Del. David Yancey, R-Newport News, walked into a neighborhood newly attached to his district looking for votes and walked out with a new tighthead prop for the high school rugby team he coaches.
That can be the way of things when legislative candidates head out to meet voters, especially when recently-redrawn district lines mean they’re talking to people they’ve never met before.
Sometimes, you get a new player for the front line of your rugby team. Sometimes, as Del. Mike Mullin, D-Newport News, found a few miles away in a York County subdivision recently attached to his district, you meet a proud Army mom like Vicki Cooper, whose youngest son is becoming a helicopter pilot.
“That’s so cool,” Mullin tells her. He always wanted to be a pilot, he tells her.
They talk about video games — her son and Mullin play some of the same ones — and about her other adult kids. She tells him how her little grandkids just moved to Northern Virginia; Mullin asks her for advice raising his three boys, ages 8, 6 and 4.
There’s not necessarily a lot of politics in the discussions when candidates hit a new neighborhood.
New streets to walk
Federal judges this year ordered changes in 11 House of Delegates district borders to unwind lines that the judges found improperly diluted African American votes.
Mullin was working the Republican-leaning neighborhoods in York County that were added to his district, just as Yancy walked through the Democratically-inclined northern Newport News precincts added to his.
They’ll knock on thousands of doors before Election Day, but as the big day approaches, the focus will shift to voters they’re pretty sure are supporters — in many cases because of the doors they’ve knocked on years before.
Both are familiar with the streets in the parts of their districts that didn’t change, since Mullin’s in his third campaign and Yancey’s on No. 5.
“I’ll hear people say, ‘Nobody ever knocks on my door,’ and I’ll think to myself, ‘Oh yeah, you’ve got a Rottweiler and he limps, which I know when he chased after me, and yes I’ve been on your doorstep,'” Yancey says.
On these newer streets, though, all that Yancey and Mullin may really know is the addresses of the voters who actually voted in light-turnout legislative elections. What they don’t know — despite the high-powered data analyses political parties say they can deploy — is how they are likely to vote.
Both candidates work off of State Board of Elections data from Election Day poll books. But all that data shows is on which election days a registered voter showed up. There’s no way of tracking how any specific individual voted.
“I know these people vote in primaries, but in which one, I don’t know,” Mullin says as he heads toward one door in York’s Tabb area. In Virginia, where voters can’t register by party, primary voting is one of the few ways of guessing how someone leans politically. But when both parties have a primary on the same day, nobody keeps track of which party’s ballot a voter requests.
“This is just a pass through,” Mullin adds. “I’m here to introduce myself.”
“Sorry I missed you”
Mullin carries a handful of fliers and a pad of yellow sticky notes. At the many doors where no one answers — usually more than half — he’ll jot down “Sorry I missed you, Mike,” on a sticky note, attach it to a flier and tuck it by the doorknob.
When people do come to the door, his pitch is a variation on: “Hi, I’m Mike Mullin, I’m your delegate up in Richmond. I live just over in Kiln Creek.” He’ll mention his three boys and that while in Richmond, he nailed down funds for widening Interstate-64. If the voter doesn’t look too impatient, he’ll mention that he works as a prosecutor.
Since it’s supper time, Mullin keeps things short. He’ll ask if there’s anything on the voter’s mind and points out his phone number on the flyer, in case any issues strike them later — “even a pothole that needs to be fixed.”
But sometimes, you run into a talker.
How are you helping?
“What are you doing for the watermen?” Tim Benavidez asks.
Well, says Yancey, I’ve got a commercial license for striped bass — it’s a business he runs with a partner on the Eastern Shore — and he’s been trying to make sure there are enough menhaden in the Bay for other fish to feed on.
That’s not so much an issue for Benavidez, whose trips for scallops take him out to sea, sometimes as far as Massachusetts. Benavidez works for his dad, he adds. He’s a stickler for safety — you know what a lawsuit can cost, after all.
“Family business,” says Yancey. “I know what that’s like. That’s what I do … when I’m in Richmond, I’m on a committee that looks at workers’ comp, business issues. I’m always saying, ‘Remember the small businesses, what you’re doing here has an impact on them.'”
They end up chatting for half an hour. Winding down, Benavidez says he’ll be headed out for another scalloping trip at the end of the week, this time, probably just up to the Delaware Bay.
“If you’re going out in November, let me know and we’ll get you an absentee ballot,” Yancey says. “Hey, how would you feel about putting a yard sign up?”
That’d be fine, Benavidez says.
Sending letters
Walking away, Yancey jots a note about the sign.
The notes he and Mullin make are a key part of what they’re after. Sometimes, it’s a name, sometimes it’s about a sign or an issue the voter raised, sometimes just a number code to indicate a likely supporter, someone persuadable, or someone who’s definitely opposed.
After one house, in which there’s a chat about I-64 and a voter’s apology for not inviting him in because the family just moved in, Mullin makes a note to send his usual welcome letter.
He has that down to a routine. Every few weeks, looking over the home purchase listings in the Daily Press, he sits down and writes a letter introducing himself to new homeowners at addresses in his district saying he’s available if they have any issues or questions to discuss.
Yancey’s a big letter writer, too. He writes congratulations notes to Newport News students who make the honor roll, including those who don’t live in his district.
“We’ve got your letter up on the refrigerator now,” says Leemarie Santos, towards the end of a 45 minute doorstop visit, with a conversation that ranged widely from student athletics to opioids to I-64 to human trafficking. The last topic prompts a favorite Yancey story about consulting with Newport News police and a prosecutor as legislators worked on what turned out to be one of the toughest human trafficking laws in the country.
“The committee would look down at me and ask if I was OK with this change or that change,” Yancey told her. “I’d say, ‘Just wait,’ and then I’d turn to the police and ask if that would work and then to the prosecutor. They’d say it was good, and I’d look back at the committee say, ‘I’m good.'”
Yancey pushed for language in the bill encouraging schools to teach about warning signs that someone might be a victim of human trafficking.
Santos says her son went to one of those, and it was one of the things that made him think he might want to get into psychology.
He’s gearing up for the football season now, she adds, and before too long will be making his choice for college.
“That letter on the refrigerator,” she said. “I guess that’s the last one we’ll be getting from you.”
Oh no, Yancey replies. He’ll keep writing. Oh, and how tall is he? How much does he weigh?
And as Yancey walks away, he makes another note — about his new tighthead prop.
