On the stump

>> Mirror writer runs for the NDP! Part 1 of her campaign diary

By NOEMI LOPINTO

I signed up to be a candidate for the New Democratic Party in this year's federal election on Friday, October 28, after I had called to ask what kind of credentials the party expected from potential candidates. The male voice on the line responded succinctly: "Basically," he said, "a pulse." There are many things I don't have: good credit, lots of cash, a PhD--but a heartbeat, I got.

When I was eight years old, I wrote a letter to the then-U.S.-president Ronald Reagan. I berated him for spending "oodles" of money on nuclear weapons and for abandoning the poor. I wrote a 10-page dissertation on how people should be nice to each other and everybody should have food to eat. When I grew up I got rid of my TV, stopped reading the paper, and confined myself to the smaller details of my life. However, the last two years have brought me back to that sense of childish indignation, and I decided to run.

NDP headquarters is a tiny two-room office where every available surface is covered with paper. The organizer of the Quebec branch of the NDP, Piper Huggins, handed me a prospective candidate info package, a Communications Resource Manual, the NDP Resolutions Reference (1991-1999), 162 pages of material with titles like, "Job Creation and Sustainable Development" and then sent me on my way.

To become a candidate for any official party, I had to collect signatures from residents of my potential riding Rosemont/Petite-Patrie. I needed 100 signatures but Piper suggested I get 125. She took me outside the office to take my picture but the photograph will show the wind blowing my hair into my teeth because I couldn't stop giggling.

The following day (Saturday), I headed to Rosemont metro for the signatures. There's something inherently creepy about approaching strangers to talk politics when just about everybody is sick to death of it except the politicians.

However, I'll tell you what I learned: women, especially middle-aged, post-menopausal types, are the first to tell you to go climb a tree. As soon as you approach, their faces snap shut like shells, their bodies fold inwards.

One woman was unconsciously walking backwards as I talked, and I was unconsciously walking forwards, so that by the time she was able to form her "No," I had her backed up against a wall.

Another woman became so flustered by my approach she forgot her Dollarama bag on her seat.

I met two types of opposition. Party-oriented: "You're not Bloc/Liberal, are you?" Or my favourite: "I'm not political/I hate politics."

Surprisingly, I only got into one serious argument, with a young man who said the only party he supported was the Parti Québécois. I responded that this was a federal election and that his signature in no way endorsed the NDP, only my right to participate in the democratic process.

"You don't understand," he said. "I don't want there to be other parties, I don't want there to be a democratic process!" I shouldn't say it was much of an argument, because my response that he was in serious want of an education and should try cracking open a book sometime didn't seem to faze him. By Sunday, I'd collected 130 signatures and was on my way to federal politics.

Next week: Election Canada's Director of Scrutiny, and I throw up three times. :

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