Getting An Accurate Count

At the first house, a shy 17 year old kid answered the door. I got the headcount and had started asking some questions when what I’m guessing was his mom’s voice asked crisply, “Who is it?” “Sorry, one second,” he told me before ducking out of sight but not sound. “It’s, um, the census people.” She was mad. Not a fan of the census. She told him we shouldn’t be talking to minors. “Um, actually, they said — ” She cut him off. I don’t remember what all she said, but when she was finished, he reappeared at the door. I told him I didn’t want to get him in trouble with his mom, and said, “my dad’s gonna do it.” I said ok, is he coming now? “Um, actually, he already did it.” Ok, bye, good luck with your mom, dude.

I talked to another enumerator for the first time. I asked her how it was going, we made some small talk. I warned her about the house with the mean dog that she was going to for another attempt. “Don’t bother, the lady won’t talk to you with the dog home. Just leave the NOV and move on.” Then I watched her get yelled at by a lady who was nice to me a couple days ago. I don’t know why she showed up on this girl’s list. I had completed the interview with her a few days ago, and she mentioned then that someone had already come to her door. “You seem really nice, Francine, I know it’s not your fault, but I’ve already….” If you know it’s not her fault, stop yelling at her.

There was a really nice guy who came downstairs wearing a bacon shirt. There was an awkward young guy who moved in with his sister during the pandemic. There was a shirtless fat man who told me the apartment I was looking for didn’t exist. I brought his packages up for him. Then a few minutes later when I realized his apartment was also on my list, he pretended not to be home.

The system is really glitchy. People show up on these lists even if they’ve already filled it out online, and sometimes when someone’s already been to their door. Even if it wasn’t glitchy, the app is a bad way to conduct the census. It really is something that should be done on paper. If someone tells me they don’t know their roommates birthday, I have to click six times to register that. Now imagine they have 4 roommates. That’s 24 clicks just for someone to say, “I don’t know any of my roommates’ birthdays.” People lose their patience. Also, people don’t tell you things linearly when you ask them about themselves. It’s not like a trial where the lawyer asks a question and the judge interrupts if the witness gets off track. People just talk. I can’t be like, oh actually don’t tell me what year you and your wife bought the house, because that’s a question for later. Sometimes you have to enter in someone’s name more than once. That doesn’t sound that complicated, but I live in a neighborhood with a lot of Greeks. Have you ever interviewed someone with a very Greek name? They painstakingly spell out their name for you, like they’ve had to do throughout their entire life. But then, you ask them about their neighbor who refuses to answer the census. You have to again write who told you this information, and because you’re not writing anything down on paper and that screen that had her name is long gone and inaccessible, you have to say, “I’m so sorry, but can you please spell your name for me one more time?” And she does. Because she’s nice. And she knows it’s not your fault.

I wish I could put in the notes for future enumerators which apartments have someone who’s super hot. It happens every now and then. You get in a groove of talking to the old families who have been here for 40 years and are mad that you don’t speak Greek. And then suddenly, you’ll knock on a door, and some shirtless hot dude opens the door wide open. In one case, today, literally holding a puppy. Sorry, I have to go take my 30 minute break right now so I can change my underwear, brb.

Millennials tend to be pretty engaged and nice as hell. I have yet to meet one who has been anything but kind and grateful that the census is happening. Sometimes they say thank you for doing this, and it makes me feel weird. I didn’t sign up for this because I’m some patriot, I signed up because, like everyone, my fiance and I lost ALL of our income overnight in March, and I panicked.

My first interview in Spanish today was an Ecuadorian family and their roommate. It was easy and they were nice enough. I think the roommate who answered the door was undocumented, because he dipped pretty quickly and an older guy took over the interview. I wish there was a way I could offer some comfort, but I get that any promise from this government can be pretty hollow. I try to keep in mind the history of the census, that it was used during World War II to move Americans of Japanese descent into concentration camps, that it’s why legally black people were counted as three fifths of a person. Sure in the training they say that the details of people’s identities can’t be released for another 72 years. But I think we’ve all learned by now that just because something is illegal doesn’t mean the president won’t do it and face no consequences.

My other interview in Spanish was harder, because we kept switching back and forth between Spanish and English. It’s so much harder, but I was proud of myself for being able to keep up. He was funny, flamboyant, jokingly called me immigration once I started speaking spanish. I asked him his country of origin (also Ecuador), and he asked me mine. Fair game. If anyone asks me the questions back, I always openly tell them. It’s only fair. I told him I was Sephardic and asked if he knew what that was. He didn’t. “We’re Jews who were expelled from Spain.” “Jews? In Spain?” He had never heard of such a thing. It warmed him up. At some point he said, “Ay why so many questions? Ugh, Trump.” I laughed. We finished the interview, and I walked two doors down to my next case. An older white man wearing a shirt with “USA” emblazoned on it where the letters look like the American flag. “Hi, my name is Ariel, I work for the census.” “Oh, the census,” he says. “Well we’re republicans!” Ok I was not expecting that. Congratulations? Is this an easier time for you or is every day also full uncertainty and hell for you, it’s just that you don’t think critically enough to understand why? Instead of saying that, I shrug it off. “That’s ok,” I sort of laugh-say, putting on my best customer service face. “You’re allowed to be. Were you living here on April 1 of this year?” And into the interview we go. He loosened up, made a couple of bad jokes about how he and his son have the same name, and that was that. Enumerated.

Guess which race least likes to answer what race they are? Yup. “Human.” “American.” “Why do you want to know that?” And in one unforgettable case, “Oh god I’m so tired of hearing about race. I treat everyone the same, regardless of their race,” said the white lady who definitely does not treat everyone the same, regardless of their race. The oddest thing to me is that according to the Census, Hispanic and Latinx are not considered races. There is a separate question asking if you are “Hispanic, Latino or of Spanish origin?” Yes/No, what country? Then the next question is “What race are you?” Which I rephrase to, “What race do you identify as?” I watch latinx people struggle every time with the race question, not sure what to answer, because many of them are definitely not white or black (although many of them are, but then also some of them appear to be but don’t self-identify that way). A very white-appearing Brazilian woman struggled, saying, “White, I guess, but I don’t feel white.” Having grown up Jewish in the South where it was very much a thing, I commiserated. “I’m Jewish, I also don’t know how to answer the question. Because looking at me, yes, but Jewish is different.” She nodded knowingly. I marked “white.”

A lot of places are vacant. A lot of people fled this neighborhood, just 2 miles from Elmhurst Hospital, the original epicenter. By 6:15, my phone is almost dead and so is my tolerance for this day. I go to one last building. I have to count unit 1 and unit 3. I don’t even get to the door before an old woman in unit 2 pops her head out of the window. “What do you want? I already filled that out!” “Oh, great,” I shout up at her through my mask. “I’m actually here for your upstairs and downstairs neighbors.” “They’re not here, they ran away from the pandemic.” Run away feels a little unfair, I think to myself. “Were they here April 1?” I ask. The only question that I really need to get answered to close the case. “What?” The old lady asks. I lower my mask, figuring it’s fine considering she’s two stories up and I’m barely inside her yard. “Did they live here April 1?” “They left in April,” she replies. “Mariah upstairs left, and the downstairs lady went back to Serbia. Me, I’m 84. When I need something, my daughter drops it off.” Then she closed the door. Good enough. Enumerated.