Voting Undrama

(NOVEMBER 2008)

My voting experience was quizzically ordinary. Maybe it was all the hype from this election that forecasted its disappointment like the Blair Witch Project curse or Oprah’s last book, The Secret. But, I was expecting more bells and whistles. I was envisioning departing the exit booth with a swagger in my step and flip in my bob. There were no palpitations, flutters, or spontaneous sighs of patriotic satisfaction. There wasn’t even a line.

Okay, so I voted early. I was one of those neurotic type A’s who speed over to City Hall during a lunch break the second morning of early voting. I tactically avoided Day #1, anticipating the growing pains of paperwork, procedure, and 82 year-old volunteers with orthopedic shoes, flag pins, and no concept of efficiency. Who else can they get on duty at 11am? I figured they’d have at least memorized the routine by Day #2 lunch.

I stepped into the main vestibule, expecting the air to be orchid-house thick - the exhaust from vicious political friction and oppressive body heat. But, it was quiet enough to hear my boot heels click on the linoleum and a lovely October breeze fluttered through the three inch gaps along the lobby windows. It was a perfect 71 degrees. I approached the reception desk and nodded at a balding man in bifocals, bearing a lopsided nametag – Hello, I’m Hank. He grinned widely, adjusting his frames, and gestured to a far table by twisting his entire body to the right. Had he actually been reading a book?

“Just fill out your name, address, and county and be sure to get your driver’s license all ready. That is very important.” He winked and I smiled with the forced civility of a frequent flier being reminded by TSA to remove their loafers.

“Will do.” I raised a hand in attempted affability and reached inside my bag. I had stuffed my Social Security card, passport, voter’s registration, original birth certificate (with the seal), and several major credit cards deep within my Marshall’s purse. Having been scarred from multiple disasters at the DMV that made traveling to the Middle East appear as trivial as a game of Frisbee, I was determined to arm myself with reserves.

A younger woman with an eye tick checked my license behind a laptop computer and I waited, eyes darting around the room in search of someone to share my elated anticipation of voting for the first Black President. Where were the crowds, the buzz, the tactile evidence of history in the making? I may have even frowned when she neglected to ask for a second form of ID. The public library isn’t even that lenient. Instead, she pointed to one of the open stations with Tylenol-red plastic stools and I settled along the back wall to secure my privacy. The touch screen was a cinch – no dimpled ballots or poorly punched chads to incite drama or panic. Behind the viewing glass, the system printed an itemized receipt like you get at the local hardware store and then rocketed it off into oblivion - my Vote for Change officially counted.

I cleared my throat and peered up, hoping I’d discover a snaking line of citizens shoulder-slumped behind the registration desk. But, no jittery mob appeared to confirm my brilliant tactic of arriving pre-lunch rush. I suppose I should have been gushing with gratitude that I didn’t have to wait three hours like those voters in Gary with their single machine. Channel 2 news had videotaped them napping with heads pressed against the wall and shoes strewn to the side like stranded passengers at an airline terminal. I felt an adverse tensing of my jaw. Those folks were truly making a statement.

Perhaps, the early voting consequentially spread out the excitement like a thin layer of mustard on rye, but I did expect to endure something unpleasant– a faulty machine, whiny toddler, or at least a line worthy of womens’ ballpark bathrooms. But, my experience was as boring as brown corduroy. It wasn’t until I exited the building and turned my car onto the local road that I finally had my moment of tickled inspiration.

They were there in masses – plastering the bumpers of all shapes, sizes, makes, models, and colors. White with block letters, round ones, long rectangles, cursive, bordered, bold-faced and blue. Obama and Biden. The stickers were everywhere as lights changed, horns blared, and pedestrians careened down crosswalks. I just had not noticed the sheer quantity before. They were a part of our everyday environment and yet, a rhythm of our revolution. Our voices and words and commitment to a movement. The voters would be there - in their own time on their own day. I was sure of it. I peeked down at my “I voted” sticker on the back of my hand and felt a swelling of pride. I patted it gently and ultimately understood, change did not always have to be measured by the length of a line.