Twenty-one.

Chairman Mao and I do share a hometown.

As spring melted into summer in 2022, New York State Assemblymember Yuh-Line Niou announced her candidacy for the freshly-redistricted NY-10, New York's 10th congressional district. NY-10's reshaped borders broadly overlapped with those of New York's 65th State Assembly district, encompassing Manhattan's Chinatown. When Yuh-Line announced that she would vacate her State Assembly seat to campaign for NY-10, she set off a chain of events that resulted in my first official foray into politics.

At the time, I was a resident of both aforementioned districts, but politics were a tangential matter to me—not because I didn't care, but because I was in the midst of the worst breakup of my life. I still kept up with the news to stay informed, but I was busy spending my days wallowing in misery.

Like many other Millennials, my own interest in politics was activated by the 2016 Presidential campaign run by Vermont Senator Bernie Sanders. Prior to that, I was a straightforward Democratic Party voter with little insight into the true machinations of American politics; Bernie's campaign, steadfastly focused on everyday people's material needs, switched on a light in my brain. So, by the time 2022 rolled around, I had spent years reading both theory and jargon alike to form my own political compass, and I already knew who I would support to replace Yuh-Line.

For the past decade, American politics has largely been defined by the demagoguery of President Trump as well as the abject ineffectiveness of the Democratic Party in opposition. But, the purpose of a system is what it does, and it's not lost on me that the Democratic Party is currently the perfect vehicle for funneling donations and taxpayer dollars into the wallets of a craven consultant class and achieving nothing else, best exemplified by Vice President Kamala Harris blowing through a campaign war chest of one billion dollars only to deliver for her party its worst defeat in modern history. Shamelessly, not even one full week later, her campaign has already sent emails and text messages begging for more donations from the millions of people that remain on its listserv, which it's shopping around to interested telemarketers because the campaign also finished the election twenty million dollars in debt. To say that the Democratic Party is in shambles would, however, be an overstatement—that would imply that their intended goal is to win elections. Clearly, it isn't. It's just an unfortunate coincidence that the rest of us are collateral damage.

To remedy the cancer that is the Democratic Party, two schools of thought have emerged. One advocates for a complete break with the Democrats to establish a new third party. Another argues for an incremental takeover of the existing Party by electing, year after year, "better" politicians running on that party line. I myself don't care to generalize; I think reality has demonstrated that a case-by-case basis is necessary in determining the proper path forward.

The 2022 Democratic primary election to fill Yuh-Line's shoes was one such case. As the outgoing Assemblymember, she declined to endorse a successor candidate, thereby allowing that election to be as open a primary as it could feasibly be. Two candidates of consequence threw their proverbial hats into the ring: Grace Lee and Illapa Sairitupac. Grace, endorsed by real estate and business interests, campaigned as the centrist candidate. She'd previously challenged Yuh-Line in 2018 and lost. Illapa, meanwhile, was a relative unknown fielded by New York City's Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) chapter. Between the two, even in my depressed state of mind, it was a no-brainer for me to plan to vote for Illapa. What did surprise me, however, was meeting him on my doorstep.

I was in the midst of bemoaning my love life to a visiting friend in my apartment when I heard a knock on my door. Not expecting anyone, I was confused about who it could be, but I was pleasantly shocked to see that it was Illapa; evidently, he had no qualms canvassing the district himself. I told him that he's already got my vote and not to feel like he has to spend any of his valuable time convincing me, in response to which he very graciously invited me to canvass with him. I declined, explaining that I didn't feel up to talking to people because I was going through a separation and expecting him to leave me to my wallowing, but he kindly stood there and listened, attentively, to my grand romantic drama. As a social worker by trade, he told me that he's seen this sort of matter all the time, and I was impressed by his seemingly genuine interest and compassion. By the time he finally moved on to another voter’s residence, he might have told me to have hope (in a brighter future or outcome), I don't remember, but—regardless of whether or not he factually did—I did.

Weeks later, I saw online that his campaign sought Chinese speakers to help the campaign with reaching Chinatown voters. Remembering the kindness he'd shown me, I decided to respond; I had nothing better to do with my time, anyways. Within twenty-four hours, I had a volunteer from his campaign reaching out to me, and I was invited to attend one of their canvassing kick-offs. That time, I accepted.

Although I'd never before canvassed for anything or anyone, my first shift was everything I expected. I was paired with two experienced volunteers, and together the three of us took to door-knocking block by block across Chinatown. We traipsed up and down apartment complex stairs, the two of them leading conversations with anyone that answered their door so that I could learn the ropes. One group of elderly Fujianese residents invited us into their home for tea, during which we get to know them and share with them our personal phone numbers in case they need help with anything, particularly because their English skills are essentially nonexistent. Determined to be useful, I gradually progressed to interacting with potential voters myself, explaining why I believed Illapa to be the best candidate for the position.

Between apartments, I explained to my partners my motivations for joining the campaign: I was depressed from my breakup and needed to get myself out of my rut, and I was already sympathetic to DSA's politics anyways. We spent the final half-hour of my very first shift chatting with a former investment banker, who schooled us on revolving debt and photographed the three of us—I was wary of how my photo could be used, but I didn't decline quickly enough.

Back at the campaign office for our official debrief with the rest of the team and a barbecue dinner, I ran into Illapa himself, who remembered me and my heartbreak. He reminded me to stay strong because my ex-boyfriend wasn't worth all the unhappiness and introduced me to the rest of his compatriots, remarking to them that we'd come full circle from him canvassing me to me canvassing for him. I joked that I intended to vote for Grace; he playfully snarked back at me.

My subsequent canvassing shifts were similar. Paired with other bilingual volunteers, I came to get to know them, and after every shift we ended up hanging out together, whether in a park or the campaign office or a local restaurant. With every new friend I made, I felt my heart heal. We recommended books to each other and made plans to watch obscure films together, and above all we were steadfast in our belief that a better society was achievable.

When all the votes for that primary election were tallied, the result was a resounding defeat. Our campaign was outspent. Still, that didn't impede the more stubborn members of our group from their organizer impulses. We spent the following months in brainstorming sessions, taking a leaf from DSA's book to figure out how to make the best use of our ragtag collective, united by our language capabilities and commitment to effecting material change. We had people from every industry, we were residents from all over New York City, and we rationalized that we, a group of around thirty individuals, had power together.

For the next couple of years, we ran concurrent projects staffed according to skill sets and interest. Some of us taught free English classes in Chinese neighborhoods, while others provided housing support and unionized renters. When conservatives set drag queen storytelling events as the target of their ire, I organized Chinese translations for pamphlets and flyers explaining why such protests were, at best, misguided. Above all, our efforts were guided by the same logic that once inspired the Black Panthers: providing communities with material support and mutual aid is the best preventative measure against reactionary politics.

When my friends despair to me about the results of the 2024 general election, I advise them to not get lost in feeling powerless. Not only is it unhelpful, wallowing is also an exercise of utter stagnation—I would know, because I've been there. Politics is not an inscrutable puzzle; people want to be heard, and building community preempts division. My love life, however, is a different beast altogether.