Universal Suffrage

Meet the folks who tend to democracy's pesky details

6:56 a.m., Election Day"We're opening in four minutes!" shrieks the agitated voice of one of my fellow election judges. There is a frantic dash--as frantic, that is, as possible for a crew of not-quite-awake people whose alarms went off at 4:30 a.m.--to organize rosters and put out stacks of registration cards and ballots and pens and folders. People are already sitting in the front vestibule here at the Office of Indian Ministries in south Minneapolis, waiting on this gloomy morning to cast their votes. Quickly, our chief judge orders us all to stop what we're doing, raise our right hand, and take an oath that we will uphold the proper rules and procedures of this election.

Suddenly it's 7:00 a.m. and people pour through the doorway. Democracy is in full swing. My first-ever job as an election judge is to sign in registered voters here on Park Avenue South in the Fourth Precinct of the Eighth Ward; I'm in charge of the L-to-Z roster. The steady stream of people--hurried people, agitated people--is like an electric jolt, and I scurry to keep up with them. I ask for names and addresses, flip the book for them to sign in, point to the oath at the top of each page that states they are at least 18 years old and citizens of the United States. All the while, swirling through my mind are all the rules, regulations, and procedures that were laid out for me in a two-hour training session last week.

Stand up and be counted: Minneapolis voters exercise their constitutional right
Craig Lassig
Stand up and be counted: Minneapolis voters exercise their constitutional right

It's like working retail on Christmas Eve--everyone is impatient, and when there's a problem and we pause for a moment to look up the correct rule, we are secretly terrified that a riot is imminent. Several citizens opine, "You people don't know what you're doing." Or something more or less rude to that effect.

Throughout my shift, I'll see a few glitches here. But overall, everything works out relatively smoothly. Yet over the next 24 hours, as I watch, amazed, the news reports filter in about possible election misdeeds in Florida--confusing ballots, lost ballot boxes, counting errors--I realize how many tiny technicalities have to go right in order for democracy to work.

 

9:05 a.m. The pre-work rush has dwindled, and although voters are still coming in steadily, the volume has trailed off. I've slid down the table to my next job, doling out ballots and explaining how to fill them out. It's the first lull of any kind since I arrived, at 6:00 a.m., clutching a giant cup of coffee and an umbrella, in time to set up tables and put together the plastic voting booths. There is still plenty for us to do in the downtime. We can count the absentee ballots (though we can't open them until there are no voters in the polling place). We can place ballots in the "secrecy folders," a fancy term for the file folders that keep people from viewing each other's ballots. A couple of more experienced judges--one representing the Democratic Party, the other the Republican--sign ballots; only ballots with both of their sets of initials are true and legal. I look around me. There are seven of us election judges here this morning. Six of us are women; one woman is African American. The vote is such a powerful thing, we muse. It was denied most of us for so long.

Here in the Central neighborhood, the electorate is a diverse group. Older couples come in together, as they've done for decades. Young mothers arrive with babies in tow. It's an integrated group--yuppie white couples, African-American men in hip-hop clothes. One young woman who registered this morning grins at me as I hand her a ballot. "I'm so excited," she whispers. "I've never done this before."

It's heartening, this display. At this hour we still have no way of knowing how close the presidential election will be this year, how clear it would become that despite today's tone of cynicism and apathy, every vote does count. But from the seat of the election judge, it doesn't take long to understand that democracy doesn't reside in sweeping rhetoric; it lies in the minutiae of the rules, regulations, and details of the system.

 

2:00 p.m. Wednesday, November 1Everyone hired to work as a Minneapolis election judge (it's a quick process; I sent my application over the Internet and a scant four hours later got word I was hired as a "Gatekeeper of Democracy") must participate in a training session. By the time I walk into the classroom on the third floor of the downtown Minneapolis library, there are only a few empty chairs amid the 40 or so other eager-beaver trainees already seated. Scanning the crowd, I see mostly women, the majority of them silver-haired. Our teacher launches into a spiel she has clearly given a thousand times. Her emphatic tone is that of a middle-aged mom at a church potluck, offering up fruit-filled Jell-O or marshmallow bars, but here she's intoning the state laws that govern the election process. She waddles around the front of the room, pulling out boxes from an industrial gray cabinet in the corner. This is the official ballot counter. This is the case with the ballots and voter registration cards. This is the case with the pens and tape and highlighters. Here's where you'll find the rosters of preregistered voters, the sign-in sheets for people who register on Election Day. After she pulls out the supplies, she shows us how the machine works.

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