The Right To Vote

"That we have the vote means nothing.

That we use it in the right way means everything."

-- Lou Henry Hoover

Voting sticker on storm drain 11-5-14

"Do the unexpected. Take 20 minutes out of your day,

do what young people all over the world are dying to do: vote."

-- Rick Mercer

"Every election is determined by the people who show up."

-- Larry J. Sabato, Pendulum Swing

I voted yesterday.

I allowed myself an hour, in case there were long lines.

I was the line.

The whole thing took less than ten minutes, including my wait for the six hundred-year-old poll worker to finish her conversation with the seven hundred-year-old poll worker and process me in. 

I sat at a table with a flimsy, canvas sort-of barrier (not really) between me and a couple of other voters. I felt pretty exposed and vulnerable, like anyone who wanted to cheat off my paper totally could have.

They didn't even give me the hard plastic secrecy sleeve to hide my answers in when I was done.

Oh, how times have changed.

Going to vote with my mother when I was a kid was absolutely fascinating. Mystical, even.

Mostly because that was back when they still used the old voting machines -- the big walk-in ones with the levers and curtains. Those things looked like you could time travel in them.

If you're old, like me, you know what I'm talking about. There was once a time when voting seemed magical and mysterious. It was so secretive and private.

My mother always made me and my sisters wait outside the booth. She was an extremely private voter. Even she and my dad didn't discuss with one another how they voted, or who they voted for.

She'd walk in and close the curtain so that all we could see of her were her feet and calves. I would listen for the strange sound of the sliding tabs and the moving lever, and the familiar sound of her snapping her chewing gum as she carefully considered which candidates and issues to support. I'd try to peek underneath the curtain to see if I could see anything, you know, to see how the trick was done. But I couldn't.

Voting machine

It always seemed like she was in there for a really long time.

But finally, she'd emerge from the magic chamber.

I always asked "Who'd you vote for?"

She always answered "None of your damn business."

I always asked "Can I have your sticker?"

She always answered "You'll get one when you can vote."

Voting with my mother was what infected me with the desire to do it myself someday. I wanted to be part of that transaction, that process. I wanted to go behind the curtain and not just see how it happened, but to help make it happen.

Except that by the time I turned eighteen, the voting experience, like so many things in America these days, was pretty much neutered of all it's magic.

Now, going to the polls feels just kind of meh.

Ask Leo.

He went to the precinct with my husband yesterday morning before school. He had see the electoral process in action for his social studies class.

Me: "So what'd you think of the voting experience?"

Him: "Meh."

Told you.

I think that's sad.

But he's right. Somewhere along the line all the juice got sucked out. Our kids are no longer fascinated and captivated by what their parents are up to when they vote. They're just really bored.

It is my personal, humble opinion, that voter registration and turnout would skyrocket if they'd just bring back the machines.

I'm still waiting, but yesterday, I voted anyway. 

I was a good American. I showed up and I filled in the lame-o little circles on the lame-o little paper with a lame-o little pencil.

And guess what? Mom was right.

I got a sticker.

Thankfully, some things haven't changed.