanced in every direction, looking for dogs. Then I stopped. Déjà vu. There it was—a tiny familiar shack. It was Ray's house, the young man from Tennessee with the Jesus statues who wanted a suicide pact. I felt a chill. The place looked long abandoned but I did not stop to investigate, much as the idea intrigued me. Night was falling; it was cold; the dogs could be anywhere and I wanted nothing more than to be home. I broke into a run, imagining the dogs at my tail and made it to University a few minutes later.
That night, as I whipped up a fresh batch of spaghetti in my warm room, I felt good. Hounds notwithstanding, I was pleased with my first full day of campaigning.
