While canvassing for my candidate, the mind I changed about political differences was my own

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The house looked like any other — just one of dozens along my canvassing route in the battleground state of Wisconsin. I’d been door-knocking for an hour with little to show for it, distributing campaign literature to folks who’d long ago made their choice. Those who shared my political sentiments cheered me on; those who didn’t were quick to close their doors. No one took anything personally. Everyone seemed to understand the thankless and pitiable plight of the canvasser.

Since no one appeared home in the house before me, I hung the campaign literature on the doorknob. I returned to my van and prepared to drive on when a woman suddenly emerged from the house. Her face was wrenched in rage. I couldn’t hear what she shouted, though her actions said everything. Lifting her hands high, she tore the campaign literature into dozens of pieces, then sent them scattering across her lawn.

My instinct was to leap from the van, throw my own hands in the air and ask her which cable news show had brainwashed her into believing that I was her enemy. And then to enumerate, in painstaking detail, the many reasons why her way of thinking was wrong.

But when I looked at her — really looked at her — I was dismayed to see some small part of myself reflected. I understood her rage and even her reaction. Had some unwanted canvasser come knocking on my door, I too might’ve had difficulty leaving them with their full dignity intact.

As much as I begrudge canvassing, I’d been inspired to do it because it felt better than doing nothing. I told myself I was doing it for my children, my family and those who disclosed that they didn’t feel safe canvassing themselves.

The least I could do, I told myself, was knock on a couple of doors.

Of the many characteristics Robert F. Kennedy admired, moral courage was near the top of his list. Canvassing may require some courage, but it usually isn’t moral courage.

Because moral courage doesn’t mean battling your adversaries but rather calling out yourself and your friends. It means tough talks with those who walk alongside you, ever mindful that your critique might ensure you’ll one day be walking alone.

Moral courage means reflecting on our complicity in the polarized world we now live in.

Aside from showing up at her door, what had I done to spur that woman’s anger? How long had I acted condescendingly toward people like her rather than offering dignity instead? How often have I failed to remind myself of what I tried to instill in my kids? That we can disagree with civility, and as TED Talker Dylan Marron says, “Empathy is not an endorsement.”

As I watched the pieces of campaign literature scatter on the woman’s lawn, I took a slow step from my van.

“Would you like me to pick them up, ma’am?” I called to her.

“I would,” she said, slamming her front door behind her.

Slowly, I made my way across the street and knelt upon her lawn. One by one, I gathered up the pieces. And pondered the mess we’d made.

B.J. Hollars, of Eau Claire, Wis., is a writer, professor and author of “Wisconsin for Kennedy: The Primary That Launched a President and Changed The Course of History.”