Areas of Unrest

7 November 2000 - Election Day

QOTD: "Americans have always been eager for travel, that being how they got to the New World in the first place." - Otto Friedrich

Reading: next up is Laurell K. Hamilton, Obsidian Butterfly

Listening to: nothing since I'm at the office

As anybody who has seen a newspaper or television news program recently in pretty much any corner of the known universe knows, today is Election Day in the United States of America. I followed my usual routine and went to my polling place early in the morning, shortly after they opened. There's no point in getting there right at opening time since they're never ready on time. This is one of many things that annoys me about voting in California. It isn't quite as irritating as some of the polling places they use here. One of my colleagues votes at the local Toyota showroom, for example, and my brother has voted in people's garages. This derives from some obscure bit of state law that seems to require there to be no more than 300 feet between polling places and is in striking contrast to the way things were back east where I always voted in real public buildings, like schools, fire houses and the town hall. I vote at a semi-public building, a classroom at a private school. The annoyance there (aside from their repeated failure to be ready for voters who show up at seven a.m.) is that two precincts use the same polling place. My precinct is at the far side of the room and the people who live in the other precinct (also referred to in moments of pique as "the scum who live south of Rose") block the door, keeping us ("the good folks who live north of Rose") from getting into the room. Eventually a precinct worker notices that the scum who live south of Rose are delaying speedy voting by the good folks who live north of Rose and comes out to sherpa us to the far side of the room, after which it takes mere minutes to be checked in and vote.

I'm not really crazy about voting by punching cards to be read by a computer, but I imagine that is simply me being old-fashioned. I remember going with my parents to the polls when I was a kid and being fascinated by the old mechanical voting machines that were in use in New York in those days. I read recently that they originated with Tammany Hall and were designed to make it easier to vote a straight party ticket, since you could do that with a single flip of a lever. We used that style of voting machine for school elections, too. But the only time I voted in New York State was by absentee ballot, and that meant marking a paper ballot. In Massachusetts I voted with pen and paper, too, marking an x next to a candidate's name as I stood in a curtained booth in the Cambridge Fire House. Which reminds me that I also dislike the lack of curtains at California voting booths. It's not like I really think somebody is going to be looking over my shoulder to see how I vote, but it does seem less of a secret ballot this way.

And then there's the bloated California initiative system. I understand the populist fervor that leads to initiatives, but it seems to me that the reason we elect legislators is to have them write laws and, if they aren't responsive to the needs of the public, what we ought to do is elect different ones, not do their job for them. (Part of the blame is Proposition 13, one of the stupidest measures ever to be passed by California voters. In addition to creating vast inequities in our property taxes, largely to the benefit of large corporations, it requires voter approval of all bond measures.) The worst initiative this time has to do with school vouchers. Giving every parent a $4000 voucher will not cure the educational woes of the state. Nor will it provide poor parents with real choice, given that the average tuition of private schools is over $17000. If you're sincere about offering educational options to the poor, you'd be wiser to contribute to the scholarship funds of private schools you wish to support.

My biggest frustration is probably not specific to California, though, but has to do with living in a big city, rather than the small town I grew up with. I try to be an informed voter and that leads me to extreme frustration with deciding how to vote for most of the local offices. District Attorney was easy this time, since Gil Garcetti has pretty much demonstrated that he couldn't get a conviction on Bluebeard even with a complete room full of corpses as evidence. The one judgeship we had to vote on wasn't too bad, since both candidates submitted statements for the ballot pamphlet and one candidate's statement suggested she was a complete flake. (Gee, who do I vote for - the one who is endorsed by various police and court authorities or the one who is endorsed by the animal rights groups? If the best reason you can give me to vote for you is that you belong to the Synagogue for the Performing Arts, no thanks.) But there were sixteen people running for County Assessor. I have only the vaguest notion what the job entails and fewer than half of the candidates included statements in the ballot pamphlet. I rule out any of the ones who don't bother to get a statement in. Then I rule out the ones who are too vigorous supporters of Proposition 13. And then I'm down to three and it's really hard to choose intelligently. One candidate's major platform point seems to be eliminating phone death on the county voicemail system. A nice thought, but I'm not convinced that's a priority. I guess as well as I can who would best serve the interests of the public, but I really hate feeling so uninformed.

It's not really California that's the problem, though - it's the big city anonymity. Growing up in a town with a population of 5000 on a good day makes it much simpler; everybody knows all of the candidates personally. The local paper covers all of the races, not just the high profile ones. In contrast, the L.A. Times never said a word about my congressional district, since the incumbent has won his last several elections with over 90% of the vote.

So, with all of these annoyances, why do I vote? Because for just those few minutes, having fought my way past the scum who live south of Rose to stand in that curtainless booth and punch computer cards, I have the real power to influence my government. I remember my father telling me about the Russian invasion of Lithuania. He was thirteen, so he didn't get to participate in the plebiscite about annexation. "But," he said, "when they're holding a bayonet to your throat, how are you going to vote?"

That's really what it's about. As irritating as some of the trappings are, I vote for the simple reason that I can.