An Absentee Voter at Emery High
Polling Station: Emery High School, 1100 47th Street Emeryville, CA 94608
Time: 7:45 AM
I voted a week ago. I drew the lines, signed my name, placed two stamps in the envelope’s corner. I dropped it in a mailbox across the street from my apartment and wondered why it felt, already, that the world had changed.
I'm ashamed to admit this was my first vote in a Presidential election. I'd been registered in Texas four years ago, which allowed me an apathetic certainty that my vote wouldn't make much difference. Now I'm registered in Alameda County, California, and one vote means everything.
This morning I drove my boyfriend to the polls, eager to see whether the predictions of record voter turnout were true. I was happy to see a line of voters trailing out the Emery High door, happy to see a couple with "NO on 8" signs taped to their matching bikes hug each other before they entered the building, happy to see parents bringing their children with them, explaining what they were about to do. How they were hoping to change to our country.
A band of teenagers milled around the entrance to their school, selling hot
chocolate to the early morning voters to raise funds for their school. I bought a cup of hot chocolate from a young Muslim girl who asked, smilingly, if I’d voted. Another girl yelled out “Obama!” in a singsong voice behind her. She wasn’t alone: black, white, and Hispanic teenagers laughingly encouraged the voters filtering in to vote for the Democratic ticket until the third bell rang and they sprinted to class. I was so proud of them for caring. It’s about time to kill Apathy in this world.
My boyfriend came out of the school and affixed an “I Voted” sticker to my chest. I drove him to the BART station, stopping to let a woman and her child cross at an intersection. The girl, about five years old, was dancing in the middle of the street. I told myself she knew something I didn’t, yet.
Time: 7:45 AM
I voted a week ago. I drew the lines, signed my name, placed two stamps in the envelope’s corner. I dropped it in a mailbox across the street from my apartment and wondered why it felt, already, that the world had changed.
I'm ashamed to admit this was my first vote in a Presidential election. I'd been registered in Texas four years ago, which allowed me an apathetic certainty that my vote wouldn't make much difference. Now I'm registered in Alameda County, California, and one vote means everything.
This morning I drove my boyfriend to the polls, eager to see whether the predictions of record voter turnout were true. I was happy to see a line of voters trailing out the Emery High door, happy to see a couple with "NO on 8" signs taped to their matching bikes hug each other before they entered the building, happy to see parents bringing their children with them, explaining what they were about to do. How they were hoping to change to our country.
A band of teenagers milled around the entrance to their school, selling hot chocolate to the early morning voters to raise funds for their school. I bought a cup of hot chocolate from a young Muslim girl who asked, smilingly, if I’d voted. Another girl yelled out “Obama!” in a singsong voice behind her. She wasn’t alone: black, white, and Hispanic teenagers laughingly encouraged the voters filtering in to vote for the Democratic ticket until the third bell rang and they sprinted to class. I was so proud of them for caring. It’s about time to kill Apathy in this world.
My boyfriend came out of the school and affixed an “I Voted” sticker to my chest. I drove him to the BART station, stopping to let a woman and her child cross at an intersection. The girl, about five years old, was dancing in the middle of the street. I told myself she knew something I didn’t, yet.
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