Citizen Porter, at your service

Yesterday, I performed acts of kindness. I volunteered.


Now, technically, this is my first time volunteering as an adult. One of my first experiences as a volunteer was traumatic and fairly hilarious. We'll get to that later in the post, shall we?


Part of my volunteering yesterday was out of sheer selfishness. I wanted tickets. I wanted to see Barack Obama and all of the people who will give speeches at Invesco Field at Mile High on the last day of the Democratic National Convention. It's not every day that a convention of this magnitude lands just a few blocks from my home. Volunteer opportunities were created all around Denver for people wanting to land tickets to Obama's speech. We were given the chance to try for tickets by volunteering six hours of service per ticket request.


So, last night, Phil and I performed our civic duties and helped to register people to vote. We went to the Wheatridge Carnation Festival to stand at a booth, smile, and ask over and over, "Are you registered to vote?"


Most of the festival attendees were high school kids. So, our line of questioning turned to, "Are you 18?" Whenever I asked that, I felt like I was screening for porn tryouts. "Hey, little girl. If you're 18, I can get you into the movies..."


However, I was not a peddler of smut. I was a volunteer looking to recruit Americans to stand up and let their voices be heard, something that people in many other countries rarely get the chance to do. I'm tired of the apathy of this country. Stand up. Let your vote count. Be a part of this country. Don't complain if you never participate. And worst of all, don't register to vote and then fail to show up at the polls or even attempt to send in the easiest of ballots - the mail-in.


We were told that only 40% of Wheatridge Democrats voted in past elections. That's sad, people. Very sad. Apathy is rampant.


I'm not a Democrat. I'm an Independent. I vote with the issues. I care about what is going on in my city, my state, and especially, my country. I enjoy going to the polls and wearing the little sticker that says "I voted!" It means something to me.


Enough preaching.


Amos enjoyed his time at the festival. He grinned his ear-to-ear jazz face whenever he heard music, kids, or the bouncy castle. He successfully untied two balloons from his wrist that were donated by the karate booth. Amos toddled through the crowd without ever turning around to see where we were, and our panic-stricken hearts were thumping as we chased him through the crowd. He stomped in the grass and yelled at kids as they ran past.


In essence, my baby has become a boy. *gulp*

-----------------------------------------------------------------

In the fall/winter of 1991, I was 18 and ready to leave my small town. I was a giant nerd of ultimate nerdiness, participating in every club I could find. It passed the time.


As part of my membership in the National Honor Society, my duties included random volunteer efforts. On one of our volunteer days, our group had prepared songs and was ready to sing our Christmas carols to elderly folks at a rest home in the larger town nearby. We sang and sang, fa la la la laaaaa la la la laaaaaa....


Because of the magnitude of my nerd status, I had to leave early for yet another club activity. I made my way through the winding corridors of the drab rest home. I felt good about the service we had performed - cheering up people who might not have family to visit with around the holidays - and was riding that high that people talk about after they volunteer for a worthy cause. As I approached the sliding doors in the front, I was waved down by an older gentleman in a wheelchair.


His kindly face beckoned me to come closer. I was hesitant, but he seemed nice enough. He was all alone by the front door, as if he had been sitting there forever, waiting for his son or daughter to stop by. I was full of Christmas cheer and brimming with love for my fellow man. How could I not stop to listen to him for a moment?


He mumbled something. I said, "Sorry?" He mumbled again. I stepped closer. He mumbled. I stepped closer, leaning in to listen to his words.


In an instant, an incredibly strong hand reached up to clasp both of my wrists. At the same time, his other hand brutally grabbed my breast and squeezed hard. He had pulled me in closer to him, and I saw a grin flash across his face as I struggled to get free.


I pulled away, standing there in shock. I had no idea what to do. I ran to my car and drove away, barely able to concentrate on my driving.


I had been felt up by an old man.


The next day, I mentioned it to a few people as the National Honor Society gathered for a meeting. Giggles and dropped jaws abounded as I told my tale. Then, our pretty, young sponsor walked into the meeting. She said that the night before, she was walking alone, and she was waved down by an old man by the front door...


My first volunteer effort resulted in an old man getting his rocks off on not one, but TWO young ladies and their perky breasts.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

It was satisfying to sign up several college age kids for their first voting experience. They even took my advice when I told them, "Hey, now that you're registered, you can go over there and celebrate by dunking a cheerleader." Cheerleader dunking is always fun.


No one groped me after the voter registration drive. Not even Phil (boo). Maybe my volunteering track record is on the upswing.