Happy Election Day, everybody! On this most noble and patriotic of holidays, I’d like to remind you to rock the vote or get out the vote, or in the more threatening words of P. Diddy, vote or die. Remember that every vote counts, except for absentee ballots in improperly sealed envelopes.
I find voting to be thrilling, in part because of romantic, flag-waving notions of nationalism and civic duty. But unlike other benefits of citizenship, like jury duty or parking tickets, voting is kind of fun. It’s exciting and suspenseful, turning a normal day into an emotionally charged carnival with a big grand prize. For the candidates, it’s the presidency. For you? A warm, fuzzy feeling and a cool “I Voted!” sticker. It’s like giving blood, except nobody jabs a needle in your arm.
For me, the adventure begins with a trip to University Hall, my polling location. Just entering that oyster-shaped relic, a place bursting with memories of last-second shots and game-winning drives, is like joining history in the making. But today, I’m the Ralph Sampson of this arena. And my slam dunk requires hardly any motor skills.
Outside, button-bedecked and clipboard-waving political activists harass me like tablers on the Lawn. Liberals and conservatives alike try to sway my resolve with flyers and catcalls. But they are the mood-setters of the voting experience, sending out the good vibrations of their enthusiasm and colorful paraphernalia.
Throwing open the double doors, I make my grand entrance. I am greeted by gray-haired volunteers who smile at me like proud parents. My self-esteem skyrockets. People love me here. Voting is an exercise in self-congratulation, and I can’t get enough.
I tell them my name, feeling like a VIP guest at an exclusive club. The unnaturally cheery bouncers check me off a list and usher me through the velvet rope, and this is where the fun begins.
A volunteer steps up, usually a grandfatherly fellow with caring, crinkly eyes, the kind you can imagine among the Founding Fathers, quill in hand. He leads me to my booth, explaining the directions as though this is my first Election Day rodeo.
The moment when you’re left alone in the booth is the best. All of a sudden, everything’s quiet, soft and still, like when it snows or when your TA makes a bad joke. All the chattering pundits, the vicious attack ads and the endless debates full of too much verbiage and not enough inspiration fade away. Nobody’s talking about Red versus Blue, about donkeys, elephants or a horse race, about superdelegates or swing states or exit polls. For the first time since before the primaries, nobody’s talking at all.
In that instant, it’s just you and your choice. You’re the superdelegate, the swing state, the whole electoral college. To steal a phrase from our sitting president, you’re the “decider.” Behind that curtain, you can be inflated with a sense of self-worth. And it’s totally OK.
In my booth, the panel of glittering greenish-yellow lights comes to life — no danger of hanging chads here. I take my moment, my deep breath, looking at the names spelling out different political futures. I feel concealed and powerful, like Wonder Woman in her invisible jetplane. My index finger is the pillar of American government. I never love democracy or U-Hall or November more than I do right then.
I always weigh my options one last time, though I’ve usually come in knowing who gets my vote. I enter the ranks of the hallowed “undecideds,” if only for a moment. I like feeling that there, in secret, swathed in the safety of the white curtain, I could vote for anybody.
The buttons depress satisfyingly beneath my fingers, like bubble wrap. A political Lite-Brite design appears as I submit my answers, my electoral blue book, with the flick of one last button. If I’m feeling particularly dramatic, this can be accompanied by faux slow motion or humming of the theme from “Jaws.”
When it’s all over, I march out of my booth like a champion exiting the ring. I take my sticker, my red badge of courage, and strut past the volunteers, the activists, the voters-to-be waiting in line. Nobody cheers or congratulates me, but I still feel pretty good. And I really love my sticker.
Today, the stakes are higher than any election I’ve ever voted in. But like any good carnival game or lottery or adventure, I expect this will only magnify the fun and excitement. I also expect a bigger sticker.
Rebecca’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at r.marsh@cavalierdaily.com.
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