I first block-walked for Congressman Beto O'Rourke in 2017 at an event in Atascocita hosted by Amy Bakken, fellow mom and all-around Suburban Superwoman.

Amy welcomed seven strangers into her home and trained us how to approach knocking for a political candidate, how to use the campaign's cellphone app technology, how to speak with passion. Between Amy's warm living room and the soft melody of her elementary teacher voice, we all quickly felt at ease and confident.

I asked Amy how she does it. "I'm an introvert by nature," she explains. "It is a special thing, though, to be the first one to introduce a voter to candidates I'm really proud to support. I love sharing my story and also listening about what is important to them. It's been surprisingly easy and rewarding to my introverted soul!"

Ever since Amy's party, I can't stop knocking. Yes, I could phonebank in the air conditioning or do data entry or join the text team, but there's something about the social experiment of knocking on doors that I find fascinating.

Comedian Sebastian Maniscalco's got a great bit about what it was like when someone knocked on your door 20 years ago versus today. He jokes that his mother used to have "company cake" ready — a cake which no one but unexpected guests could eat. "Now your doorbell rings," he begins, pantomiming himself army-crawling across his living room, "your own mother's crawling across the kitchen floor, and she says 'Go get the sword in the living room-under the couch. Get the sword! Oh no, they saw movement!'"

It's funny, because it's true. Society's changed. We text before we visit. We like warnings and predictability.

But with only 90 days until the November midterms, volunteers for the upcoming Senate race know there's no time to lose. This last week alone, three polls have shown O'Rourke within single digits of U.S. Sen. Ted Cruz.

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You can tell Cruz is nervous, because he rolled out his first three attack ads. With the same dramatic voice-overs we hear in Hollywood previews, the grainy ads grasp at straws.

Though O'Rourke has clarified at town halls that, "We should abolish the practices of ICE ... I don't think that abolishing any one department is going to solve all of these problems," the ads claim that he wants to abolish the agency.

Two of the commercials claim that O'Rourke is ready to legalize all kinds of crazy drugs — even though he's been clear. "I'm on a bill that would end the federal prohibition on marijuana," he says, arguing that money spent on the war on drugs could be put "into the classroom, into teacher pay, into treating an opioid epidemic, a methamphetamine epidemic that I'm seeing through lots of West Texas right now."

"Ted Cruz is running ads right now — not about what he hopes to bring to Texas — but about why you should be scared of me," O'Rourke told a packed room in Kerrville at a town hall on Sunday. "You're going to see more ads from our campaign running soon, but they won't be about the incumbent," he explains — avoiding Cruz's name entirely — "they'll be about the big bold ambitious things we want to accomplish."

He promised the crowd they would never see his campaign release an attack ad.

O'Rourke's first ad, titled "Showing Up," holds true to that promise. Edited entirely from cellphone video clips, a volunteer couple from San Antonio helped the campaign prepare the ad. It features him traveling everywhere in Texans. And I mean everywhere.

***

O'ROURKE REFUSES to hire pollsters or strategists or consultants for his Texas-sized campaign. Instead, he relies on "science," field director Zack Malitz jokes at a rally for volunteers in Houston.

Malitz explains that research shows that what really convinces voters isn't attack ads or mailboxes full of glossy flyers. "Talking to people, face-to-face, and making a connection is what inspires citizens to vote."

Lisa Garcia Bedolla and Melissa Michelson would agree. In their new book, "Mobilizing Inclusion," the political scientists follow six election cycles and study 268 different get-out-the-vote experiments: "Our analysis shows that citizens who haven't voted much in the past can be inspired by either door-to-door visits or live phone calls."

Knocking on doors is particularly impactful with one experiment showing a 40 percent increase in voter turnout.

Beyond the science and the research is O'Rourke's own experience knocking on doors. For him, knocking is "the most authentic, genuine way to connect with people." In the 2012 congressional election facing off against the eight-term incumbent, Silvestre Reyes, O'Rourke knocked on 16,000 doors with no paid staff.

He might've thought that jobs and health care were the big issues in that election, but three doors in, he realized that saving the Resler Canyon was on the minds of most of his would-be constituents. "He never would've discovered saving that canyon was so important if he hadn't knocked on doors," explains Chris Evans, O'Rourke's communication director. "That's how Beto works. You find out what Texans care about — not from pollsters, but by actually talking to Texans."

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Still, there's an awkwardness about knocking on a stranger's door. Talking to someone you've never met about politics while standing on their private property — weird, right?

Surprisingly, not weird.

In conservative Kingwood, a retired police officer and O'Rourke supporter and his wife invited me into their home to show me their art collection and enjoy a glass of cold water. In liberal Montrose, a Cruz supporter shook my hand, told me she'd be voting red and thanked me for coming out on a hot day to talk to voters.

Town Hall with Beto O'Rourke What: Houston Education Town Hall with Beto O'Rourke When: Friday, August 10, 4:30 p.m. Where: The Villagio, 10901 Braes Bend Drive

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But it was an interaction in Fifth Ward that left me stunned at the love and generosity of my fellow Houstonians.

Mauricio was doing some metal work in his yard two weeks ago when he noticed me knocking on his neighbor's door. "Mrs. Castillo is usually asleep right now," he said, walking over to explain in Spanish. "She takes her hearing aid out. Want me to leave her a message?"

I explained that I was canvassing, and I told Mauricio that O'Rourke is from El Paso and that he speaks fluent Spanish. I told him that he sends his kids to public schools, and he supports teachers like me.

"Are you registered to vote?" I asked.

"No, profe," Mauricio explained. He is still a legal resident and can't vote yet.

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Then he surprises me. He tells me he knows everyone down the street. He can help me get past the gates and scary dogs to knock on the doors.

And he does.

Eighteen houses. Mauricio walks with me to each one, calling out his neighbors, telling them about O'Rourke by my side. "Epa, his kids go to the same schools as ours, and he speaks Spanish!," he proudly boasts, stealing all my favorite lines.

At the end of the street and half an hour later, we're drinking a cold Sprite an abuelita gave us. Mauricio starts to apologize that he can't help me with the next street because he has to work, and I can't hold back the tears. I shake his hand and thank him. I thank him over and over, embarrassed.

"Gracias a usted, profe," he tells me, and walks back to his pile of metal.

***

Knocking on doors for O'Rourke is just a microcosm of the spirit of his campaign. With hundreds of open town halls hosted and thousands of miles traveled, he reminds us that politics is really just about connecting with people in a spontaneous way.

In preparation for the upcoming debates, O'Rourke suggested to Cruz's strategist, Jeff Roe, that "at each debate, our fellow Texans should be able to raise any issue and do so in an unscripted town hall format" and that issues like "serving our veterans, public education, money in politics" should be included.

Roe curtly retorted, "Our debate plan isn't an open negotiation."

For now, I'm knocking for Beto, because he's showing up to listen to Texas teachers like me. But whether your favorite candidate wears red or blue or neither color, I encourage you to get out and knock. Knock in your neighborhood. Knock in Galveston. Visit your parents, and go knock down their street too. Go everywhere.

Gaby Diaz is an English teacher in Houston.

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