Election

I grew up in the polling place. My parents served as poll workers, so every two years since birth I've spent at least 30 minutes and sometimes several hours, depending on the availability of a baby sitter, sitting at the polls with my parents. Sometimes they'd let me hand out stickers, sometimes they'd let me mark off the names (probably not so legal) . . . but they'd always let me help with closing those big blue dinosaur voting booths with the blue-green plaid curtains. They seemed to spit election results right out their backsides. We would go to town to turn in the big box of voting materials (sometimes I would keep the golf pencils, extra stickers, etc.), all the while listening to election results on a local radio station. We would also get to eat out on this night and sometimes, when we knew someone running for local office, go to results parties.

As a child I even made up my own elections. Barbie and GI Joe voted with golf pencils in a shoe box. Sometimes Lion-O smashed Voltron in a landslide victory to win president of the universe. Other times She-Ra eked out a win over Optimus Prime. Of course, I didn't understand the electoral college (still don't understand why) so my candidates always won by popular vote. Smurfs didn't really take an interest in public affairs, communal beings that they were. And the Gummi Bears could never sit still long enough to cast their votes, as they were bouncing here and there and everywhere.

I couldn't wait to vote when I turned 18. I still get excited to vote despite the months of incessant bickering and attempts at pandering to public interest that lead up to that first Tuesday in November. It is something that my parents expect of me almost as much as they expect me to go to church on Sundays. That's why, when someone tells me, "I don't vote," I stare at them like they have two heads.

But I'm starting to understand why people might be turned off to the whole experience rather than subject themselves to ridicule by friends, co-workers, family members, and even church-goers because of their vote. My mom was recently complimented, albeit discourteously, on her vote by an indignant church member when she asked him to refrain from talking about the recent election in church. He used language common to the early 20th-century south, a name given to anyone who appeared to treat black people with respect, a name that has no place in a civilized society, moreover a place of worship. She could have been offended, but her reply was simply, "You're right. And I'm proud of it." She said it shut him up fast, but if she hadn't had laryngitis she might have told him off something fierce.

I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality.... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.
-from Martin Luther King, Jr's Nobel acceptance speech

I urge, then, first of all, that requests, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone—for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness.
1 Timothy 2:1-2