myWork

The sun had yet to appear over the horizon as I arose from what was more a nap than a good night's sleep. Heat and humidity still hung in the air on this dark, cloudless morning as I made my way to work, still groggy from just having woken up. I suppose it would be logical that the past four days of 12 to 14 hour shifts, coupled with less than adequate sleep would have caught up to me, but after six months, the day had arrived, and I was running on pure adrenaline.

Election Day in Virginia can be an exciting and stirring occasion, but Election Day in June in Virginia? Not so much.

Everyone on the Brian Moran campaign knew that the turnout would be extraordinarily low (especially considering I was the only one to take a risk and call 250,000+ in the campaign pool), and we were right. As the voters slowly trickled in through the doors from six in the morning to seven at night, no need to contend with lines or even a minor wait, I waited, and watched, doing my best to keep my nerves under control while working to hand out our incredibly modest lit (black and white ink on flimsy computer paper), trying to sway any undecided voters.

Voters came and went, passing through a jungle of campaign representatives vying for their vote. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose that standing on a sidewalk, shoving paper at voters while shouting "the only candidate with a comprehensive energy policy to...", or "the only candidate with 20 years of experience fighting for the families of Virginia by...", is a rather insignificant task. However, in that moment, in the 'heat of battle', it feels like the most important job in the world.

I could never understand how someone could be undecided about a race until they reached the polls, or, at the very least, not informed on who the candidates were that were vying for the office. Perhaps it's just me, or perhaps it's everyone else. Perhaps I am too 'intense' about politics, or perhaps I am just informed, just passionate, and perhaps the rest of the people in this nation should either get informed and go vote, or stop complaining. But I digress...

At seven o'clock, after the storms that had commandeered our campaigning had passed, after the last of the voters had strode through the doors of Nelson Elementary School, and after the petite, aged woman poked her head out of the gymnasium door and yelled, in an unexpectedly powerful, yet humorously cartoonish voice "The polls are closed", we all gave ourselves a round of applause, a pat on the back, and started to close up shop.

The tension could have been cut with a knife. I ran around the school, to the street and back and everywhere in between, pulling up our signs from the muddy, saturated ground. There we stood, three different groups from three different campaigns. In the beginning of the day, we were strangers, even rivals, but as time went on, we became friends, we became a team and, in some strange way, the seven o'clock mark was a bittersweet end.

Sweet. Sweet because it marked the end of a day filled with oppressive heat, frightening storms, and swarms of gnats and flies that were, quite literally, eating us alive. Sweet because it marked an end to the sleepless nights, to the exhaustion, and to the unrelenting stress.

Bitter. Bitter because, simply put, it marked the END. Not only the end of our day of teamwork and camaraderie, but the end of something more. It was the end of, at least for me, six months of blood, sweat and tears. Six months of working every day to see that the man I BELIEVED in was given a shot at governing the state I have called home my entire life, and giving this Commonwealth a shot to become one of the most progressive states in the nation. Six months of growing to know, love, and respect the incredible people I worked with who ran this campaign so valiantly, and so selflessly, because they believed in this cause as well. It was the end of ALL THIS, and it was hard to see it go.

I remember swarming the door of the school as the results were announced, clamoring to get a glimpse of how MY race had turned out.

McAuliffe 140, Moran 99, Deeds 17. That's good, I thought, that's good. I thought it, and I verbalized it, continually to myself and to others, I suppose I found it to be my last ditch effort to convince the universe that this one was going in Brian's direction. I immediately got into my car, pulled away, and got on the phone to call in the results. Jessica, the director of the campaign in Hampton Roads, didn't pick up on the first ring, so I called again. "What's up Nate?"

"Jessica, I have the results from Nelson, do you want them?"
Was that a serious question?
"From Nelson? Okay, go ahead"
I repeated them.
"Is that good?" I stammered, "That's good right?"
"Yeah Nate, that's good."
The excitement from her voice had been replaced by the same stress and exhaustion that had overtaken me. We knew it was over, now it was just a question of how it was going to end.

I raced back to campus, to the house where I was staying with some friends, and bolted through the door.
"What's up Nate?"
"Not much."
"You good?"
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, I'm good"
I worked to hide the fact that I was actually having a minor meltdown that I hadn't felt in a long time.

I rushed over to the Television, but couldn't for the life of me, figure out how to turn it on, much less which one of the remotes to use. I eventually gave up and sat down at the kitchen table, trying my hardest to join in on the conversation, but it was no use. They asked me if I was okay, why I was so frazzled, and I tried to explain it, but, at this point, I can't even recall what I said, everything between seven and eight o'clock that Tuesday night is a blur. I couldn't keep from knowing any longer, so I asked, calmly, for the computer, and immediately logged on to as many election and news sites as I could think of, as if the information on one would vary from all the others. What I saw made my heart sink.

Deeds 51%, McAuliffe 26%, Moran 23%. This couldn't be happening. No. It, it just couldn't. After six months of work. After one of the largest grassroots efforts in the history of Virginia gubernatorial campaigns, after countless appearances on MSNBC, and local radio stations, this couldn't be happening. I looked at the precinct count, 36% of the votes had been tallied.

I knew I was wrong for even thinking it, but I somehow convinced myself that at turn around was possible. I looked at the vote tallies, county by county, precinct by precinct. I knew where our strong holds were, and I knew that if we could just eek out wins in Northern Virginia and Hampton, and remain competitive in the Western part of the state, as well as Richmond, we would have this. But that was not the case. NoVA was supposed to be our sure fire path to victory, and we didn't just lose there, we were crushed there.

The votes came in quickly, quicker than I had expected, and with each new update, my hopes for a comeback grew smaller and smaller. Until finally, at eight o'clock on the muggy Tuesday night, it ended. Creigh Deeds was declared the winner and, almost immediately, concession statements were posted on the other candidate's websites. It was over. Six months, over.

I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sad enough to cry, wasn't happy enough to let it go. I sat on the front porch for over an hour, calling everyone I knew who helped out with the campaign, or who voted for Brian, thanking them on behalf of Brian Moran's gubernatorial campaign, telling them how much their support meant to us. Perhaps it was genuine, or perhaps it was for my own sense of closure, I honestly don't know. I just remember how impossible coming back in off that porch seemed, how incredibly arduous every forced smile, every slight laugh became from that point on throughout the night, and I hated it.

I came down there to work on this campaign, and now that I had time, all that I really wanted to do was catch up with the people I hadn't seen in nearly a month, but I couldn't. I couldn't get past this loss, I couldn't get over how... unfair it all was. This was our race to win, this was our chance to succeed, this was our message to spread, and now it was gone, done, over. What was I supposed to do?

I had defined myself through this campaign. I was: Nate Morris, intern on Brian Moran's gubernatorial campaign. Nate Morris, Coordinator of Students for Brian Moran at Christopher Newport University. Nate Morris, Interim Co-Director of Virginians for Brian Moran's Hampton City Field Office. And now I had no title, I was just... Nate Morris.

I suppose, in the end, that was what I had to realize. That I was just Nate Morris. That this title was only temporary, and that once I let it define me, I let its loss ruin me.

I don't regret a single second spent working for Brian Moran's campaign for governor. In fact, it was an experience that I wouldn't trade for anything. Nor do I regret becoming impassioned about this cause, and devoting myself to it, especially as election day neared. However, I DO regret allowing it, and its loss, to define me. I regret becoming so self consumed following the end of the campaign that I was unable, for a time (all be it a short period of time), to recognize and be thankful for all of the other blessings I have in my life. It was okay for me to be sad about the loss and the end of this campaign, it was NOT okay for me to be devastated by it.

Overall, however, as I stated before, this was an experience that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I will use the lessons learned throughout this journey to grow, and will see it as just that, a journey in my life, not a definition of my life. And, after all, there were several positives that came out of this campaign, including the fact that I won the pool... thank you to the 319,177 people who voted.