Pinko Magazine Hedonism + Activism

This morning my vote was suppressed. But I’m glad to report that I went to court, was re-enfranchised, and five hours later cast my vote.

I walked around the corner to vote at about 10am. After 45 minutes of waiting in line at the Brooklyn Museum, my name could not be found on the rolls. All the poll workers were very kind, and searched for my name again, misplaced by first name or middle initial.

Early this summer, I had re-registered to change my address. For the first time since moving to NY five years ago, I actually received a notice that it went through, good and dandy. I walked home to find that notice, and brought it back to the poll.

The woman in charge called someone even more in charge and confirmed that I was, in fact, in the right place, and that I should be on the list. But I was not. Reluctantly, I filled out a provisional ballot, which we all know is worth its weight in poo. I submitted it and headed out the door.

But then I got a text message from my friend Sienna urging anyone with trouble to call 866-OUR-VOTE. I called as I walked, hoping I would at least be counted by someone, someone keeping stats that might help truly disenfranchised voters next time around. At the end of our call, the woman I talked to said “next time, call and you can go see a judge stationed at the court house.”

I asked, “what about this time?” She said, “nope, not since you’ve already submitted a provisional ballot.”

“But what if it’s still in my hand?”

“I thought you said…”

“Where do I go to see this judge?”

I rushed back into the poll and said with a smile, “we’re all better off if my vote is truly counted” as I took back my provisional ballot. On the subway and off to court I went.

I signed in at the door with a man who said it’s going to be a long night. He continued, “A woman here this morning said she’d been voting at the same poll for 35 years. It’s going to be a very long, long night.”

After two clerks, a petition, and an interview with channel 12, I was ushered into a dingy room with a judge. Two actually. Shifts were changing, people were shuffling, and the court stenographer was setting up his machine. If I didn’t know better, I might think mismatched pinstriped suits capped by white sneaks and a comb-over were in vogue. Actually, I’ve really been meaning to get a pair of white sneaks.

I swore to tell the whole truth, but shortened it for the judge. He approved my petition, signed something of his own, handed both to the bailiff who handed them down a line of four clerks in this tiny mildewed room. The last two debated which copies were for me and which were for keeps.

Mr. Channel 12 grabbed me again on the way out. I told him the process has been easy, but that I can’t help thinking about all the lotto machines, hundreds of thousands wired across this country, producing millions of unique tickets each week, never a misprint or accidental duplicate, never a fraudulent fake-out. If you have a TV and the time, don’t watch it. I’m jet-lagged with a cold, unshaven with a 5-week-o’clock shadow.

I returned to the polls for the fourth time. The good news? I voted, and it only took 5 hours. The bad news? Everyone along my path today wanted to help fix my problem and the hundreds of other snafus throughout Brooklyn. The judge was stationed and eager to serve this purpose. I can’t imagine what it’s like for someone in the South or Southwest, having both the odds and the people with power against them.

Tonight will be a big night. Fingers crossed…

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