I done gone and voted

A few minutes ago I walked two minutes up to my polling place, signed my name, and cranked a lever for my particular choices of politicians. There was no problem, no wait (it took me longer to tie my shoes to walk up than it did to vote), and I used what must be one of the last mechanical voting machines in this country. As much as I distrust the no-paper-trail electronic machines, I especially love the big old mechanical contraptions where I get to flip down little paddles with arrows on them to choose the candidates, and then grab the big red handle and sweep it left, listening to the ratchets and cogs click my vote.

It’s a solid, manly feeling, like shucking a well-worn shotgun or running the bolt on a long-action rifle. And that, I think, is a good thing to be reminded of when voting. I know that when I step into that polling station in an elementary school gym that I’m doing my civic duty, I’m exercising my right as an American, and I’m lending credence to this republic. I know this because I’ve been told by many people, usually using those same clichéd phrases or barely rehashed versions.

For me, though, it’s a little bit different. I don’t get a sense of belonging, nor do I feel like a part of something bigger than me. It’s just my voice, my own little piece of political power. And, to be honest, it’s my nice voice, where I state my opinion and hope that the people in power play by the rules and listen to me. If they don’t, then I have to use my angry voice.

That's where the disenfranchised man says, “I am not happy with you” as he chambers another round.

So that big lever with the bright red handle… that’s really the hope that everyone will play nice, and that none of us will have to take up arms to vote from the rooftops.

And, of course, they gave me a sticker

Which I stuck onto my Nalgene because I am just too darn trendy for my own good.