The GOP’s New Ground Game

The 2024 election ushered in a new era in Republican electoral strategy. The chaos of 2020 left ordinary voters bitter and disappointed in the clunky inadequacies of old-fashioned canvassing efforts against a decentralized and shameless Democratic ground game. In response, ordinary citizens began gathering into grassroots, populist groups to get out the vote in a more nimble and up-to-date way. I was among them, and what I saw gave me hope for the future of the party.

I arrived on the ground in Glendale, Arizona, unsure of what to expect. During the Biden years, I had been keeping track of my home country from afar as I worked for a conservative organization in Budapest. I watched with alarm as inflation soared, drug cartels trafficked kids across the southern border, towns were overwhelmed by illegal migration, men invaded women’s sports, teachers radicalized students into trans activism, and global instability worsened under Democratic leadership. Usually, I’d roll my eyes, rant on social media, or vent to my friends. This time, I felt compelled to act—but how?

What could I, a 54-year-old woman with no political connections or online influence, really do? In Budapest I was immersed in a thriving conservative movement. Coming home, though, I wasn’t prepared for the political chaos that greeted me. In Hungary I felt part of the cause; back here, I feel completely out of the loop.

That’s when a friend told me about Turning Point Action’s (TPA) “Commit 100” initiative, a bold, volunteer-driven effort to mobilize Republican voters in key battleground states like Arizona. The concept was simple: train volunteers—even those with no experience—to knock on doors and encourage “low-propensity” Republican voters (those who are registered to vote but often sit out elections) to cast their ballots early. Commit 100 asks participants to dedicate at least two days to chasing at least 100 votes.

After learning that TPA would handle basic logistics—providing a hotel in Phoenix, Uber rides during canvassing hours, and training for first-timers like me—I signed up. Soon, I was packing for 28 days and stepping into the role of a first-time swing-state activist.

I was one of thousands. The landscape of Republican activism has changed utterly in the 2020s. Gone are the days when the typical GOP voter stayed at home while the Democrats organized relentlessly. Thanks to TPA and other get-out-the-vote efforts, Republicans are hitting the streets, knocking on doors, and having neighborly conversations with voters—something we were once reluctant to do. In January, when Turning Point rolled out Commit 100, the organization hoped to recruit 1,000 volunteers to help chase votes in Arizona. By Election Day, that number exceeded 6,000, with volunteers flying in from dozens of non-swing states as far-flung as Florida, New York, Washington, and Utah—to name just a handful.

The data highlights Arizona’s shifting political landscape. Since 2020, Arizona’s Democratic Party has lost significant ground. Registered voters dropped from 1.38 million to 1.19 million in 2024. Republicans experienced a smaller decline, from 1.5 million to 1.45 million, but the larger loss for Democrats is especially notable under Democratic Governor Katie Hobbs.

In Maricopa County, the state’s most populous and the fourth-largest in the U.S., Democratic voters fell sharply, from 814,000 to 692,000, while Republicans strengthened their voter advantage. Polling in advance of election night showed Trump leading Harris among low-propensity voters, a key group for Trump’s ground game. That’s why TPA’s Commit 100 program centered on Maricopa County exclusively.

The goal was to win the state for Trump by focusing on the mega-county’s 400,000 low-propensity voters, chiefly the thousands of registered Republican voters among them. In the end, TPA may have helped tip this key county in Trump’s direction: of the county’s roughly two million ballots cast, 51.01% went to the Trump/Vance ticket. In a race that tight, no turnout effort is wasted.

TPA is betting big. Their grassroots volunteers were far from seasoned activists. In fact, I did not meet any volunteers who had any direct political activism experience. Over lunch during training at TPA headquarters, I met Mariela, a retiree from Orlando who was learning to navigate Uber and the ballot-chasing apps. She was nervous but excited to canvas her assigned Mesa neighborhood, aiming in particular to reach Republican women voters who are wary of Trump. Across from me sat Mark, a retiree from Punta Gorda, Florida, who felt his own state is a lock for the Republicans but wanted to make a difference in swing-state Arizona.

Then there was Joe, a 30-something teacher from northern Utah who was spending his fall break canvassing Phoenix. Joe leans libertarian but felt strongly that government overreach under Biden—and potentially Kamala Harris—required direct action. He found out about Commit 100 on Facebook and signed up immediately, coordinating his schedule around his wife’s travel plans.

Back at my hotel in Glendale, I met Anthony, a 36-year-old single guy who had driven his Tesla all the way from New York to be here. A businessman with ventures in running events and communications, Anthony was dividing his day between chasing ballots and running his companies remotely. He believed Arizona was crucial to a Trump victory, especially after the 2020 election’s controversies in Maricopa County.

Anthony arrived just as Carol, a retired grandma from the Dallas area, was heading home. Carol had spent four busy days driving fellow volunteer Connie—a single mom from Central California and self-described Luddite—through both of their canvassing areas, helping her navigate the TPA app. At first glance, they seemed like an unlikely pair. But they matched each other in determination.

Republicans like these—retirees, teachers, single guys, grandmas, small business owners, and even lieutenant colonels—are the new activists. Many of us never thought we’d become “community organizers.” But we found ourselves taking time off work, flying or driving from all over the country, and knocking on doors in neighborhoods we’ve never seen. It wasn’t just politics or a hobby for us: it was our duty to help preserve the republic.

At breakfast in the hotel, I met Dennis and Judy from Washington State. They have been active Republicans for years. Dennis, a former teacher, is deeply concerned about the state of education. He and Judy want to pull the younger generation back from the brink of Marxism, which has infiltrated schools and frayed family bonds, including their relationship with their adult daughter. Across the table was Mark, a retired Kentuckian who believes the media and education are critical pillars that need reform. He was there because he thought Arizona was stolen in 2020 and was determined to help prevent a repeat.

Even though we came from different states and backgrounds, our shared motivation bound us together. Jerry, a retired lieutenant colonel from Utah, and his wife Betty Ann, both devout Catholics, exemplified this commitment. They’d have preferred to keep enjoying their retirement, but the challenges facing our nation—whether economic, cultural, or geopolitical—spurred them into action.

Our work made a difference. On one level, we were a novelty in the modern political landscape, which has typically featured seasoned professionals whose behemoth organizations march them through a well-established, get-out-the-vote routine. But in another way, the new Republican activism represents the revival of a deep-seated American spirit—the kind of civic spirit described by Alexis de Tocqueville which drives American politics with the power of local and personal attachments. This is the face of the GOP’s new activism, and it will shape the country long after the second term we helped win for Trump.

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