asking strangers for money.
No one was happy to see me.
Ever.
I was immediately in awe of the veteran canvassers who ran the office. Everyone who survived as a canvasser for more than a few months was confident, tough, and absolutely gorgeous. Susanna was a tanned, earthy ceramicist who wore a knife on her belt. Josh had a lean swagger, a mop of hair, and John Lennon glasses. Cheyenne was a tough, industrious hippie with short hair, a golden smile, and the best laugh in the city. David had a movie-star jawline and a rough-cut face. Jeff had curly hair and seemed like the kind of guy who excelled at Frisbee.
âWhose streets?!â they shouted. âOur streets!â we shouted back.
If you missed your quotaâeighty-six dollarsâfor two nights in a row, it didnât matter how cool or peppy or experienced you were, you would be automatically fired. Tension ran through the office like a rubber band. We were a peppy, tight-knit crew always on the verge of snapping.
Iâm not sure if the humiliation of asking strangers for money was worse than the rejection of being turned down ninety-five times out of one hundred, but either way, I spent at least a few hours of each shift sitting alone on the sidewalk. I would stare at the sky. I would stare at the ground. I would stare at my hands. I would stare at anything other than my list of doors and savor the few moments I had to myself.
After two weeks, I was the only person left from the group hired on my day. I was a professional, a survivor.
During those weeks, I discovered that you were supposed to be eighteen to work as a full-time canvasser. In the craziness of hiring and firing dozens of people a week, the office had forgotten to check my ID. Oops.
As we counted our money into piles at the end of the night, I responded to the older canvassersâ questions about my life by spinning a fantasy identity, imagining where Iâd be in a year when I really would be eighteen. I told them I had just finished my first year of college. I waxed on about my schoolâs environmental group and about my dorm full of eccentric friends. I told great stories about the radio show I hosted on the campus station. I definitely wasnât a virginâhell no! I divulged some choice details about my imaginary boyfriend. Weâd had great sex but heâd been a jerk and Iâd dumped him.
Each night after weâd wrapped up the financial paperwork, the veteran crowd would go out. They started to invite me out to bars and house parties. After a few weeks of working and partying together, we became real friends. Except that everything I told them was sort of a lie. I told myself that my identity wasnât so much a fabrication as not-yet-true but the fake stories kept a convenient wall between me and all the people who I thought were infinitely cooler than me.
I started to think about sex all the time. Iâd walk into a house party full of twenty-three and twenty-four-year-olds (ancient!) and think about how I was the only virgin in the room.
I never liked the language around virginity. I hated the concept of losing part of myself, especially when it involved a guy taking it away. In high school, Iâd seen a couple of close friends fall into relationships with guys whom they described as sweet and I described as greasy . These friends told me stories about going farther than they wanted to, about sweaty hands under their bras.
People built up virginity to be such a special, powerful thing, and I never wanted some man to have that much power over me. What if we shared some special thing and then he told his gross friends all about it? I felt like I could never trust a guy enough to give him my body.
But now I was very aware of being a virgin. The word ran through my head as I hung out on the edge of each house party.
Virgin, virgin, virgin.
I didnât want to walk around with the word hanging around my neck as my friends downed cheap beer, but
No one was happy to see me.
Ever.
I was immediately in awe of the veteran canvassers who ran the office. Everyone who survived as a canvasser for more than a few months was confident, tough, and absolutely gorgeous. Susanna was a tanned, earthy ceramicist who wore a knife on her belt. Josh had a lean swagger, a mop of hair, and John Lennon glasses. Cheyenne was a tough, industrious hippie with short hair, a golden smile, and the best laugh in the city. David had a movie-star jawline and a rough-cut face. Jeff had curly hair and seemed like the kind of guy who excelled at Frisbee.
âWhose streets?!â they shouted. âOur streets!â we shouted back.
If you missed your quotaâeighty-six dollarsâfor two nights in a row, it didnât matter how cool or peppy or experienced you were, you would be automatically fired. Tension ran through the office like a rubber band. We were a peppy, tight-knit crew always on the verge of snapping.
Iâm not sure if the humiliation of asking strangers for money was worse than the rejection of being turned down ninety-five times out of one hundred, but either way, I spent at least a few hours of each shift sitting alone on the sidewalk. I would stare at the sky. I would stare at the ground. I would stare at my hands. I would stare at anything other than my list of doors and savor the few moments I had to myself.
After two weeks, I was the only person left from the group hired on my day. I was a professional, a survivor.
During those weeks, I discovered that you were supposed to be eighteen to work as a full-time canvasser. In the craziness of hiring and firing dozens of people a week, the office had forgotten to check my ID. Oops.
As we counted our money into piles at the end of the night, I responded to the older canvassersâ questions about my life by spinning a fantasy identity, imagining where Iâd be in a year when I really would be eighteen. I told them I had just finished my first year of college. I waxed on about my schoolâs environmental group and about my dorm full of eccentric friends. I told great stories about the radio show I hosted on the campus station. I definitely wasnât a virginâhell no! I divulged some choice details about my imaginary boyfriend. Weâd had great sex but heâd been a jerk and Iâd dumped him.
Each night after weâd wrapped up the financial paperwork, the veteran crowd would go out. They started to invite me out to bars and house parties. After a few weeks of working and partying together, we became real friends. Except that everything I told them was sort of a lie. I told myself that my identity wasnât so much a fabrication as not-yet-true but the fake stories kept a convenient wall between me and all the people who I thought were infinitely cooler than me.
I started to think about sex all the time. Iâd walk into a house party full of twenty-three and twenty-four-year-olds (ancient!) and think about how I was the only virgin in the room.
I never liked the language around virginity. I hated the concept of losing part of myself, especially when it involved a guy taking it away. In high school, Iâd seen a couple of close friends fall into relationships with guys whom they described as sweet and I described as greasy . These friends told me stories about going farther than they wanted to, about sweaty hands under their bras.
People built up virginity to be such a special, powerful thing, and I never wanted some man to have that much power over me. What if we shared some special thing and then he told his gross friends all about it? I felt like I could never trust a guy enough to give him my body.
But now I was very aware of being a virgin. The word ran through my head as I hung out on the edge of each house party.
Virgin, virgin, virgin.
I didnât want to walk around with the word hanging around my neck as my friends downed cheap beer, but
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