Why Voters Don't Care

Voter apathy. We hear about it every election cycle. We - referring to strange people like me who are drawn to policy and politics - preach against it. What's the cause? Some say lack of knowledge or education, others the prevalent feeling that one vote doesn't count, still others good ole plain disinterest.

But, as of today, I say there is a whole different reason for voter apathy: Precinct workers.

Here's my story:

I walk into my local polling station around 8:00 a.m. This being the primary election, on a year and in a district where there isn't much of a primary race for anything on either side of the aisle, I knew I wouldn't have to wait long. Sure enough, I walk in and there are plenty of empty booths. I head toward my precinct's table when the woman near the door stops me.

Woman: "Excuse me, but do you know what Precinct you're in?"

Me: "Precinct 9 I think."

Woman at the door: "Well how about I check that for you."

Me, Okay, but I'm pretty sure of my precinct: "Oh....kay..." and give her my name.

Woman, several long moments later and after going through several possible first names that weren't mine and simultaneously exclaiming, "Oh wait! That's not your last name" after each: "Oh, yes, here you are. You," looking up at me over her spectacles, "should be voting in Precinct 9."

Imagine that.

Woman, reaching forward to grab my arm as I begin walking away: "Hold on!! Your table is....." and, scanning the room by beginning at the farthest point away from her, finally lands her eyes on the table directly next to her and waves her hand to indicate that I should proceed about 6 inches to my left, "Here!" She looks at me triumphantly, as though I should be impressed by her ability to scan the entire room in a mere minute and a half and direct my blonde head to the same place I had headed nearly 3 minutes before. Not that I was counting.

So I move to the Precinct 9 table, where I must again give my name because, apparently, the fact that the two people at that table had been watching and listening to that entire conversation didn't mean they knew my name. The woman at the desk begins scanning down her list of pages, using a ruler that is intended to help her highlight in a straight line, but is instead serving to keep her from quickly scanning the page. After tediously examining two full pages, she gets to the third page which holds my name. As she begins to draw the highlighter across the page, she stops in midstream:

Woman: "We don't see many people your age here. Is this your first time voting?"

Me: "No ma'am, I vote on a regular basis."

Woman: "Well, you just can't tell nowadays. So many young people don't vote. Why, you could be 30 and this could be the first time for you voting. You just never can tell. Why, I remember the first time I voted. Voted in every election since then." By now the highlighter is waving around in her hand as she accents her words with flourishes of the writing utensil. "But you young people," pointing at me, "you people just don't vote."

Me: Do I bite my tongue, repeat what I already said, or reach across the table and highlight my name for her?

Woman: "I'm so glad YOU came out to vote! You're supposed to. Why, I remember the first time I voted. So long ago. Harold," leaning across to the man next to her, the man I really wanted to be working with....the man who actually had the ballots..."Harold, do you remember the first time you voted?"

Harold: "I most certainly do! It was my greatest moment as an American citizen! Voted every election since then. Every American should vote. It's our responsibility!"

Me, eyes getting wider (implication: drastic impatience bordering on the intense desire to hit someone): "Ummmm...my name?"

Woman: "Hmmm....I forgot where I was." She begins at the top of the 3rd page and scans down to my name, highlights it, then hands me a card to sign. I sign it as the conversation continues about how these exorbitantly patriotic citizens have been voting in the all-American way since the first time they were old enough to, and it only takes about a minute and a half for the card to change hands between the woman and Harold.

Harold: "Here's the ballot. Do you know how to fill out a ballot?"

Me: "Yes!"

Harold: "Okay, well, you have to connect these arrows like this..." indicates connection motion with his marker, "and remember that this is a primary election, which means you can only vote for one party. That means only this side of the ballot, or that side. Does that make sense?"

Me: HOLY HECK, do I have RIDICULOUSLY RETARDED BLONDE written across my forehead in big bold black letters?!?!?!?  Don't answer that.

Me, seething: "Yyyyyesssssssssssssssssssssssssssss."

Harold: "Very good. The voting booths are over here," motioning to the chairs and booths less than a foot to our left, the very booths I'd been longingly staring at for the last 8 minutes, and finally he hands me the ballot.

Freedom. It takes me a rockin’ sixty seconds to complete the ballot.

Which means this: It took me eight times longer to get through the line of....how many people again?...oh yeah....ZERO....then it did to fill out the ballot.

And this is why, my friends, I have decided that maybe, just maybe, voter apathy is due to something other than the typically blamed attributes. Maybe it's not voter apathy at all. Maybe it's freakin' voter frustration.

But I'm not bitter.