Decided
Every time I vote, I still get a tingling inside . . .
Every time I vote, I still get a tingling inside, rather like the young girl daydreaming about the future. I feel a sense of power when I enter my vote. It is my own voice speaking. That voice felt threatened four years ago when waiting my turn at the voting station.
I live in a rural county where we vote in a tiny fire station that has a narrow long hallway for the voting line, then a small crowded room with a few booths set up for the voters to speak their minds. On a good day, it can feel claustrophobic. I have mentioned more than once that the crowd appears to break every fire code in the book, inside of a firehouse.
In November 2016, I was standing in this hallway line to cast my vote for the next president of the United States. The line was more crowded than it had ever been before. I was surrounded by White males spouting off about making America great again. One man was pacing up and down the line, voicing all the things his candidate would do for the country when elected. He stopped next to me, still talking. His manner was menacing. Leaning toward me, he never stopped his personal campaign. He could be heard all through the hall and in the tiny voting arena, but no one confronted him about his inappropriate behavior. I tried to catch the eye of at least one of the male poll officials that I could see, from my place in line, but failed to get their attention.
I was wearing one of my many blouses that can only be described as “hippy style.” I did not look his voting type, and his eye contact let me know he felt the same. Indecision struck me at that moment. And it was over something far more important than what to wear or make for supper. It was about whether to open my mouth and tell off this bastard. To tell off the poll workers who were not intervening. To tell off the other men chiming in, loudly announcing how stupid anyone was who would vote against their candidate. Indecision circulated within me; words like “coward” came to mind. That rather shook me, as I tend not to think of myself in those terms. I am known for voicing myself quite clearly in many situations. So what was up with me?
I was afraid. Not afraid of voicing myself and being disagreed with. No, I was afraid of violence. I felt it in the air, like an electric current running down my back and all through the hair on my head. One word out of me and sparks could erupt in this fire station. I knew it. The bastard knew it too.
I pressed my lips firmly together and told myself to listen to my gut. There was nowhere to run in this little hallway and I was outnumbered by about ten men. I wondered what rock a couple of them had crawled out from under, then chastised myself for being so judgmental. Still, I believe we should judge abusive behaviors and respond in some way. That is called activism.
I practiced breathing calmly as the line progressed to the voting booths. I prayed silently that I could make it to the booth safely and cast my vote. There was my power, there was my voice, there was my decision. I did cast my vote, looking over my shoulder all the way to my car afterward. Upon entering my vehicle, I locked the doors, and I found myself bursting into tears.
Never had I felt unsafe casting a vote in an election. Never had I feared for my personal safety in such a setting. It made me think of my friends, minorities unlike me, and I wept even more while remembering stories they had told me of their own dangerous experiences. I have wept since.
This year, we are voting for President again. Because of our rural area, and some of the legal shenanigans my husband and I have witnessed over the years in this county, we have decided to cast our votes in person, versus the absentee ballot. Yes, we are in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic. We are also in the midst of one of the most politically chaotic, manipulative, unstable times in our nation. Bob and I will wear our masks, and whatever else we damn well please, and we will cast our votes in a fashion that cannot be touched by anyone near us. That is our power. That is our voice. That is our gut speaking. That is our decision.
I will vote for better, as long as I can vote.
Deborah Reinhardt-Brocious is a retired counselor. She loves to write, sing, take photographs, hike, garden, fly with pilot husband Bob in their single engine plane, and find the gratitude in each moment. Deb lives on a farm north of Louisville, KY, which gives her plenty of material to work with!
