Amid all the horror of voter suppression and Diebold election theft, I thought I'd recount my experience this morning to sort of light a candle amongst our cursing of the darkness that is the GOP.
Join me in the Extended Body
My wife was up at 4:30 this morning since she is working one of the polls today. She took her time and had her coffee and got her stuff loaded.
By the time she was getting ready to head out, I was trying to shake myself out of bed before our 2 1/2 year old, Benjamin, started calling out to be taken out of his crib.
But I was too slow. My wife found her directions (she's had to print them out the three times she's worked the poll because it's in another part of town) and was getting out the door kissing the boy and myself goodbye. (Wowee! Thanks, hon!)
My buddy, Benjamin, was suddenly possessed and demanded to have a waffle. I put one in the toaster and went to iron my shirt. When the waffle popped, another demand of "I wanna watch da lions" poured forth from his authoritarian lips.
("Da lions", of course, is THE LION KING which a friend of ours with kids had given us along with 20 other videos despite our indications that we didn't like Benjamin watching too much tv and we had promised we would never like videos babysit for us. That went by the wayside when Grandad was sitting for us one day and wanted to check his email in peace. That's Grandad!)
So, with Karo-syrup-covered waffle and grapefruit juice set in front of "da lions", Benjamin was dismissive and not interested in hearing about "voting". I checked the time and it was ONLY 6:10 in the a.m.
"Wow," says I, "I'm ahead of schedule." Shirt ironed, pants not needing it and Benjamin's clothes picked out and the polls not opening till 7, I thought, "well, I'll just check out a couple of sites and then get rolling."
Hakuna Mattata jauntily played in the background as I checked out the locals. Last minute pleas for people to vote on this one. Last minute appeals for Ford voters on that one. Last minute digs on Ford there. Ok. Nothing crazy yet.
I checked out that video that they posted on Huffington Post that was set to George Michael's Freedom and quietly wiped my tears on my t-shirt sleeve. And looking up, I noticed the time.
HOLY CRAP!! 6:45! How did that happen? Totally lost track of time! Damn you, Ultra-Interesting Political Sites!!
I jumped into the shower. Running some gel through my hair with one hand and brushing my teeth with the other, I tried to convince Benjamin to put his socks on. Needless to say, his answer was "No thank you!" (Precious.) What's that you ask? What! I like a little product, ok? Jeez, who are you, James Dobson? Get a hold of yourself. I have really uncontrollable hair.
The next thirty minutes were in fast forward. Dressing Benjamin while he tries to kick his feet out of his pants and laughs the whole time. Dressing myself. Right sock, left sock, undershirt, button down THEN pants.
(I'm a little OCD and I can't bear the idea of A. having to hold my pants legs up while I put my socks on or B. buttoning my pants while I put my shirt on and then UN buttoning my pants and holding them up with my knees spread apart while I tuck my shirt in and all that. Trust me, my way is better. Try it at home. Your results may vary.)
So, finally we're both dressed. Ok, Benjamin's got his jacket. No waffle on his face. Good. I've got my satchel of nothing that makes me look prepared and like I've got so much work to do I have to have a satchel to take some home at night. Keys, wallet, ID badge for work (fascists), phone and brain. Good, we're ready to go to the car.
All the while we were getting ready, I was informing Benjamin that we had to go vote before I took him to school. (It is difficult to type how he responds to stuff you tell him. He will repeat your statement in the form of a question like "We're gonna go vote, buddy" is bounced back as "Oh. We're gonna go vote?" each word a little louder than the last.)
As we're doing the car ritual (open the front door, unlock the back door, open the back door, "No, buddy, you can't sit in the front seat, come on, get in your seat. Thank you, buddy. Sit back, please. Can you put your arm through here? How about here? Sit back, please. Thank you, buddy.") Benjamin listed the places we were going this morning.
"We're gonna go vote?"
"yep"
"Yer takin'me to school?"
"Uh huh, Mommy's working her poll. snicker"
"Oh, Mommy's workin' her poll?"
"yep. snicker"
"We're going to the zoo first."
"I told you, buddy, perhaps on Sunday if it's not raining and your Nana doesn't have to work a 12 hour."
"I wanna go to the zoo!"
"I know, buddy."
My phone rings. It's Miss Winky. (See, my mom was always called Winky as a child by her dad who was shellshocked in WWII and shortly after his return from overseas disappeared and several years later turned up in TX with a whole 'nother family. It's...yeah...it's kind of a long story...but that name stuck with her, even going through those weird permutations that peoples' names go through. You know, like a a girl named Jennifer? As a kid, people may call her Jenny, perhaps in reference to a song she likes like that Tommy Tutone song "867-5309"? God, Do you remember that?! That was like...wait, Jenny, yeah and then when she's a teenager she wants some gravitas and decides everyone must call her Jennifer and they do 'cause who wants to listen to that all the time?, till she's married and her husband calls her Jenny for familiarity's sake and she grumbles but she loves him and then when she's in her early '60's some younger person who works with her but doesn't want to call her Mrs. Tutone kind of hedges the bet between familiarity and respect and calls her "Miss Jenny". So to did Miss Winky with some difference. She didn't demand that people call her Ann (her real name) but they slowly shortened it to Wink as she got older; then, one of my friends found out that's what the family and her community in Mississippi had called her and since he was at my house all the time and just as gay as the day is long thus loving good Southern traditions, he dubbed her "Aunt Winky" which others who weren't friends or family heard and started calling her "Miss Winky". All her grandchildren call her "Miss Winky". Was that worth it?)
So, Wink's calling me. She's working at her poll (ugh, that doesn't work the same) make that OUR poll in our neighborhood just a couple of blocks away. I answered, "Hey, Wink, we'll be there in a minute." She says, "Can you go by my house and unplug my coffee maker, I forgot?" Silently gritting my teeth, I said, "Sure". So, now I'm running late for work and I still have all this stuff to do.
I run around the car and jump in. Fire up the old 4-door tracker (she's a beauty) and off we go. I pull up to Wink's house, she's like four blocks away, it's nothing. "Oh crap, do I have her keys? YES!" They're in the car. Miracles never cease. Oh wait, I'm an atheist.
I run in, yank the cord and then run out and jump in and its off the one block to the poll. (If you're wondering if I left Benjamin in the car while I ran in, ARE YOU CRAZY? Of course, I did. I could see him the whole time. Jeez. I'm not crazy. I took the keys to the car with me.)
We pulled into the parking lot and I went around to get him out. I said, "Ok, buddy, I want you to understand that we're not going to act up in here, ok? This is something that is very important and has to be done respectfully. Can you say, "respectfully"? Says he, "nooo." "Ok, that's alright but you'll have to be quiet, ok?"
"Ok"
So, we headed in. I waved to a lady I see who works the poll and walks her dog in our neighborhood. Inside, was the aforementioned "Miss Winky" and she said, "Good morning, sir." I warmly replied, "Hey." "Hello, Benjamin," says she.
Benjamin, with index finger to lips replies, "Ssssshhhh." (This stuff is real. He's just that good.)
I filled out my form. I have no idea what that forms says. It could say the government gets Benjamin and I wouldn't know it till they were kicking in the closet door and I was hiding in there with him Elian-style.
Now, they always ask me for I.D. I've never had to present photo I.D. I have a voter registration card but most times, I just whip out my driver's license. The voter card is not right there in the open and in those slots or whatever and then I have to sort through the blood donor card and business cards of people I don't remember and all that to find it.
The nice old lady checks my name and has me sign a sheet. My neighbor who runs the poll asks me if I'm going to get another dog. My mother-in-law recently moved back to Memphis from Eugene, OR (why? I have no idea) and she stayed with us for a short while till she found a house and she had this horrible dog that wouldn't do "his business" in the back yard which is surrounded by a nice large wooden fence. No, he had to do it in the FRONT yard which is surrounded by a chain link fence and open to the public's view. They're gone now. [redacted]
Benjamin went to hug Miss Winky and hung out with her quietly whilst I waited for a machine. I got my card. The guy told me to slide it in till it clicked and I commenced to votin'. There were only a few things to vote on.
Steve Cohen? Check.
No on Amendment One? Check.
Beverly Marrero? Check.
Some other thing I didn't know was going to be on here for some reason? Skip.
School board member? Skip.
Christopher Lugo? Check.
Benjamin wandered over. "What're you doing, daddy?" he asks. "Hoping whoever made these machines is on my side," I quipped. We handed over our card and exchanged "I love yous" with Miss Winky and that was it.
I was in the poll no more than ten minutes tops and my waiting time was just for the machine and that may have been maybe a minute. My machine didn't try to vote Corker or Ford when I pushed Lugo and I checked at the end too.
There were maybe 6 or 7 people at the poll at the same time as me and everyone was pleasant and friendly and remarking on the cuteness of the boy.
Today, I feel confident my vote will count. I believe in voting today. A lot of days, I think voting is a just a tool of the corporations to make us feel like we're in charge. We have no way of knowing if the computerized machines will count the votes the way they were actually cast but today, taking my son to start what I hope will be a time-honored tradition for his generation, I have faith.
But I wish I had a receipt.
PS Benjamin says, "Oh, you want a re-CEIPT?"
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