It's rarely, if ever, NICE in early November. It's the beginning of sleet, slush--not quite rain, not quite ice and snow--the leaves have fallen, and things are getting ugly. It's usually dark and dreary and generally, well, unhopeful, as we slide right into our winter months.
Yesterday morning, it was sunny and blue. The air smelled sweet, not anesthetized (as winter freezes everything over). It was nearly 70 degrees at 7:30 in the morning. I know it's just global warming, but it felt like an auspicious sign. I practically tra-la-la'ed to my polling place.
Inside, it was muggy and hot and felt nearly 90 degrees. People were lined up and down both sides of every hallway, and inside the voting room people were snaked around, attempting to get registered or to vote. I waited more than an hour to register--I've voted before but I have a new name and I finally officially changed my address on my ID--and then another half hour to vote.
There was a lot of small talk, chit-chat, and veiled references to hope and Obama as we stood in line. There were young and old, all races, all waiting to voice their opinion. Hot as I was, I was glad to see the turnout.
The man in front of me, a tall fortysomething African American in a sweatshirt emblazoned with the name of a local bar turns around. "Are you in a hurry?" He gestures with his hand to the empty space in front of him, where it's implied that I can cut if that's the case. "I'm not going anywhere." He smiles at me, and there's something about his affect that is a little off, but I don't think much of it.
"No," I say. "I'm fine right here, but thank you."
"Sure," he says.
A few minutes later, we finish registration and get in line to vote. There's only one election judge that seems to know what's going on and who should be where, and she's helping an elderly lady fill out her ballot, so we're not sure where to go. I just pick a spot and designate it my own line.
He lines up behind me.
"Excuse me," he says, holding out his pass to vote, "Do you think I am in the right line?"
"Are you voting?"
"Yep! And it's the first time in many years," he says, smiling somewhat shyly, and I can tell by "years" he means "elections."
"Well that's good," I say. "You're in the right line."
"I have a reason to vote this time," he says, and I gather that to mean that he feels Obama wants to hear his voice.
"That's good," I repeat, dumbly.
He smiles. "Thanks for helping me. I'm really drunk, you know, and I wasn't sure."
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When I related this story to some people, I got mixed reactions. I was so shocked when he said it—it was 7:30 am, after all, and I didn't get the sense he was drunk before that—strange maybe, but not drunk. Some felt it was sad, this poor guy, a career drunk. Some thought it was funny. Some had a mix of horror and laughter on their faces.
Maybe I'm really idealistic, but I'd like to think it's a story about hope. I felt good about America, in that moment, talking to this man. He was a disenfranchised voter for many years/elections, who didn't think anyone wanted to hear his voice. But he came yesterday, he registered, and he voted, despite his obvious issues (some said maybe he was a third-shifter just off happy hour, but I think maybe not.)
He came because someone let him know that his voice was important.
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Tomorrow I will be getting up at 4 a.m. to get ready to go to the hospital with my family. My dad is having hip replacement surgery and he has to be there at 5:30 am. I'm not entirely sure when the actual surgery starts. I feel like it's so unfair that he has another surgery, but it's necessary now.
It's about a two-hour surgery, and he'll probably be there for the weekend. It's the same hospital where he had his lung surgery, so I feel confident that his care will be great, but I'm also nervous about the flood of feelings I might have walking back in there. Surgeries are always nervewracking for me, so if you'd do a little positive thinking about my dad/family/me tomorrow morning, I'd be so appreciative.
I'll keep y'all posted.
