Three towns where democracy thrives

In a college town like Berkeley, Loraine Lundquist's decision to throw a party on Saturday night was nothing out of the ordinary. The invitation, however, was a bit unusual.

"We'll meet at 4:30 p.m.," it read. "Please choose a ballot initiative to research in depth, beyond the standard 'yes' and 'no' summaries.... Consider checking out the history behind the initiative, articles in the local news, etc."

That night, the last laptop shut down at 10:30 p.m. In five hours of consternation spent hunching over scraps of paper, Ms. Lundquist had run through her three pages of hand-scrawled notes on Proposition 49 – which would fund before- and after-school programs – and sampled cookies shaped like California bears. Her husband had shocked himself with the revelation that he'd vote for at least one Republican.

And a friend, looking the part of an insurgent in his knit hat and orange T-shirt, had cross-referenced every measure with endorsements culled from political websites and local papers. And he'd realized he won't vote for any of them.

This is democracy, Berkeley style. Today, when many states are forecasting voter turnouts to rival historic lows, Berkeley is a window into communities where politics is still a passion – from the New Hampshire foothills to the Big Sky of Montana.

In many ways, these places have little in common. Traditionally, the whitest and northernmost states send a greater percentage of voting-age populations to the polls. But this trend doesn't always hold true for cities and counties. Deep traditions of civic involvement can cut across every regional and cultural line – embracing ranchers and retirees, immigrants and activists.

The prescription for greater voter engagement that emerges is obvious: a sense of community. At a time when many voters claim that they feel detached from the political process, the lesson from these places is that a strong sense of connectedness – though college, church, or clubs – breeds greater involvement.

"[Voting] is a very social kind of activity," says David Epstein, a political scientist at Columbia University in New York. "You need some local institution that keeps people interested in politics."

In Berkeley, there's little choice. The sense of community, emanating from the university, and thriving in cafes, flows from 1960s activism. This was the first city to ban business dealings with apartheid-era South Africa, the first to create curb ramps for wheelchairs, the first to ban smoking in public places, the first to voluntarily desegregate schools, a leader of the free-speech and feminist movements, and home of the Black Panthers.

As such, Berkeley has long seen local government – and elections – as a way to influence the world. This year, voters are considering a measure that would make Berkeley the first city to mandate that all brewed coffee be from organic, shade-grown, or "fair trade" beans. The provisions are intended to reduce rain forest clear-cutting and improve foreign workers' pay.

"In terms of what you might call the mood and style of the 1960s, Berkeley is one place that it still has a relevance," says historian Charles Wollenberg. "It attracts the kind of people who get active in politics."

Party organizer Lundquist and her husband – who both came to attend the university – are no exception. They included a list of charities on the registry for their recent wedding, and Lundquist says she's never missed voting in a major election. In the end, she says, she was disappointed at the party turnout: six people. Then again, more than half the people she asked declined because they had already voted by mail.

While there is no national ranking of voter turnout for localities, Berkeley's 76 percent voter turnout in 2000 is widely acclaimed – especially for a diverse city of 100,000.

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