Slam! Working for the Census can change some brain cells

It’s hard to have doors slammed in your face, but I’m getting used to it again.

The last time I had so many doors slammed in my face was 40 years ago – the last time I worked as a Census enumerator. Taking the job after a 40-year break is giving me a different picture of the place in which I live. While I didn’t think much about what I was doing at 20 years old, at 60, gathering information on your hometown can a humbling experience.

I’ve learned fewer people now really know what the Census IS than they did 40 years ago. The Census is mandated in the Constitution. When the United States was formed, it was decided that each state would have two senators, but the makeup of the House of Representatives would be determined by population – making it necessary to know how many people were in the country and where they lived.

The first Census was conducted in 1790, the same year President George Washington gave the first State of the Union address. Overseen by Secretary of State and future president Thomas Jefferson, the count revealed a nation of nearly 4 million. The 2010 Census counted close to 309 million.

It was decided at the beginning that citizens would be counted in their homes or, more specifically, the place the person was sleeping most of the time. Care is taken in the questions asked to make sure that no one is missed or counted twice. Special days are set aside to count the homeless in shelters, parks and under bridges.

When people haven’t mailed their forms back to the Census, completed their questions online or over the phone, enumerators are sent out to ask the questions in person. In 1980, when I last worked as an enumerator, it was done on paper. Now we fill out the forms on special iPhones with a Census application.

There’s only a handful of questions, any of which probably could be gathered more easily from information on the internet, but the Census doesn’t get information from other sources, nor is the personal information gathered shared with any other entity. An enumerator can go to prison for sharing personal information, and we’re bound to our oath to keep the information private for life.

The major question is: “How many people were living here on April 1?” April 1 was 2020’s Census Day, the day the Census was supposed to begin – although COVID-19 kept that from happening. Other questions are gathered for statistical information that can used for deciding where to build schools and community centers or how much federal funding an area gets for roads and other tax-funded projects. The uses for the statistics really are limitless. The 2020 questions also try to ascertain the changing racial and ethnic makeup of the area.

Part of it is also finding out where people AREN’T living. I’ve seen a lot of abandoned houses. Something about it always makes me a little sad. Typically, a neighbor will tell me the former occupant has died or gone into a nursing home. Sometimes no one even remembers who lived there. But a decade ago, or maybe more, someone was. The porch wasn’t rotted. The roof wasn’t failing. The windows weren’t broken, and dusty spiderwebs weren’t covering the front door. Whoever took care of that house and called it home would never walk through the door again.

At one fairly modern-looking house at the end of a quiet road, I had to walk around a gate with “No Trespassing” signs and up a long driveway only to find out it was long vacant. Just beside the driveway, I surprised a pair of box turtles who were locked in passionate amphibian intercourse. The male, who was propped up perfectly vertically (something I wouldn’t have thought possible), stared at me with his beady red eyes and his front legs waving in the air. The female looked as embarrassed as I imagine a box turtle is capable of and probably communicated in turtle language to her partner later, “I thought you said you OWNED this place!”

Some days I’ve trekked down overgrown driveways to find nothing but ruined foundations and the remnants of homeless camps, some recent, some that look years old. If anyone was sleeping there in April, that is where they were supposed to be counted.

While the goal is for the Census to learn, I’ve found myself learning as well.

I’ve learned that there’s an appreciation of the United States by immigrants that those of us who’ve grown up here typically don’t possess. I talked with people from many countries. One woman who recently earned her citizenship knew more about the formation of the United States and how it was run than probably most people I encountered who’ve lived here all their lives. A young man from the West African country Guinea spoke of how much he loved living in the United States.

I’ve learned that defining “race” is not something most Hispanic people pay much attention to. The Census question asks each person what race they consider themselves, with “Hispanic” not being a race. With a world that separates us all into “white,” “Black” and “brown” people, it’s a confusing question. If you were to break it down, they probably should say a combination of “white” and “American Indian” (two of the Census choices) because their ancestors were likely Native Americans from the Aztek, Mayan and Incan people who later mixed with Europeans. To a person, they chose “other” and declined to further define it. And, truthfully, asking that question over and over began to seem kind of meaningless. Standing on a front porch with a young man who initially said he was “Black or African American,” he added, “But I have white, too. I’m a mix.” “I think we all are to some extent,” I replied. “I think that’s one of the good things about this country.”

I look at the shade of my skin compared to most of the people who called themselves a different race than me and feel the ludicrousness of how we have differentiated ourselves for so many thousands of years. Our most ancient ancestors all came from Africa and yet somewhere along the way we decided what was important was how the different climates where our ancestors were scattered changed our appearance. I understand why the Census asks the question, but each time I ask it the whole concept of race seems a little sillier.

One of the biggest changes from when I worked for the Census 40 years ago is that fewer people seem to know their neighbors. When the occupant of an address cannot be located or has moved in after April 1 and has no information about the past occupant, we have to check with neighbors to try and get information. Few people know anything about the person next door. I’m as guilty as anyone of that. While I knew everyone around me when my family moved into our house 30 years ago, I only met some of my newer neighbors in the course of enumerating. Until now, I didn’t know that for two years I’ve been known to my younger neighbors only as “that guy whose lawn mower doesn’t have a muffler.”

I’ve learned both good and bad things about people. The best thing is that most people are nice and polite. It doesn’t matter where they live; be it in a busted-up trailer or a pristine suburban palace, they generally respond warmly or at least cordially when they answer the door. I think no matter where you live in the entire world, most people want the same things: a way to make a living, a decent place to live and a little extra time to spend with friends and family – and as long as you don’t interfere with that, you’re OK.

Like I said, I’ve had those doors slammed in my face, been threatened with violence if I didn’t leave the property immediately and felt a little afraid for my safety, and it’s always happened in unexpected places. The houses that look benign with well-groomed yards and nice cars in the driveway have generally been the ones where I’ve been threatened. Trailer parks and neighborhoods that some people would call “the hood” were the least threatening to an old guy carrying a Census satchel. In addition, addresses plastered with “No Trespassing” and “Private Property” signs usually had occupants who were welcoming once they realized you weren’t there to sell or steal something.

I’ve tried to put the rude encounters into perspective. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be a Census worker 200 years ago and ride a horse 30 miles down a muddy path out to a homestead in the middle of nowhere and have a door slammed in your face. I mean, I could just get in my car and be standing in front of someone friendly in just a few minutes while that 200-year-ago enumerator had to clomp hours back to civilization stewing over the indignity.

Overall, I realized the people who were angry I was there were more scared than anything else. They weren’t afraid of me. No, they’re afraid of strangers, afraid of the government and just looking for something to be angry about. Frankly, I think there are entities in the world that want us to be afraid of and angry at each other. They don’t want us to get together and realize how similar we are. Had those door-slammers given me the chance, they would’ve found the Census questions to be far less revealing than what most anyone could find out about them online. And, in fact, they could refuse to answer any of them other than the one about how many people lived at their address on April 1. And if they used a cell phone, it was gathering far more information than the Census ever would, and we at least were ASKING them.

And while one nasty encounter can still sour most of a day, the good moments revive you.

I ran into my high school chorus teacher mowing the lawn of an address where the woman who owned it had gone into a nursing home. I hadn’t seen him for more than 40 years, but it was nice to be able to tell him how much I thought he’d influenced his students for the better.

I ran into a friend of my late son Andrew. He had had dinner at our house as a teenager, but I hadn’t seen since. He was now in his 30s with a pretty little baby girl on his hip. We shared phone numbers and vowed to get together for lunch sometime.

At an apartment complex, I talked with a woman I’d worked with at the News Sentinel who had been laid off a couple of years before I had. She was as nice as ever, and it was good to reconnect for a few minutes and share a couple of stories.

I finished one day with a woman in her mid-70s who said she hadn’t talked to hardly anyone since the pandemic started. After my questions, she told me funny stories about growing up in the country. It was a great way to finish a day’s work.

And on one very hot day, a man about my age outside his house in Lonsdale took a break from a home project and insisted we sit under his covered carport for the Census interview. After we were done with the questions, we talked for about 20 minutes, discussing favorite old cars, hard jobs, families and both of us being widowers. As I got up to leave, he said, “Come back any time just to sit around and talk.”

When the Census is over, I just might take him up on it.

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1 Comment

  1. Bill Gurley

    What a great story, Wayne! Your statement about people being way more knowledgeable about what the census was 40 years ago compared to today was not a surprise to me. But it makes me very sad. My hope for the future is something can be done about the massive civics ignorance in our country.

    Reply

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