The Room Where it Happens

Meeting rural Democrats where they are...

No one really knows how the game is played
The art of the trade
How the sausage gets made
We just assume that it happens
But no one else is in the room where it happens

~Hamilton (musical)

I filled up at the gas station before I headed out down 2.5 hours of back roads toward the center of the state. I live a couple of miles from the Iowa border surrounded by soybeans and cornfields — a very small town. The only gas station closes around 4pm each day. There seems to be no set closing time…the station closes when folks quit coming in. I made it before they closed that day. I even managed to snag a can of Diet Coke for the drive.

I was asked to speak to a group of about 30 folks who had gathered in the basement of a church to talk about a local group harassing librarians and challenging books. They wanted to talk about our no-show, no-town hall, no-good Congressman. They were also concerned about finding candidates to run as Democrats in their community.

They asked me to come a few weeks before, and I agreed knowing they needed someone to tell them that they should do what they were asking permission to do…stand up and speak out. Show up. Run even though you’re likely to get your butt whipped. And I mean a woodshed whipping.

I should know. I still carry the stripes.

The drive out to the north-central part of the state is beautiful in daylight. It’s harrowing at night.

Barn In Valley, TicKavitch via Flickr.

The lettered highways I drove on this particular trip twist and turn. They leap over rolling hills and wind past farm ponds. The farmhouses are often old, and yet beautiful, with metal roofs and flower beds and vegetable gardens. Porch swings and wind chimes. Hand pumps and old windmills. A few barking dogs and cows grazing in the fields.

I must have made five turns onto different lettered highways. The roads are pretty bad in Northern Missouri…I can usually dodge the potholes, but the dips and ruts in the road make it difficult to navigate. There is so little traffic on some roads, grass grows in the split asphalt. There is a missing center stripe through much of these back roads. There are no shoulders on the roads. Meeting a large piece of farm equipment while topping a hill is always at the back of my mind.

So are the deer.

Several years ago, in the span of three weeks, my family totaled one car and sustained damage to two others while driving these highways in the early morning. The deer have a death wish. Suicide by Piper.

I arrived in this small town around 6 in the evening…it was either late spring or early summer, and the sun was still high in the sky when I found my way to the back of the church and through the basement doors.

The first thing I noticed was the potluck spread out on two tables. Scotcharoos and Little Smokies and Midwestern sushi (pickles slathered in cream cheese and wrapped in a piece of ham, sliced, and laid out like little sushi rolls.) Of course, someone brought a corn casserole and another casserole that I didn’t try, but it had crushed chips on top, so you know it was good.

After visiting, eating, and downing a cup of lemonade, I was asked to speak.

I knew only one person in the room, but most knew me, and many had given to my campaign in my failed State House run. There were no hard feelings about me losing the race — my district hasn’t elected a Democrat in 32 years and never a woman.

This particular Dem group is chaired by a farmer, Mike, who has been involved in Missouri politics for decades. He has watched the gradual decline of our state…our slow descent into blood-red politics and policies. He watched Missouri go from a reliable bellwether state to an unreliable vehicle for extremism and the playground of the billionaires.

If you are in a blue state, you may not feel the day-to-day weight of puppet politics, but we do. The wealthy and well-connected use red-state legislators to pass legislation in order to cut taxes and roll back regulations. They also send millions in donations to candidates running for Secretary of State, AG, and Governor. You know as well as I do that these folks expect to be repaid when their candidate wins office. And, in states like Missouri, they are repaid with interest.

But, back to the room. I spoke on running in ruby-red districts without the financial support of the party. I spoke about showing up on every ballot in every district across the state because when we have a nominee, that person knocks doors and puts out signs and attends forums and places ads in local media. Folks who haven’t heard a Democratic message are suddenly exposed to sanity.

As I spoke, I saw smiles and heads nodding. I saw them whispering to their neighbor. I saw them fill their entire chest with air to affirm what I had told them.

I did not tell this group anything they didn’t know, but it’s a little like a church hymn. It’s a song you may have forgotten the words to, but when someone starts singing it, you start humming along until the words come back. And, it’s safe when someone else starts singing first. Like a revival, these rooms are also filled with fire.

I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see.

In Missouri, Democrats have been whipped for over 20 years, but does it matter? We aren’t leaving the state. We aren’t going anywhere…we can’t. It’s a huge financial burden and our children and grandchildren are here. So, we stay and fight.

This is our state too.

After I spoke, there was a little line that formed to talk more. Most of the folks in the room were my parents' age, and most were worried about what their children and grandchildren will deal with in this red state — several more spoke under their breath about what a Trump presidency will do to our country.

They talked about our schools and the bad roads and the long trips for medical care and the fact that the Republicans running this state have been a supermajority for over 20 years, but blame our shortcomings on “radical liberals.”

One woman thanked me for coming and pressed a five dollar bill into my hand to help with gas. When I tell you that happens at almost every event, I hope you believe me. Bless the grandmas.

These are the rooms where it happens. These are the rooms where someone gets fed up with not having a candidate to vote for and says “To hell with it…I’ll do it.” These are the rooms where organizers like Mike prod their neighbors to not give up and push back on GOP rhetoric and lawmakers. To give to nominees. To do something. Anything.

The sad thing is that many blue-state Democrats don’t know these rooms exist. Most political consultants don’t care that they exist.

It’s why I write…so you know.

We aren’t all backward. We aren’t all voting against our self-interest. We haven’t all given up. We aren’t unicorns — we exist in numbers, that if captured, would change the shape of elections across the country.

My good friend, Michele Hornish, said this about red-state Democrats: We aren’t looking for sympathy. We are looking for company.

Exactly. Pull up a chair.

Red-states are the test run for Project 2025. We are the lab rats for oligarchy. We are running the trial for the end of democracy. If we don’t stop the billionaires, and their bought-and-paid-for lawmakers, these red-state realities will spread to the entire country.

In the meantime, I’m in the room. I’m here with thousands of rural Democrats.

We aren’t going anywhere.

~Jess