I woke up to the sound of rain. It was 52 degrees, so warm I wished I slept with the fan on. I’d showered last night and slept on clean sheets. I vacuumed and washed the floors. I did all my errands, groceries, and phone calls yesterday and pre-loaded my schedule with double the client work; because all I am doing today is voting, getting my car repaired, and watching the election.
There’s a lot on the line.
Speaking of lines; I was standing in one at 6AM. I wanted to vote first thing, before chores or even turning on the news. It was dark as midnight when I turned off my mountain road towards my polling place. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw before me, half a mile down that stretch of dark highway…
It was a light show. So many cars! Flashing break lights and headlight beams in the country dark. It looked like a traveling circus came to town. I thought by voting the moment polls opened I would beat the “rush” in my little farm town of 2,000 residents. I did not.
This is going to be one hell of an election.
I had to park along the highway because the voting line was already well outside the building and wrapping around parked cars. It was busy, but not tense. Everyone was in good spirits.
“Hey is your name skip?”
“No, that’s my brother!”
“I’m here on the way to work. (I’m a hairdresser.) Today is going to be wild.”
“In tips?!”
“No, the customers.”
“I remember voting in snowstorms during presidential elections.”
“Haha, I’m in sandals!”
(or so the conversations went around me)
In small towns everyone has ran into everyone at some point. Plumbers wave to teachers. Farmers that have been up since 4AM guffaw loud enough in the parking lot to make dogs in other cars bark. It’s a normal day. A normal polling place. Normal small talk.
But nothing felt normal. It felt consequential.
When it was my turn to say my name and sign the screen, one of the poll workers seemed extra friendly and asked if I used to belong to the local Draft Animal Association? I told him I did, that I used to drive a fell pony with them. As we chatted the gentleman next to him handed me my paper ballot. In the one-room schoolhouse I vote in there aren’t curtained booths, just small tables with dividers. I circle in my choices, vote YES on Prop 1, and run it through the machine that tells me my vote has been successfully cast.
I exhale for the first time (or so it feels) since 2015.
I wanted this done first. Before chores and the work of the day, which I have planned in advance to be mindless and calming. After I publish this, I will be lost in illustrations of brook trout and tabbies. I’ll drink more coffee. I’ll walk Friday down the road, listening to podcasts that will tell me things will be okay.
But voting, like writing, is a practice of hope. You show up, make your mark, hope it matters and then go on with your day. It’s still a Tuesday. I need to take care of the animals like any other Tuesday. I need to plan the budget for the week, respond to emails, promote sales…
…but my head is only in this line today. I wonder how many other women in line with me are dealing with the same fears at their own kitchen tables?
I wonder how many women that live within a few miles of my farm couldn’t even conceive of a life like mine; alone all these years raising herself with the pigs? Do they see me as an equal or a threat? Do they see me at all?
Will they vote no on Proposition 1?
Today I drove past a church with signs outside asking their followers to vote no. To be clear, this church is telling people to vote against adding LGBT equality and reproductive rights to the state’s constitution. That church is telling people I shouldn’t have the right to choose what happens to my own body, regardless of my religion, and that it’s perfectly fine for my employer to fire me from my job if my existence offends them. These are my neighbors. The sign looked like it was drawn in marker by a 12-year-old and it felt like a still from a horror movie.
Am I part of this community or an unwanted outsider? I guess it depends who you ask. Which is terrifying. You just can’t know what it’s like to have to vote to be seen as equal to the person voting behind you in line until you do.
I’m angry I even have to vote to keep already established precedents safe. I’m scared the people around me want a world without me in it. Or worse, they could care less if I’m in it or not if it makes them think they’ll save $500 on taxes. (It won’t.)
It feels insane to still feel like an outsider here. I’m 15 years into paying school taxes, into being a homeowner and a part of this community. But as many of you know, in many small towns across the nation—you’re basically considered an outsider if your great grandparents didn’t win your land in a poker match or didn’t schlep into town right from the dock of Mayflower. I may always be an outsider.
Do they believe I deserve a seat at the table, or want me out of their town? Am I an asset or a threat? Will tomorrow make me afraid to have a Pride flag hanging outside my front door? Will I not have the same rights as my siblings? Am I not American enough?
Like I said, it depends on who you ask. And I firmly believe, that more of my fellow Americans want me here than not. Or at least that’s what I am going to choose to believe until proven otherwise.
I drove home from the polls as the sun was rising this morning.
It felt like hope.
I've been voting by mail since lockdowns, but today I wanted to march in, in my purple hiking boots, and make my mark next to a cat lady the same age as me, my peer. Saying, please, please, please...
Sending good luck your way from Canada.