Daytime and evening phone banks are qualitatively different. On Tuesday mornings I wax philosophical with Strongsville’s universe of undecided voters about the local homeless man who registered 79 times at the behest of ACORN (I assure them that not only was the man not going to vote 79 times, he wasn’t even going to vote once—that voter registration fraud is not the same thing as voter fraud); the impact of the sale of a major Cleveland employer, National City Bank, on our economy (Does long-suffering Northeast Ohio need any more examples of the short-sighted, unregulated vision of Republican philosophy? I tell them it’s personal, that my husband is still very tentatively a VP at the bank but not hopeful that his job will survive the consolidation with their new owner in nearby Pittsburgh); the character of Barack Obama and the temperament of John McCain (I assuage concerns, proffered in hushed tones and coded language, about Obama’s now-famous “terrorist associations,” moving them ever so gently toward recognizing that his dispassion is necessary for diplomacy and preferable to his opponent’s inclination toward battle). There’s lots of back and forth, and I endure several asides about Palin’s “refreshing feistiness,” the weather, grandchildren, lawn sign wars, the local gambling issue on the ballot, and even, in one case, a hand-made motor that runs on water (Did I want to bring my sons over for a look?). These people are retired, relatively informed, and looking for conversation.

 Wednesday evenings are a different experience altogether. The contact rate is very low because these young-adult to middle-aged working folk don’t answer for unfamiliar phone numbers and are too busy or tired to engage in conversation when they do pick up. Mostly they are suspicious, having lived in the world of anonymous technology for so long that they are flummoxed by a genuine attempt at dialogue. But these are the likeliest voters, so getting past their defenses is vital to the Obama operation that continues to impress me with its organization and heart.

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 I wasn’t a bit surprised last Wednesday to hear the caution in Corina’s voice when I first spoke, identifying myself as an Obama volunteer, wondering if we could count on her support at the polls on November 4. She gave me a reluctant yes, drawn out and imbued with suspicion. At this point, there is usually instant comradeship, like-minded souls finding each other in the midst of an unfriendly mob, a metaphorical high-five, but Corina was different. I asked her if she’d like to volunteer for the campaign, and her hesitance belied the content of her answer. “I’d like to start helping today,” she said, again with that confounding reticence. “And what about lawn signs,” she spoke before I had a chance to develop the volunteer offer. I mentioned that we were having trouble obtaining enough but were doing what we could to let the community know that there were Democrats in this conservative town. She was guarded again: “Well, I don’t think it’s really any of my neighbors’ business who I vote for.” To which I laughed out loud, suggesting it was kind of funny, then, that she wanted an Obama sign in the middle of her yard. “Oh, yeah.” I could hear her sheepish grin. “Well,” she began, slowly, deliberating, “we’re the only black family in our neighborhood, and…”

 And it was suddenly crystal clear. Corina was afraid to be for Obama in her lily-white, Republican-spin-buying, borderline racist neighborhood. And it was never this way for me, ever, even though I live in the same town, because I could love Obama for his cerebral calm and mental agility and ideas of unity and compromise, not to mention his eloquent prescience about Iraq. It never had anything to do with race one way or another, but for this woman it’s always about race even if it’s not. That is, even if every single issue squares for her, if every reason I mentioned resonates with her as well, it’s still about race for her because people assume it is. Then she asked me---and you have to understand that nobody does this on a cold call—she asked me, grievously wary, “Well, why are you voting for Obama?” and I swear to god she just couldn’t imagine that a white person actually wants a black person for president.

 The African Americans I work with on the campaign don’t demonstrate the same vulnerability as Corina, but all I could think about when I talked to her was the theory that, nationally, blacks only supported Obama wholeheartedly once they saw he could win with whites in Iowa. It became real for them then, but for Corina it’s not real even yet. This woman breaks my heart. It’s like she just doesn’t really believe that America has it in her to vote for a black man, like she just won’t believe it until she sees it.

 And I thought about the day my first son was born eighteen years ago. I’d endured seven miscarriages before then, including some heart-rending late ones, and I simply did not connect pregnancy with live birth. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, worshipful of this sacred creature who had been within me only moments before. His very existence was stunning, a surprise. I remember feeling distinctly shocked that things had worked out, that I was going home with a baby. In spite of having bought him clothes and prepared a nursery and taken time off work, I apparently had not believed it was ever going to happen. In the same way, I think that Corina, just a few streets over from me, literally will not believe Obama can be president until he actually is.