I know I speak for everyone when I say how relieved I am
that Election Day is finally here. The pundits and others in the outer limits of
journalism shall return control of my television set. I can answer the phone boldly without fear
of speaking to a robot. And I can read
the newspaper without cringing over yet another moronic revelation.
I was raised during an era when patriotism and respect for
our elected officials was taught in school.
We had “Americanism” competitions where we tried to outdo our classmates
by demonstrating our national passion and understanding of the American Way. Sure, it was brainwashing in the first
degree, but the idea was a good one. We
learned to cherish our liberties and our identities as Americans. There was
a sentiment underlying it all that we sank or swam together. Free speech still had a modicum of respect
mixed in. And, dare I say it? We could not enjoy good fortune if it came at
the expense of others.
The world is vastly different today than it was back then. We have lost our innocence and our
patience. We are becoming more and more
compartmentalized, insular, and skeptical. It has engendered a culture of closely guarded
self-interest. The campaigning process has become like a non-healing wound; the
scab keeps getting picked again and again.
It is an ugly sight.
In the last 24 hours I have received seven emails from President Obama, 2 phone
calls inquiring whether I had a ride to the polls, robotic calls from both
Elizabeth Warren and Scott Brown, three door tags, and one door-to-door solicitor
with a list of the names of voting-aged people in my household. I also received a personalized postcard in
the mail a few days ago revealing how many times I voted in the last five
elections.
My polling place is an elementary school. I headed over at 10am, scheming that if I
arrived halfway between the start of the school day and lunch time I might hit
a lull. I waited in line only 3 minutes. Our town maintains an alphabetical list of
registered voters by home address. After giving my address and my name I was handed a ballot.
No one asked for photo ID, or a high school diploma. I looked around to see if any poll monitors
were present, but everyone seemed to have a specific working role.
The ballot was a simple one, including the presidential
election, the hotly contested Senate race, a Congressman, and a few state and
local officials. It was interesting that
for each race, the ballot indicated which individuals were “seeking re-election.” This new wording replaced “incumbent.” I took a moment to imagine the political
capital spent arguing that being dubbed “incumbent” imparts an unfair
advantage. Well, at least they were able
to agree on something. Strangely, this terminology applied only to
the state candidates; the presidential candidates were presented on even
footing.
In addition to the candidates, we had a series of other
important measures on the Massachusetts ballot, including whether consumers should
have access to the same maintenance information that car dealers have, whether
medicinal marijuana should be legalized, and whether we should be allowed the
right to die with dignity. All in all,
the process was anticlimactic given the rancor of the weeks leading up to the
election. I grabbed my little "I voted" sticker,
wearing it as proudly as a newly-vaccinated kid wears a Snow White band-aid.
Our state has no high tech ballots or punch cards. I was handed a legal-size sheet printed on
heavy paper. In the booth, I used a
felt-tipped marker to color in the large oval shape by my choices. I had a nostalgic chill of panic run through
me that evoked my SATs. What if I did
not fill in the hole completely, or went outside the lines? Would my vote still be counted?
The next step in the process took the most time (and is
bound to cause a hopeless bottleneck during peak hours.) I stood in line with my unconcealed ballot
until I could check out with a second set of address books. Skip this step and your vote will not count, I was told—although
I could not figure out how they would determine which ballot is mine.
Today made me think of one of my favorite pieces of history: George Washington’s
Farewell Address. It is an open letter he wrote to the American people upon his
eventual retirement from public office.
I read it frequently, realizing that the success of this country was as
much a result of his artful leadership as it was due to the crafting of the
Constitution. His insights and cautions
are as apt today as they were nearly 220 years ago. I am struck by how prophetic his words
continue to be, as in this excerpt:
“The very idea of the power and the right of the people to
establish government presupposes the duty of every individual to obey the
established government. . .To put, in the place of the delegated will of the
nation the will of a party, often a small but artful and enterprising minority
of the community . . . make[s] the public administration the mirror of the
ill-concerted and incongruous projects of faction, rather than the organ of
consistent . . .plans digested by common counsels and modified by mutual
interests.”
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