VOTING IN AMERICA

I Tried To Be Funny Watching Poll Workers Count Votes

A bedtime story to soothe America’s nerves

I want to tell America a story from the before times, before COVID, before January 6th. Initially, I didn’t think it was remarkable, in fact, I was kind of embarrassed. But it’s too important to let my embarrassment get in the way of the telling. So let me just begin.

I moved to Oregon in 1986 when I was nineteen. I don’t remember the first time I voted, as warming to civic duty was a gradual process for me. Additionally, Oregon was different than Virginia, where I was from. Oregon was transitioning from in person voting to entirely vote by mail.

I only voted in person a few times, but I remember it vividly.

I remember passing one gentleman on the way in as he was heading out of the polling place. He reminded me of my grandfather; his hair was short, his clothes clean and neat, but a decade out of style, while I likely had long hair, a tie-dye tee shirt, and bleached jeans.

We made eye contact. In half a moment, we sized each other up, cognizant of the fact that we were likely on different ends of the political spectrum, but we nodded to each other. At that moment, we acknowledged that we had one commonality; we were both participating in a solemn and sacred right and duty.

I have missed that shared purpose and bond ever since.