There was no line at my polling place this morning. As I walked toward the door a volunteer held it open for me and greeted me. Inside, three women sat at a long table, with other volunteers behind them. Everyone was kind, helpful, courteous, the way it should be for every human being at every place where we cast our ballots for who we think is the best candidate for the position.
I handed the poll worker my driver’s license. She asked me my name, then held up an i-pad for me to check my party affiliation, and a few other questions. When I put on my rain jacket as I left the house earlier, I hadn’t thought much about its color, blue, or the cap I put on, blue. Guess my party affiliation was pretty clear. The mask I wore also marked me for a Democrat in a rural, red county. No one else wore a mask, only me. Still, there was no quarrel with me, only courtesy, and the desire to be helpful.
The volunteer handed me the paper ballot, which we still use in my rural Ohio district. Earlier this week, I used Google to study who was on the ballot that I might not know about, so marking the ballot was easy and quick. Next, I headed to the machines where the ballots are stored, touched by no other hands until delivered to those who will count the votes.
Next line was to check off my name to assure no one with my name voted again. The one man in front of me was having a friendly conversation with the two volunteers at the table, so I had a moment to relive the last five minutes of my life. It was gratitude I felt, gratitude that I can vote blue in a red county/state without fear of repercussions or unkindness toward me. And I felt sadness, sadness that not every person in this country can feel this safe or have this kindness shown to them, or to not have to stand in line in inclement weather for hours just to exercise their right—and obligation—to vote.