I was so exhausted but also wired when I returned home from the polls last night around 11 pm that I misspoke on the phone with my sister. I said that Tuesday had felt like the longest day of my life. I quickly revised my statement, remembering that the day I journeyed home from my year-long academic sojourn in England in 2007 was much more arduous by virtue of the fact that on that day I was lugging around about 80 pounds of real, physical baggage from bus to train to plane, etc. I wound up in the emergency room, suffering muscle spasms, a day later. No, Election Day, clocking in at 22 hours long, was nowhere near as painful or stressful. But it was close.
Full disclosure: for about a week beforehand, I’d been dreading working the polls as a voting operations election judge. I felt totally unprepared; there are so many systems and procedures to follow, I panicked at the thought that I would never learn to master them in time. Specifically, I worried that I wouldn’t know how to operate the electronic pollbooks we use to check-in voters. Hands-on training was precisely one month ago. I also resented the hours: 6 am (to grant us an hour to set up the site before the polls opened at 7) to an indeterminate hour past the 8 pm closing time. (I wound up staying until just after 10.30 pm.) Everything that I pessimistically and anxiously expected to happen eventually did, and then some.
During the 6 o’clock hour, I proved so competent, organized, and efficient that the chief judges assigned me to the check-in table along with two others. To my surprise, I had almost instant recall of the machines’ functions despite not having touched an electronic pollbook in a month. My teammates insisted that I sit between them so they could learn from my actions. The funny thing is that, despite my knowledge and confidence, I was the one who made mistakes, like forgetting to sign some early Voter Authority Cards before sending checked-in voters on their way to the voting units. A line of voters started to form around 6.30 am and we were inundated with hundreds more until about 11.30 am. Sometimes, I could barely hear or understand what people were saying as they checked in. The noise in the room was loud and distracting, and the voters often mumbled and/or breathlessly spelled their unfamiliar last names. My incomprehension frustrated many. I totally understand: having to repeat your name three times takes its toll on your patience, especially when you are stopping in on your way to work. All this, combined with my embarrassing inability to easily transcribe words and names as they are spelled aloud for me, made for a rather stressful time; I was stationed at check-in for the first four hours. And this all happened as I just knew it would.
I was relieved to switch roles after taking my first of three breaks. Now I greeted checked-in voters waiting in line, escorting them to the voting booths and giving tips on how to use the touchscreen computer along the way. This part, which mainly encompassed ensuring that voters were ready to cast their ballots and alerting them to the machine’s built-in time-out if the screen isn’t touched for two minutes, felt just as scripted as asking for people’s names, month and day of birth, and addresses at the pollbooks. I spoke so much yesterday, whether fulfilling my official duties, organizing tasks with my co-workers, or just shooting the shit, that right now, my throat is sore from overuse, my lips chapped. In any case, I enjoyed this second role more than the first, though I sporadically returned to it throughout the day. It was a welcome change of pace for many reasons. Other than presenting a break from the noise and frustration produced or exhibited by voters waiting to check in, it also got me back on my feet again. I had made the mistake of wearing jeans that were slightly less forgiving around the waist that, when combined with my constant water-drinking to stem the tides of dehydration, made me have to pee all the time. Seriously, I’m not sure I’ve ever peed so much so often in one day.
I wish I could tell you more about working the polls, particularly the official processes we use to count ballots. But I’m pretty sure there’s a gag order on that front. Instead, I’ll overcompensate for this lack by telling you about my now well-honed party affiliation profiling skills (i.e. if you’re wearing a hunting jacket or a stetson, you’re definitely a Republican). And my perception that Republicans were less friendly, Democrats more excited to be there. Yes, in fact, one of the ways that I could differentiate voters by party affiliation—before learning it, of course—was in how they comported themselves. The Republicans seemed to me to be more sluggish, as if resentful that they had to come off their nearby historic farms and walk amongst civilization to vote against initiatives on the ballot, including, in addition to President Obama’s re-election, same-sex marriage and the extension of in-state tuition costs to undocumented immigrants who have lived here almost all their lives. (Of the ten precincts or polling places in my suburban town, I believe I was stationed at the one with the most “rural” population.) Democrats, on the other hand, were more upbeat, probably because, as progressives, they usually value or believe in the voting process more. For instance, the only people who ever gave me lip, either insisting I look at their photo IDs to confirm their identity or complaining that the state’s law not to require photo ID at the polls is unreasonable, were Republicans. Every time I encountered one of these conservatives, I thought to myself, This isn’t Ohio, Pennsylvania, or Florida. Additionally, from my understanding, recruiting Republicans to serve as election judges was itself a difficult task for the county’s board of elections.
By way of conclusion, I would like to attempt a description of what it was like to physically be there. As I now like to repeat, when I went in, it was dark out; when I went home, it was dark out. I couldn’t leave the polling place, not even to step outside for some fresh air, nor could I read, listen, or watch anything. I’ve already mentioned how uncomfortable it was to sit for long periods, but standing around when it got slow—and we only had a trickle of voters come in during the last two and a half hours (when we were anticipating hundreds!)—was just as unbearable. The worst part, however, was not being able to know what was happening across the county, state, or nation. I worried that I would be there so late that I would completely miss the news media’s live coverage of the returns as they came in. That’s always been how I’ve spent Election Night, watching the map of the United States light up as red and (preferably) blue. When the Democratic chief judge expressed concern that Romney was going to win (based on the turnout in our little precinct, it seemed), I thought, C’mon! I started the day believing in a positive outcome, and I didn’t want to hear any negativity. I was more anxious to hear whether or not my fellow Marylanders (and to a lesser extent, voters in Maine, Minnesota, and Washington) were voting to keep legalized same-sex marriage in the state. I cried when I later found out that they did.
So I played my part. Contrary to what I told you about my failings, I excelled at my job. I’ll be getting a check in the mail. But I don’t think I’ll be coming back in two or even four years’ time. I don’t regret choosing to have this experience. It was different, but it was also emotionally and physically draining. And unbelievably boring, especially once the polls closed and there were too many of us to get the small jobs done in their required sequence. But here’s an important lesson for you: voting appreciation. Previously just a voter, being an election judge has renewed my appreciation for the humble, honest folk who make our voting possible. Here’s an illustrated example of how people may take these volunteers for granted while others don’t: When, on their way out, we thanked people for voting, most said, “You’re welcome.” How oblivious, we thought. A few made our hearts soar, though, when they responded, “Thanks for being here.”
The Rumination Refinery 