Volunteers Look to Frenzied Close

A defunct Kenpo Karate studio in a Westwood mini-mall is ground zero for the campaign of Assemblyman Wally Knox (D-Los Angeles) for the state Senate.

There, on a recent weekday afternoon, six tables of mostly senior citizens crammed election potholders into envelopes and prepared rubber bands for attaching literature to doorknobs in a final frenzied weekend of precinct-walking.

Across four busy lanes of the Santa Monica Freeway and a muddy dirt median, volunteers for his rival, Assemblywoman Sheila Kuehl (D-Santa Monica), armed for their own ground war.

In a back office of a nondescript office building, more than a dozen high-energy women stuffed envelopes, barked into phones and slapped stamps onto fat packages.

While a majority of U.S. residents will not summon the energy or interest to drag themselves to the polls to vote in Tuesday’s primary, in makeshift offices such as these around Southern California a small cadre of residents have chosen to give anywhere from an hour to 60 hours weekly to candidates they believe in.

There is Carole Cherry, 66, of Studio City, who said she and her husband can’t afford to give money to Kuehl in her state Senate race, so they give their time.

There is Areen Ibranossian, 17, a Glendale High student who is too young to vote, but said he works for Democrat Paul Krekorian in the 43rd Assembly District “to empower the Armenian people.”

There is 34-year-old Scott Svonkin, who took a leave from his job to work full time for Democrat candidate Paul Koretz in the 42nd Assembly District race.

And there is Shirley Shayne, a retired businesswoman who volunteered for Knox because she feels she owes him for an unsung favor he did for her nonprofit group.

They are the backbone of any political campaign.

Volunteers fall into three basic categories: high school and college students, idealistic young professionals who often harbor political ambitions of their own, and senior citizens, according to campaign managers.

Volunteer coordinators say they recruit labor anywhere they can, from local high schools and colleges, past donor lists, issue groups that have supported their candidate, newspaper ads and mailers, to--in a crunch--their children’s Sunday School classes.

For Areen, volunteering has proven, though unexpectedly, to be a way to get in touch with his Armenian roots.

Areen, who speaks Armemian and English, said he heard about the campaign when Krekorian’s campaign manager spoke to a government class at Glendale High School.

He began by working a few hours a week, and now works from 1:30 p.m. to midnight daily. He walks the streets, telling voters about Krekorian and the propositions on the ballot.

He said his parents worried initially at how much time he was spending at headquarters, but quit worrying after he pulled a 4.0 grade-point average.

“It’s really not important to me whether I work for a Democrat or a Republican,” the earnest student with dark brows and intense eyes said. “The main reason I am doing this is to empower people, especially the Armenian community.”

As he prepared to head out on a recent evening, dozens of college and high school volunteers dressed in campaign T-shirts trickled in through the back door of the converted retail store for a night of calling and canvassing.

“Young people here are making the difference,” he said as he looked around. “No one had ever approached me before to work on a campaign; they always told me I was too young. This campaign they asked me. I love it.”

Campaigns can have a cult-like feel at the center.

When volunteers at Kuehl’s headquarters were asked why they were there, the mostly retired citizens yelled out their reasons like crazed teen fans.

“Because she’s my hero,” one woman answered.

“Because she leads the pack in charm and sense of humor, and she’s got instincts and great politics,” another said.

Carole Cherry said Kuehl’s campaign is the only one she has ever worked on. She and her husband make phone calls for the campaign every Monday night, she said.

Her husband was Kuehl’s director on “The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis--the television show in which Kuehl starred as a teen actor in the early ‘60s.

“We can’t give her a lot of money,” Cherry said. “So instead we are giving her our bodies--because she is super.” Then she was drowned out.

“I’m just wondering what year she will run for president!” shouted a volunteer at the end of the table.

“Haven’t had a woman governor yet, either,” another offered.

At the Knox campaign headquarters, volunteers seemed more drawn by issues than personality. Many said they called to help after receiving a Knox mailer touting his role in overturning 10-digit dialing in the 310 area code.

Shayne, the senior businesswoman, said she applauded that but that the real reason she volunteered was because Knox had helped her nonprofit Cheerful Helpers--a charitable group to help children with special needs--obtain accreditation.

“What he did for Cheerful Helpers was not publicized,” Shayne said. “I wonder how many other things he does that he doesn’t get credit for. I felt since he went out of his way to do that, I would do whatever I could for him.”

Unlike the others, Svonkin took a leave of absence from his job as a paid deputy to Koretz to work on the campaign as a volunteer.

He got married last fall but delayed his honeymoon until after the primary. The first party he held at his new house was a fund-raiser for Koretz, and he said 50% of the contributions that night came from relatives. He has gotten his mother and his wife involved in the campaign too.

“I knock on doors, I invite people over to my house, I deferred my honeymoon because I believe in this guy,” Svonkin said.

On a recent day he strode purposefully down the streets of West Hollywood, and then Ventura Boulevard, tirelessly trying to charm reluctant business owners into letting him post a campaign sign for Koretz in their windows.

Even his Ford Explorer was transformed into a campaign vehicle. Parked on a corner, giant “Vote for Paul Koretz” signs were taped to the front windshield and back. He said he puts them out every time he parks.

“You should see my house,” he said.