Feeling a little cynical these days? Frustrated with your fellow citizens for
choosing that bozo or reelecting such a nincompoop? In the surge towards this year’s election,
I’d been swimming in a sea of cynicism, drenched by negative ads and images
that made me wonder if America’s Biggest Idiot was running against the World’s
Greatest Liar in every race across the country. Every two years I note the Facebook posts,
watch the ads and read in the papers how my candidate is awesome while yours is
not only terrible but also a fool and probably a cheater too. And it feels like it’s always been this
way. In 1800, Thomas Jefferson accused
John Adams of being a hermaphrodite while Adams labeled Jefferson an atheist,
which in those days was like referring to someone as the cloven-hoofed Fallen
Angel himself. (“You’ve got man parts and lady parts!” “Well, you’re the Devil!” “Let’s be famous Americans!”) Go figure.
Lately it’s felt like politics
and elections are like a big bag of Doritos, promising things they can’t
deliver (“real cheezy flavor!”) and ruining my health (disodium guanylate,
anyone?). The initial interaction is
great – even inspiring. That first chip
is always a glorious moment when I think this is a new way of snacking – that all
the Doritos in the past were nothing like this one special chip, the one I
chose from this bag. But midway through,
that familiar, pedestrian taste returns, my belly feels uneasy, and I won’t
dare put the bag down for fear that everyone’ll know I made a bad choice. And of course, if these Doritos were from
Connecticut or Louisiana, they’d go to jail for corruption and influence
peddling, but that’s a story for another day.
I’ve
found a way out of this cycle of self-inflicted misery. I volunteered to help on Election Day in my
local ward, convincing the Moderator, Dennis Thivierge, to let me join the ten
or so elected officials and volunteers in Ward 7 for this year’s election. Dennis invited me to be a Ballot Inspector,
to sit at the front table as part of a two-person team checking in voters against
the registration rolls, and I accepted immediately.
I
arrive at 6 AM, an hour before the polls open, and the place is in full
swing. Sample ballots to post, tables to
arrange, pencils to sharpen, rules to explain and re-explain, voter rolls to
prep, machines to power on and ballots to stack. Dennis swears me in with an oath that I may, “Under
God, uphold the Constitution of the state of New Hampshire and of the United
States.” This feels kind of cool, like
I’m part of something that matters.
A line’s
forming outside as we race to get everything ready. Dennis and Jim Fowler, Ward 7’s Election
Clerk, show me the Accu-Vote, a laptop-type scanner that accepts the ballots
and counts them as they fall into a huge locked bin beneath. Dennis reminds us about the need to see a
photo ID and what we can and can’t ask for.
As the clock strikes 7 AM, he announces in a loud voice, “The polls at
Ward 7 are now officially open for business.”
And from that moment on, save for an odd ten minutes here and there, the
line of voters doesn’t stop for twelve straight hours, voter after voter
standing in line, waiting for his or her turn to have a say in our democracy. The tone is friendly but official – John
Hattan, Ward 7’s Supervisor of Clerks, reminds me I need to repeat each voter’s
name aloud twice while also stating the address. I follow a strict protocol about what pencils
to use, how to mark someone’s name as registered and where to send them if they
don’t have an ID or choose not to share one.
Every few minutes or so John or his colleague Margaret Gegas interrupts
to add a new Ward 7 voter to the rolls – in red pencil only.
I’m
paired with Jemi Broussard, a veteran of this ballot inspecting game, and I
follow her lead. Hour after hour, voter
after voter, Jemi and I greet neighbors, strangers, friends and family members,
asking them for IDs, confirming addresses and handing them ballots as they
breeze past us to the curtained booths.
Jemi chats with people she knows while voters in line connect with each
other, little kids goof around under and between their parents’ legs, and
people catch up on each other’s lives.
“Did you hear Liz is getting married this summer?” “Kevin’s at Fort Hood so he won’t be voting
today!” “Still teaching piano lessons?”
“Where’d you get your firewood this year?” A few voters roll their eyes at the request
for photo ID, and one irate gentleman slams his license down on the table in
disgust. Moments later a woman waits for
me to ask for her ID and proudly produces it, saying, “I’m happy to do it! I think it’s a great idea.”
A
parade of people comes to vote – teachers, tutors, cops, doctors, lawyers, and politicians
waiting to choose their own names, presumably.
We see moms and dads, grandparents and grandkids, heavyset voters,
skinny voters, voters with pierced ears, noses and lips, voters in their teens,
80’s and 90’s, voters who can’t see, can’t hear and can’t walk, followed by sweaty
voters who stop mid-training run to cast their opinions – even voters who talk
so much that we politely ask them to take their ballots and move along. I see my wife’s brother-in-law, the local
rabbi, the woman who walks her tiny dog past my house, my son’s Little League
coach, and the guy who makes the best egg and cheese sandwich in town. I see men and women who’ve served in the wars
we’ve fought since 1940, including one man in a USS Midway cap who’s been voting here since 1961, his daughter helping
him to the voting booth. Every time a
young adult casts a ballot, Jim shouts out, “We have a first time voter!” and
invariably the entire place erupts in applause, smiles creasing everyone’s
faces. I even see and shake the hand of
the son of one of the soldiers who raised the American flag on Iwo Jima. What a way to spend a day!
The polls
close at 7 PM as Dennis closes and locks the door, and we take a few hours or
so checking our rolls and providing counts of party affiliation as Dennis and
Jim run and re-run the Accu-Vote machine for the final Ward 7 tally. At the back table, the others pour over the
write-in ballots. Although David Bowie, Megatron
and Santa Claus seem like reasonable write-in choices for County Sheriff, such
suggestions are neither practical nor particularly helpful.
