The strip caucus shift was to begin at 8am, when the housekeepers enter the casinos. That meant a debrief at the SW office at 6:30am, which meant waking up at 5:30. I was obviously pretty groggy when I stepped out of Shaun’s house to catch my ride, but I was woken up instantly.
I was greeted by I think the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen. The sky was streaked with the pink of light reflected off red rocks, warmed by an orange glow from the horizon. I mean, look at it:
That last one looks like the rings of Saturn or suchlike.
And yes, the sky says Trans Fucking Rights Now.
At TitleMax, you hand over the title of your car in exchange for some cash. You come back within a small time period to get your title back. You don’t want to know what happens in between.
Back to strip caucusing, and this time it was on, we had our locations, we had our teams of 3 including one Spanish speaker, we were ready.
That is Excalibur Hotel & Casino. We were there to organise its immigrant workers literally behind its back.
We found our spot, a hundred metre strip between the employee’s parking and the employee’s entrance.
This meant you could walk and talk with the workers for about a hundred metres. Most of them were very friendly and willing to chat. A few just wanted to get to work, and we understood that and left them – we’re not trying to make their lives harder. I had some really good chats. A lot of them just weren’t aware of the satellite caucus, and there is something so satisfying about telling someone who doesn’t know that they can participate that they can participate. And of course, we had plenty of people who did know about it, and didn’t need our help, although we encouraged them in comradely fashion to speak to as many of their colleagues as possible!
This lasted for about 15 minutes, until a large white security guard rolled up to me on his bicycle, in a rather fetching tight yellow uniform.
“What are you doing?”
“Hi there! Oh, we’re just talking to people about the election, we’re not trying to do anything wrong, not disturbing anyone.”
“You can’t do that here. This is private property. You need to move.”
Long pause. Our strategy for dealing with the security was to waste as much of their time as possible, allowing the 2 other members of our team to keep canvassing.
“Oh.”
Pause.
“So, personally speaking, do you like Bernie Sanders?”
“No. Not at all.”
Trump voter. I think Trump probably has the security guard vote locked down.
Eventually I slouched off, leaving the guard to cycle gingerly over to my friends. We were done with Excalibur. No matter; on to the next one.
We took some more workers’ phone numbers at the next casino. I sent some nice little follow-up texts. A good way to see the morning in. I’d be back to strip caucus in the afternoon, but in the meantime I had something even better: a Bernie rally.
The rally was to take place in a high school. A high school! It was like being in every American movie/TV show ever! They really do seem to conceive of themselves as sports franchises doing some education on the side.
I particularly enjoyed the class of 2001’s claim that they were not merely the first and the best but also the only class.
Instantly the event just felt so vibrant and powerful. It was in connjunction with Make The Road Nevada, a group which organises immigrants for justice and dignity, and it felt like this genuinely Latinx space which we were being invited graciously into.
I got to meet Chuck Rocha, National Bernie Senior Adviser and veteran organiser of the South as a socialist redneck. There’s more to an accent than we might think.
Bernie was introduced by a speaker who told the story of her life, beginning with crossing the desert with her pregnant mother. She had worked super hard on her education, got a scholarship, then had that scholarship taken away because she couldn’t provide a social security number. She was undocumented. She worked terrible jobs in Vegas until through DACA she got work with better prospects. She now lives a good life with her husband and her child who was on stage with her. Trump, however, is ending DACA applications. He is separating families and putting children in cages. She is still undocumented. She is not eligible to vote or caucus. Instead, she canvasses, phone banks, and introduces the next President of the United States.
I thought I had been clever and spotted where Bernie was going to make his entrance, and be the first one there to snap him, so I completely missed him getting up on stage from the other side of the hall.
But here he was! Bernie Sanders! I’d come all the way to America, and on day 3 he was 5 metres in front of me!
I thought it was extraordinary how old he looked. He looked frail. His back is hunched. He nearly tripped on the stairs down from the podium. It was scary – I wasn’t sure what impact those bones could survive. I kept looking at his legs. They reminded me of my grandma’s legs. Thin, much thinner than the trouser, so that it hung loose, seemed to fill with air rather than flesh.
And yet he looked entirely full of life. More full of life than I am. Boundless energy. Just go, go, go, one rally to the next. He really does gesture with that single finger, and the wingspan, and the almost-shouty voice. I absolutely loved the finger. Mesmerising. He just is, totally, himself. He doesn’t try and hide the fact that he’s old. He doesn’t feel any shame for it. Why should he? And he is angry. He’s right to be. And people feel that.
His speech was stunningly good. It was so clean, and so simple. You state the issue which everyone recognises as bad. And then you say that you’re unequivocally going to eliminate the issue. 60,000 people die each year because they don’t have healthcare? Free universal healthcare. Massive student debt? Eliminate all student debt. Immigration injustice? Restore 1.8 million people to DACA and end detention centres and ICE (this got the biggest cheer). No complicated jargon. No technocratic half-measures that take a law degree to untangle. The centrists just cannot understand the power of this politics. Or at least, it would require them to admit that those policies which they claimed a unique insight into the necessity of, were in fact not the limit of political possibility. The speech brought the house down.
And then, from the rally, to a march, down through a Latinx neighbourhood to the Early Vote polling station. I didn’t even know this was going to happen, I just got swept up into it.
It was an intoxicating combination of joy and anger. Big Latin drums pounded out a rhythm you could dance to, but the chants were serious – about life and death. But also there was something so celebratory about the whole community out there, waving to the neighbours as they came out of their houses, people totally united in solidarity, with an unflinching hope for real change this time. It felt so organic and genuinely community-led, like Bernie was really there only with their permission, and equally Bernie just totally centred them and their voices. Incredibly moving and humbling, really.
(I also learnt on this march that latinx is pronounced latin ex, not latincks, for which I deserve to be laughed at.)
And there was Bernie. Leading the march in the burning midday sun. Not so frail huh? He barked instructions to the cameramen to make sure they were staying safe walking backwards. Here he was, standing with this group of poor immigrants, many of whom weren’t even eligible to vote for him. He doesn’t care. This old Jew from Brooklyn, polling at 60% of Latinx in Southwest Nevada. Genuinely beloved. The great hope. Tio Bernie. But that’s just the thing. It’s not about him. It’s them. It’s us.
We passed a drab Warren billboard, in which she boasted that Obama had said some nice things about her one time. Meanwhile, the actual community she was trying to appeal to was marching past exuberantly, protesting explicitly the infrastructure of deportations which Obama massively expanded. It felt emblematic.
After they’d voted, the people could come to a community street party that had been set up waiting for them. A totally stunning two hours. The best of the trip so far.
We later had reports of queues for three hours at Early Vote polling stations. Something is happening here in Nevada. It feels like it has the future of the world in its hands.
We’d spent a lot of time in the sun, so we headed to a really cool bar in downtown with Jacqueline and some of the other Latinx organisers who we’d got to know. Watched a bit of baseball on the big screen. Honestly indistinguishable from rounders. With, if anything, a lower bat on ball hit-rate than year 7.
Some posh men took a seat next to us. It would turn out they were Buttigieg voters, possibly staffers. They shook their heads solemnly when I asked them if they were Bernie supporters, as if they knew that they were in the wrong.
Then, back for some more strip caucus-ing. We got about an hour in round the back of the MGM Grand, until this time security called the cops on us and we had to deliberately walk past them as they watched us exit back onto the strip.
My anecdotal analysis of how the strip caucus is shaping up is that race is playing a key role. The latinx and black workers were receptive towards Bernie, were often already supporters – and were certainly always friendly. The white workers were not interested in Bernie, and were often aggressively dismissive and intimidating. One merely raised his fist and cried ‘Make America great again!’, like brandishing a cross at a vampire.
It’s all worth it for the occasional voter whose work-tired eyes start to light up. People want to be told they matter. Particularly here.
From there, Cam and I had to get north to meet the other Brits. This meant travelling through casinos to find the monorail(!). Specifically the Paris casino, which has the worst interior design of any building I’ve ever been in. Look at that ceiling. Look at it!
I’m glad I got to ride the monorail. I think that’s probably an ambition of anyone with even a passing interest in The Simpsons. As soon as it leaves the station, adverts start playing over house music. You cannot not be assaulted for one second.
It mostly provides nice views of hotel parking lots. Each about the size of Westfield. I’m starting to characterise Las Vegas as a series of parking lots with some buildings in between for ease of access.
At one point the monorail stopped halfway between stations.
“The monorail has stopped before reaching the station. Please do not exit the car.”
Well, yeah.
And then, after some drinks and pool at Dino’s, via a gathering at our friend Derek’s volunteer-strewn apartment, we hit Fremont and the casinos.
You’ll never find a clock in a casino, Cam says. And also they pump in oxygen to make you feel giddy.
I just watched Cam gamble, at first, to learn. This was pointless, as the rules of Blackjack table etiquette are completely impenetrable and frankly I would rather simply give my money away than bother to learn them.
Roulette, that’s my kind of game. Just put your token on the thing you think will happen.
The dealers perform these extraordinarily quick hand movements, in complete control of the cards and dice, never making a mistake. They do it with completely dead eyes, expressionless, gazing vaguely into the middle distance. It’s as if the dealer must turn themselves into a machine, to so completely absolve the gambler from human relationships and offer them only a single relationship with money. So all they have to do is pull a lever.
Overall, I put down $20, lost 10 on roulette, made 2 back playing blackjack on a computer screen at the bar, and left some self-respect at the bottom of my gin & tonic.
“The ideal of the shock-engendered experience is the catastrophe. This becomes very clear in gambling; by constantly raising the stakes, in hopes of getting back what is lost, the gambler steers toward absolute ruin.”
– Benjamin, The Arcades Project
mini moralia 