Prior to moving from the west coast to New England earlier this year I assumed that since the east coast has ‘been in business’ longer than the west, things would be pretty together; organized, with good systems in place. Well you know what they say about people that assume.
On the morning of November 3 – a cold yet sunny morning glimmering with a layer of unexpected snow – I stood in line waiting with several fellow townspeople for the polls to open, got screened for Covid, and was eventually handed a pen and an 8.5 x 11 piece of paper; some pesty form that a nameless office worker had run off on their HP printer, I guessed; something else to throw away when no one is looking. And then I realized that it was my ballot!
I didn’t know if I should laugh, object or look to see if there was a hidden camera ready to record my reaction. What kind of hobo, hillbilly, half-assed organization came up with these? In the year 2020, with all the technological advances of the past fifty years, when everything from paying bills to going to class is done via a series of 0s and 1s, these people expect me to cast the most important ballot I’ve cast since the very first in 1976 using 18th century technology?
Are you kidding me? What the hell? Didn’t we put a man on the moon over two generations ago? And you give me what amounts to some tree bark and a piece of charcoal?