Working the Polls

I’ve worked at my small, hometown precinct on election days since 2007, and mostly, they’re fun days.

I’ve seen many beautiful pictures—like our last mayoral election. After the polls closed, the candidates came in to wait for results. When the chief judge announced the winner, both candidates stood, shook hands, and left. What a great picture of what works in America.

I see other great pictures, too. Living close to Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, I see many men and women wearing their ASU’s (fatigues) to cast their vote. Love it!

Tuesday, a 94-year-old WWII former POW voted and kissed most of the women on his way out. Three generations, a grandfather, son, and grandson, voted together. Several whole families voted at the same time, some bringing babies and small children.

An 86-year-old woman in an apple green sweater and a string of oversized pearls pushed her walker to my station as she clutched her green leather pocketbook. I admired her red nail polish as she signed her name.

I ring a cowbell for first time voters. Yesterday, I rang it for two sets of twin boys, reminding me that my twin sons were brokenhearted in 2012 because they turned 18 only weeks after the election.

I also get a little dose of stupidity every election day.

“Ah, I’m not sure if I’ve voted before.”

“Which party gives out the money to the people? I want to vote for that one.”

“I thought we could vote anywhere we wanted to.”

“Why do I have to show you my I.D?”

“Here’s my I.D. Look at it!”

Two conversations on Tuesday may have won the stupid prize.

As one man signed his ATV form—the form to exchange for a ballot—the next young man asked, “Why does he have to sign that paper?”

I explained he was confirming his address before receiving his ballot.

The curious young man, sporting a Fedora and nurturing a shy goatee, replied, “Seems like an invasion of privacy.”

My co-workers and I had begun the morning at 5:45. We had served over one thousand voters. This incident took place around 5:30pm.

I explained. With graciousness and patience. “I haven’t asked for your social security number.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, man.” Man. Not ma’am.

I elaborated. With more patience. “Everything on the form is already in the system. I see it on my computer screen. How is it an invasion of privacy?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know.” He waved his hands beside both ears. “I’ve just got stuff going on in my mind, you know?”

I didn’t, but I surmised what went on in there.

He said, “I think I’ll pass.”

My mouth dropped open. “You’re not going to vote? You’ve just decided not to vote?”

He shrugged again.

I replied, without any patience or grace or probably good sense, “People have died to give you the right to vote, and now you’re here, you’re not going to?”

I wanted to snatch that Fedora off his head and beat him with it. (Please remember that I’d been serving the public for over 12 hours.) In the end, he decided to vote, but he was in the wrong precinct!

A couple came to vote for the first time. She is 61. He is 60. They seemed a little embarrassed. They should’ve been a lot embarrassed. She admitted she’d registered years ago, had gotten off work early to vote, but when she arrived at the polls, the line was too long. She went home.

The line was too long.

I wanted to yell, “Why don’t you tell the soldier shivering from fear and freezing temperatures in some foreign fox hole that the line in your air conditioned or heated polling place was too long?”

My blood pressure rises even now as I remember her sheepishly telling me this story. They asked me not to ring my cowbell. I wanted to ring their necks.

Overall, I love working the polls. I love seeing voters come in, voting for both sides, no doubt, but laughing, visiting, and carrying on with their day in peace.

I just hope no one at the Board of Elections reads this post. I’d hate not to be asked back to work the polls.