I Voted
I voted yesterday. I got to the polls shortly after they opened at 1 p.m., and already the line waiting to enter the McLean community center stretched and wound 600 yards. The sky was the color of dead fish and spewed an intermittent misty rain. Everyone wore masks and kept a distance between those behind and those in front. It took two hours, from start to finish, shepherded by volunteers, one of whom recognized me from my World Bank days.
A lady in an ill-fitting red wig handed out Republican ballots instructing conservatives how to vote. A rail thin elderly man wearing both suspenders and a belt—a pessimist, I gathered—did the same for the Democratic ballots.
The voters were overwhelmingly white, as is McLean. This was not a social event. It was not a cheery crowd. It was stoic, determined, and mostly silent. There were no protestors with or without firearms, no police, no one trying to shift opinions. Neither were there camaraderie and idle conversation. The voters looked just short of grim. They had a job to do and were willing to stand and shuffle for two hours to exercise their voting privilege.
I had been obsessing for weeks about voting. I had registered early and considered going to the Fairfax government center until a friend told me the wait there was five hours. That was longer than my body would tolerate.
I desperately wanted my vote to be counted, though. I had voted in the last presidential election safe in the conviction that a blonde buffoon could not possibly be elected, and I was wrong. Now my stomach turns when I think of the damage done to this amazing country over the last four years. I now firmly believe that another Trump term will damage the US beyond repair. The number of people willing to sacrifice their afternoon to stand in line showed me I’m not the only one riddled with angst. Still, I worried about the quotidian, about going to the toilet, about having left my umbrella in the car. About being at the right place at the right time. About what I would do or say if challenged. My concerns were unfounded. The man in front of me asked if I’d save his place in line while he went to the bathroom. Minutes later, he returned the favor.
We shuffled forward, the distance to the center’s doors counted in feet and minutes. I filled out the ballot, listened to the volunteers’ instructions, slid the thing into a scanner. There. Done.
I left with a deep sense of relief, smiled at the people still in line. My illegally parked car hadn’t been ticketed. The sun broke through the clouds. I went to Starbucks and got an espresso and a donut. Life was good.
A lady in an ill-fitting red wig handed out Republican ballots instructing conservatives how to vote. A rail thin elderly man wearing both suspenders and a belt—a pessimist, I gathered—did the same for the Democratic ballots.
The voters were overwhelmingly white, as is McLean. This was not a social event. It was not a cheery crowd. It was stoic, determined, and mostly silent. There were no protestors with or without firearms, no police, no one trying to shift opinions. Neither were there camaraderie and idle conversation. The voters looked just short of grim. They had a job to do and were willing to stand and shuffle for two hours to exercise their voting privilege.
I had been obsessing for weeks about voting. I had registered early and considered going to the Fairfax government center until a friend told me the wait there was five hours. That was longer than my body would tolerate.
I desperately wanted my vote to be counted, though. I had voted in the last presidential election safe in the conviction that a blonde buffoon could not possibly be elected, and I was wrong. Now my stomach turns when I think of the damage done to this amazing country over the last four years. I now firmly believe that another Trump term will damage the US beyond repair. The number of people willing to sacrifice their afternoon to stand in line showed me I’m not the only one riddled with angst. Still, I worried about the quotidian, about going to the toilet, about having left my umbrella in the car. About being at the right place at the right time. About what I would do or say if challenged. My concerns were unfounded. The man in front of me asked if I’d save his place in line while he went to the bathroom. Minutes later, he returned the favor.
We shuffled forward, the distance to the center’s doors counted in feet and minutes. I filled out the ballot, listened to the volunteers’ instructions, slid the thing into a scanner. There. Done.
I left with a deep sense of relief, smiled at the people still in line. My illegally parked car hadn’t been ticketed. The sun broke through the clouds. I went to Starbucks and got an espresso and a donut. Life was good.
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