When I walked into my polling station this morning, by day a mild-mannered elementary school and by election day a place with more poll workers than voters, I was at first stared at blandly.
“I, um, would like to vote.”
I heard a mechanical voice announcing to “Try. Again.” It was a typical 1980s robot voice, a halting midi sound, and I found it interesting that the polling machines now spoke. Turns out it was an elderly poll worker who had a voice box. “You. Have. To. Wiggle. It,” his voice rasped as he touched his throat as I finished the ballot.
I felt immense pride by the action, but immensely less by the state of the country as it stands and how lackluster the turnout tends to be. Women have died to vote and men and women die still to give us the chance to activate our freedom tangibly. An hour after the poll opened, I was only #16 to vote.