Abstract
Working as a Census enumerator, Colby King learned firsthand the challenges and importance of accurate counting.
In the summer of 2010, I worked for the Census in South Carolina. I'd moved there for graduate school three years earlier, but had made limited ventures off campus into the local communities. During the Census, I endured some of the hottest heat; visited some of the poorest, most underserved neighborhoods in the country; and met some of the most interesting people I've ever encountered. I learned about the people who chose to work as enumerators, the challenges enumerators faced while gathering information, and the local residents and communities in my (relatively) new home.
I also came to appreciate that counting people isn't easy, but it is interesting. Out in the communities, I saw strengths and weaknesses, goals and needs. I came to appreciate the fortitude of these areas and saw the importance of taking stock of the communities, assessing their contributions and needs. As a sociology graduate student, I encounter research based on Census data almost daily. By working for the Census, I met the people and saw the process behind this tremendously meaningful data set. Of course, this crucial information isn't easy to gather. Over my summer as an enumerator, I was responsible for the counting of hundreds of individuals. It was sweaty, tiring work.
In the Field
Most of the people I interacted with were helpful and informative, but some were resistant or even suspicious. At one home, the resident said she wouldn't answer any questions, stating I was “just too nosy.” On another day, I needed to confirm that a neighboring house with a “for sale” sign in the yard was vacant on Census Day. The older woman who came to the door grumpily asked why I was bothering her. After explaining that she had been visited by other Census workers, she snapped, “Isn't it obvious that house is empty?” She yelled, “This whole mess is Obama's fault!” and slammed the door in my face.
While I never really feared for my safety in the field, sometimes I came close. On one particular day I was assigned several addresses on a rural road in the area of South Carolina referred to as the “corridor of shame.” I carried a stack of questionnaires into a neighborhood where most long driveways weren't even marked with street numbers. I drove down one of several long driveways deep into the woods. Eventually a house with a detached garage came into view. Creeping slowly forward, I saw a sign: “If you can read this sign, you are within range.” Holding my Census bag, I stepped out of the car and hollered, “Hello?!” to the house about 70 yards away. A sturdy, bearded man appeared on the porch. After I told him what address I was looking for, he directed me to the other side of the street. I thanked him, explaining that I would've come closer to the door, but I'd seen the sign on his garage. Dryly he replied, “I appreciate that.” At that, he turned and stepped back into his house.
Not every interaction with the public was strange or scary. Searching for an address in a trailer park, a woman cutting her son's hair in the yard shouted toward me, asking if she could help. She commented on the heat, offered a glass of water, and explained that the mobile home I couldn't locate had been sold and towed away.
This fieldwork gave me first-hand knowledge about the importance of gathering accurate, recent information at the street level. All of the neighborhoods I had visited were impacted by the recession. For example, one resident explained how the houses on both sides of her home and the house across the street were all empty because of foreclosures. Her property was literally surrounded by the foreclosure crisis. At another house, the son of the homeowner told me that his mother and her neighbors had all lived here for more than 50 years, but, in the past 8 months both neighbors had passed away, and now their houses were for sale. Clearly, these neighborhoods were undergoing dramatic transitions. I felt confident that the data I was gathering would help leaders, policy makers, and residents better plan for their communities' needs.
Where the Community Meets Itself
Census workers are also not career bureaucrats—they are neighbors, bringing diverse skills and perspectives to bear in their own communities. I was trained by a retired war veteran. My cohort included undergraduates looking for summer employment, soccer moms earning extra money for birthday presents, and school teachers hoping to learn more about their communities. When we ventured into neighborhoods we visited unfamiliar places, and the residents on both sides of the enumeration interview saw new sides of their community. As the community assessed itself, you could say it met itself.
I was trained or worked through Census offices in county libraries, community park buildings, and local malls, and I sought out new experiences. One afternoon, I asked an older local for a restaurant recommendation. First, he told me a dirty joke about politicians—the kind only a smiling old man can get away with. He then directed me downtown, to the Sumter Cut Rate Drugs and Coffee Shop. I became a regular, chatting about the weather and lunching often on their hearty daily specials.
Months later, back in the computer lab, I'm grinding away at statistical analyses. As I await the cross tabulations, I know that much of the data I'm using was gathered by people like me, venturing out to knock on doors and talk with their neighbors. I appreciate having both perspectives. While I recognize the informative power of the large data sets the Census provides, the stories I gathered bring the numbers to life in a vivid montage of unique local people and situations. This data and my experiences are part of the same story: making sense of the ever-changing American community.