Thursday, September 11, 2003

Is This Any Way to Run a Democracy?

There was a primary election in the city of St. Paul on Tuesday and once again I played a critical role in preserving our cherished traditions of representative, consensual government. I of course can’t go into my specific duties, but let’s just say that not a single precinct in my ward lacked for black ink pens, spare light bulbs, or “I Voted “ stickers.

My rough notes on the day:

1) It was slow. At times, agonizingly slow. This was about as low profile an election as there is, with the only two races on the entire ballot. One being the city-wide school board election and the other the ward-specific City Council race. I don’t know specific turn out rates, but in terms of overall votes among the 16 precincts I worked with, the high total was around 200, the low around 50. On average, about 125 voters per precinct. That’s over a 13 hour period. The typical allotment of judges per precinct was 4. Meaning, the ratio of voters to judges per hour was 2.4. Zzzzzzz.

One of the funnier scenes that played out over and over was the sheepish entrance of some typically mousy, civic minded Minnesotan just hoping to get in and out without making fuss, only to have the white hot spotlight of undivided attention focused on them. Upon their entrance they’d be besieged by four election judges, desperate to do the job they’ve been trained for, and after 8 hours, craving any new human interaction.

Needless to say, there was no waiting. Except by the election judges. There were numerous reports that many got more reading done in one sitting yesterday than at any other time in their adult lives. That was among those who had enough foresight to bring a book. Those that didn’t had to amuse themselves by listening to their 80 year old coworkers orate upon every imaginable detail about their grandchildren’s educational/career prospects or by simply sitting and staring into space. I witnessed people doing both and the latter group seemed much more at peace with the universe (there’s just something about polite nodding while grinding one’s teeth into a fine powder that evokes discord).

2) As God is my witness, I didn’t know retarded people were allowed to vote. And no, this isn’t the set up for a joke about the continued electoral success of Jay Benanav.

I personally witnessed two folks voting who where clearly mentally handicapped (based on their facial gestures, vocalizations, and motor control problems). They were legally registered, with no restrictions based on guardianship status. A non-retarded man who came in with them assisted them with the procedures (as is any citizen’s right, for up to three other voters), while avoiding instructing them on who to vote for. It all went reasonably smoothly and all quite correctly, legally speaking. And I must say I didn’t see bigger smiles all day than on the two of them as they proudly walked out post franchise exercise. It was a genuinely heart warming scene.

But practically speaking, is this a good idea - having retarded people vote? What’s the point? I suspect it was this “heart warming” factor that allows for this to happen in the first place. And I doubt it’s politically feasible for any politician to run on the position of “taking away the votes of our most vulnerable citizens” as I’m sure the Star Tribune would editorialize. Since the proportion of retarded citizens in the general population is negligible, I’m not going to sweat the implications. But I still would like to see the crosstab results on this group. (Exit polling organizations - get on this!). Perhaps old Jay’s silence on this matter really does have something to do with a certain expected landslide among this segment? Hmmmm? (Weasely Pioneer Press political reporters - get on this!)

3) The quote of the day came from some older-than-dirt guy, who announced his entrance into the polling place by shouting “Where do I vote ‘no!’ Let’s throw these bastards out!”

He then confidently strolled in, with a gait I can best describe as arthritically spry, wearing a tan, wrinkled silk dress shirt with two buttons undone, brown polyester pants with no belt, and unlaced ASICS Tiger tennis shoes. He was bald on top, with greasy, thin gray hair hanging down past the nape of his neck. His eyes were ablaze with passion at first, but then dilating down to a twinkle that let every one know he was just joking. During his 5 minute stay, he talked up everyone in the place, flirting with the women, razzing the guys. His words, his look, his manner - an American classic. One that earned a round of applause from all assembled upon his departure.

4) Seeing the words “Molly O’Gara” written on a piece of paper is enough to send my head a-spinin’ and my heart a- thumpin’ . Reviewing some materials on my way to one of the precincts, I came across this name and for the first time I noticed I fetishize Irish names on women. Thinking back now, it’s clear I have, unconsciously, for a long time.

Maybe it’s a muffled longing from my own Hibernian heritage or just the memory of all the beautiful, curvey, fiery, dynamic Irish women I’ve known over the years. But as I sat there in my car heading down Snelling Ave., I realized at this point the sight or sound of their names alone can blind me with desire. Which isn’t exactly the image you want to project as an election official. But ultimately I settled down. Luckily for the Republic, I didn’t encounter any Erin Gallaghers, Meg Naughtins, Bridget Murphys, Tara Lanes, Constance Swillings, or Floozy O’Boozes for the rest of the day. Because if I did, it could have been ugly. Or beautiful, depending on your tolerance for public nudity.

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