Impressions of a poll worker

by Pat Laster
  [all names below are altered]

 

                At 7 a.m. on Election Day, all precinct workers showed up with a contribution to the “potluck,” and knowledge that it was to be a very l-o-n-g day.

              
               My assigned table served those whose surnames began with A through E included Bo S., who handed out ballots after numbering/tearing off the stubs.

At the front of the table sat D. W. B., whom I knew in high school but hadn’t seen since. She handled the sign-in book.

In the middle, as a newbie, I merely wrote a continuing list of voters, a backup to the official roll, being sure that my numbers and Bo’s stub numbers matched.

Three other tables spread across one-half of the hall handled other sections of the alphabet.

Three banks of tables holding cardboard tri-folds for privacy and pencils for voting filled the other half of the long room.

The ballot box table stood between, with an official always on hand to guide folks on how to insert the ballot. He also gave out “I voted” stickers, even to the children of the voters.

Besides being a civic duty and opportunity, the voting event often became a social, reconnecting time. I saw--for the first time in a long time--my former niece, Andi, and Rob, a former student during the years I had another name; Nell, a neighbor from teenage years, plus one I hadn’t seen since I retired from teaching: Coach B.

We were excited to see the “first-timers,” who came to the table saying. “I don’t know what to do.” One young man, 18, looked to be 12! I heard the ballot monitor say to each, “Don’t let this be your last vote!” Amen to that.

All ages, all classes, many handicapped (two nearly blind); some with babies and children (all well-behaved) came through the lines.

Workers with names and/or company logos on their shirt pockets; be-hatted college students, school-shirted high school students and teachers—all took advantage of their right to vote.  

One youngish Goth (dressed in black) came in to vote and on his way out, he pushed his trousers down, showing his blue shorts. Otherwise, we’d have been mooned!

One woman had to borrow a worker’s reading glasses to see to vote.

One young man took his ball cap off inside; we complimented him (to his delight) on his manners. He gave credit to his parents.

Most were willing to provide ID, though I heard one fellow on the next line saying he thought that was illegal. Folks reckoned they had to provide it everywhere else, so why not at the polls. Some showed drivers licenses and/or voter cards. One young woman handed us her passport.

             Several people could not vote, even though they swore the revenue office told them they were registered. Some hadn’t updated their (changed) names or residences. Even a 10-years-in- Baghdad veteran couldn’t vote though he was told he could. That was heart-breaking.

                Several voters were at the wrong precinct, but it was a quick drive to the other one.

                All four tables of registrations saw—during the 12-hour period—a thousand voters.

    Is this a great country, or what!!!

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster