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Harrisonburg, Virginia, is a stupendous little city nestled within the Shenandoah Valley that’s waking up from a nap because it awaits the arrival of scholars to James Madison College subsequent week.
“They come from New York or New Jersey and register to vote here,” Marla, the supervisor of the Texas Inn diner informed me. She wasn’t mad about it, it is only a truth of life in these sorts of hamlets.
Marla is a Donald Trump supporter, late 50’s white lady, and she or he was the primary particular person in Harrisonburg who I requested the urgent query of the day: Are you aware who Kamala Harris is?
“Not at all,” she informed me. “I have no idea.”
This was the reply I obtained from everybody I spoke to, throughout the whole political spectrum, which is displayed in all its vibrant colours in Harrisonburg.
Rick was right here for a conference of photographers and is a rural Virginia Democrat, one other older white voter.
“I do wish Harris would do some interviews, make it clearer what she stands for,” he informed me.
I requested him if he would nonetheless vote for her if she retains stiff-arming the press.
“Yes,” he stated, “I mean, look at the other choice.”
Earlier that day, I had spoken to Jim, from New York, who was dropping off his sophomore daughter at college, and he gave me the inverse response.
“I’m a Republican,” he informed me, “so I can’t vote for this far-left Democratic ticket. But I’m also a New Yorker [and] I’m not nuts about Trump. But what choice do I have?
Increasingly, this election feels like: 2024 What Choice Do I Have?
Larry, a local in his 40s listening to another talented local play guitar in the hotel lobby, has all but given up.
“It doesn’t matter who the president is,” he said, resigned to an increasingly common political despair. “Till Congress has time period limits, it doesn’t matter, they only do what’s greatest for themselves.”
But there are voters still making up their minds, not swept away by either party or candidate. Derrick, a black man in his early thirties in town for a leadership conference, also wants to know what Harris stands for.
“She has no platform,” he said. “All I hear is ladies’s rights and abortion. I need to know if she is simply going to be Biden once more.”
A lot of people want to know that, but do enough want it for Harris to actually define herself? That remains to be seen.
The frustration of the American voter is increasingly apparent. As one person put it, “these politicians simply speak proper previous us, no person listens.”
Democrats I spoke to here, like elsewhere across beautiful America of highway and small town, are more excited now that Harris is running. It is palpable, it is real, there’s no question about it, but there is something else, a kind of nervous lack of clarity.
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“Possibly the much less she does, the higher,” another member of the leadership conference confided to me, and I could hear in his voice that he knew what he was saying was, well, less than ideal.
In just over a week, as wide-eyed freshmen fill the dorms at James Madison and Marla starts serving them Cheesy Westerns with homemade Texas relish, the Democratic National Convention will begin. Surely, there must be an appearance of the real Kamala Harris, if there is one.
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But for now, in this charming town of church steeples and college greens, the voters wait. They wait to see if Trump can stay disciplined, if Harris can define herself, or if some new event will throw a new curveball into this bizarre election.
The people are pensive, but they are also living their lives, and politics doesn’t always pierce through. That may be what Kamala Harris and her campaign are counting on. And it just might work.
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