Fanning youth vote into a flame

By Hayley Richardson

Barack Obama likes to say that his campaign isn't about him, and in many ways, this story isn't either.

At 23, I'm still naive enough to believe that one politician can transform the world, and I have no trouble putting my hopes in an admittedly imperfect vessel. But I'm also practical enough to recognize that this time around it has to be about us.

Who is us? We're the technology-addicted, perpetually in motion twenty-something wunderkinder that you're probably tired of hearing about. We're the source of inspiration for trend-spotters and the source of disdain for a certain few at the Wall Street Journal. We're underemployed, idealistic and impatient. We're passionate and vocal, but too often stuck in our own heads. We rock the vote, but forget to show up and vote. We feel compelled to "do the right thing," but are uncertain what that is.

We've inherited a world that doesn't quite make sense, one that continues to reverberate from historic injustices. We realize there has been progress made, but it's nebulous and halting. We see crumbling schools related to zip codes, and health-care disparities widening by the day.

The Senate floor still gleams alabaster, as do the boards of major corporations. Neighborhoods are bound by euphemisms, and policed by stares. I'm faced with the sad fact that as a white resident of Philadelphia, I need a reason to find myself west of 52d Street on a clear day in March. And right now, that reason is Obama.

The campaign began for me in New Hampshire, somewhere between the tidy clapboard houses and the cries of "Yes, we can!" that rose and flew out the auditorium doors of Nashua High School. I glimpsed a way out of the seemingly impenetrable racial divide that has characterized my 21st-century experience thus far. I saw it in the surprising support of Obama by rural white voters, in the unyielding dedication of his staff members. I also saw it in the remarkable things that can happen when people are actively participating in democracy.

I campaigned in Delaware for the Feb. 5 primary, and have since traveled around the Philadelphia environs on a mission to register new voters.

The rewards have come in spades: the giggling girls in Easter dresses who decorate their arms with Obama stickers; the Mexican men in Kennett Square who gleefully transcribe newly minted driver's license numbers on their voter registration forms; the "rough" area of Wilmington that turned out to be the most welcoming; the listless young men who agree to assist with the campaign.

Invariably, disappointments come too. I see it in the downcast eyes of the disenfranchised, in the frightened old women who answer their doors wielding knives, in the blocks after blocks of abandoned homes, in the apathy I encounter. It's difficult to sing the praises of the democratic process when surrounded by the tell-tale evidence of broken promises.

When I say that this time has to be about us, what I really mean is that it's about time.

I've heard many people say Obama represents a vision of what they'd like the United States to be. But Obama's feel-good message of hope and unity, while effective, has also skirted over the slow, deliberate work needed to dismantle long-standing systems of privilege in this country. This work could begin with something as simple as talking to a neighbor, attending a city council meeting, or staying somewhere long enough to become a stakeholder in a community.

Barack Obama no doubt has proven himself a remarkable politician, one capable of inspiring millions. I urge him to issue a challenge to this remarkable generation of mine. Make us show you what we're capable of.