ArcaMax

One of the most awkward aspects of running for office was the mandate that, at some point, I would need to cold call my entire friend list and ask them for money. Gross.

I had heard that my party had an established donor list to which I should have had access as a candidate, but that list never reached me. Instead, I was given the contact info of a volunteer to help me with cold calls by taking down pledges, ensuring they were fulfilled, and keeping me on the dreadful task with a good amount of cheer.

My handler didn't understand why I wasn't given the list either. I told him I made a list of people I knew, putting them from my cellphone into an Excel spreadsheet. When he realized that, we stared at each other in the private room we booked in the library.

"Well, here's me starting to punch in numbers from my digital Rolodex," I said glumly.

Foible No. 1: Plenty of my friends and acquaintances are journalists.

I figured I'd make these awkward calls early. An editor I had worked with in the past gave me a slight tsk-tsk in his tone for even asking, but as they were on speakerphone, I got them to explain the rationale for being unable to donate to a political campaign. (Caveat: This might not be true for all journalists.) They might give privately, but to engender the appearance of bias publicly? It's not a great look.

I looked at my handler. "Should I take the other editors off?" He nodded.

Weeks later, at a ribbon cutting at an art gallery, I thanked that editor for detailing precisely what I needed when I called. They laughed, "You're welcome."

Foible No. 2: You're never sure you have the right number.

I went to graduate school with someone who had gone on to do great things in the literary world. They were also married to an elected in my state... because my city is small, and my state is even smaller.

Unfortunately, the elected picked up the call, not the former classmate. "Who is this? How did you get this number?" They asked incredulously. I told them I was hoping to reach their spouse, who I went to school with more than a decade previously.

"And you need money for what?" I told them nervously that I was running for office. There was no donation, but I don't blame them, especially after they ended with, "Well, good luck."

Foible No. 3: Turns out party lines stymie check writing, regardless of friendship.

I knew a lot of people who belonged to the other party. They, without hesitation, would ask me what party I was and then politely decline to donate. There was nothing further about a shared past we might have had, though they perhaps knew my motivations and community-building ideals more than random people from a list. But, in the end, it just didn't matter.

After we left the library, I felt discouraged. Though, at some point, I went to the campaign P.O. box and received a check. Then more arrived unbidden, many with wobbly handwriting and small words of encouragement on Post-It notes that hoped their few dollars would help. For each thank you note, I could account for what they invested. Their $20 helped buy a banner. The $100 bought X number of yard signs.

But what really counted more was how their belief in me got me through the worst of what it means to be a politician, the implicit ask for their trust in someone they didn't know to do the right thing.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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