All This Waiting in Line

It’s been a while since I’ve been here in the main Fulton County Government Center, the only thing left of the infamous Taj Mahal palm trees are a few wrought iron tree grates still sprinkled around the floor. Now the only landscaping is a few big bamboos and grouping of decidedly everyday looking houseplants. That's all water under the birdge though, today this building is seeing another bit of history, it’s full of prospective voters.

The line starts well outside, goes into the building and then wraps once around inside, then around the edge in a second loop. I have no ideal where the line ends up, for all I know there’s hours more line that I just can't see. Everyone asks “how longs the wait?’ it’s a common topic. The latest estimate anyone has heard is 2-2.5 hours. Occasionally someone that’s voted will stop at a certain spot on their way out and look around to announce something like “I spent two and a half hours from right here.”

No one is really complaining though, we’ve all chosen to be here. Everyone seems upbeat, even chatty. There’s a feeling of waiting for a purpose. Everyone is using their cell phones a lot, just to let their friends and families know they’ve been in line now and will be for hours. Though it’s not so much to complaint as a brag. A volunteer tells us we’re lucky, that we’re in one of the fastest moving voting centers in the county. Since we’re in the main downtown Fulton County Government Center, I guess they’re just more set up for this sort of thing, have more volunteers and staff to work with.

There’s an easy camaraderie that builds among my immediate neighbors, a friendliness you don’t usually associate with waiting in long lines. People introduce themselves, smile a lot, there’s comments floated around like “it’s a long wait – but worth it. The girl right in front of me is particularly bubbly, her name’s Melinda. Her excitement is contagious. There is this palpable sense in this long, long line - this one line, in one polling station, in one county, in one state – a sense that still a vote counts. That it’s worth standing in line for hours to make sure you get to vote early. There’s this feeling that on the day of the general election, there’s just too much uncertainty about crushing turnouts, overwhelmed poll workers – and if you miss voting on election day, then – the moment’s passed.

There’s often easy laughter from groups of friends that are voting together. It’s a diverse crowd, a middle aged white lady reading from a big book with lots of small print, she looks to be a school teacher. There seems to be an awful lot of young African-American women, often traveling in packs. It seems if you were a young single guy you should be lining up for early voting every day just to talk up the ladies. I hear some of the young women talking about midterms and the woman right behind me has a text book she’s studying, so I guess they’re mostly students. Up a bit there’s a gay couple, behind a few people a nice young professional couple, there’s even a one-armed woman that’s texting furiously with her one good hand. There’s a couple of different guys wearing their ipods and listening to music. There’s even a guy who seems a bit down on his luck, I can’t help notice though that he keeps reading out of this little brochure. It’s some sort of study guide for a trade test or certification. There’s sample questions about scaffolding and what’s the proper ladder for different situations. Maybe he’s trying to get a job in construction. I'm hopding maybe he’s just gotten one. Then there’s me the middle-aged intown poet/writer thrown into the mix. I end up spending hours with these people, so you get to pick up on little things, get to know them a bit.

I’m reminded that for decades you often heard the refrain around election time about the sheer laziness of the American voter, how we took democracy for granted, were more than willing to let others vote. Why should we? Our one vote – what difference does it make? It all feels so different now, I look around and I’m not exaggerating to say I get a bit choked up. This is an historic election if for no other reason than the record setting engagement by the American voter. This is no small accomplishment. There’s a palpable sense that all these people are working, putting in their hours, whatever it takes to place their vote. The long wait even validates them, allows them to show just how important they hold this right. Over and over again you hear this same refrain “hours still to wait – but it’s worth it.”

The election staff and volunteers are beautiful to watch, I’ve seen these very same people in past elections, haggard, tired. These people today are positively glowing, walking around with such a sense of purposefulness, of energy. They too feel the history in the room.

The election staff periodically makes rounds to ask people to turn off their cell phones, they apparently interfere with the machines. Some people will just hide them for a bit, then pull them back out to keep bragging to people about how long the line is they’re sitting in. There’s also a regular round by staff, reminding people that if they’re voting here in the Fulton County Government Center, that they do need to make sure that they’re actually registered in Fulton County. Occasionally if someone’s not sure a volunteer takes them aside to check. I get the impression that this comes up a lot, when they make the announcements, it always feels that they’ve just had to turn someone away. Earlier a lady had left when she learned she still wouldn’t be able to still register, that the registration deadline had passed. She shuffled away dejected, we all felt her pain -- she’d missed it, this chance to participate in a bit of history.

Just as our group winds it way out of the atrium and into a side hallway we can see through the glass wall of the council chamber below, and our goal, the voting machines. I recognize the room immediately though I’ve only seen it on late night public access programs. Even from here, within sight, there’s still a long wait, it’s democracy as a theme park ride, long winding paths, and then a tight maze of twists at the end. They have people winding through the seats of the auditorium, back and forth. There’s still a wait, but we’re all just happy that we can at least sit down soon. It’s a bit like musical chairs, almost as soon as you sit down, the line moves and you have to get up and shuffle down, but row by row we’re getting closer. For a while we get to sit a bit longer, seems the system has gone down, they announce that IT has been called, and they’re back up before too long. Then even here, you hear the same theme again and again, “3 hours but it’s worth it.”

Finally at the end there’s a flurry of paper processing, getting your voting card for the machine and then you find yourself standing shoulder to shoulder with your fellow voters. It seems symbolic that the machines are set up where the county commissioners usually sit to vote and do county business. So finally with touch screen up, you get to make all those decisions, this person, that person, anyone but him, more money for this, less for that, who are all these people running for judges? In 10-15 mins it’s over. As I was voting though Melinda passed behind me, and gently touched my shoulder, whispering “nice to meet you, have a good evening.” Over the past 3 hours we’d managed to bond. Me, Melinda, the school teacher, the chatty college students. We’d formed this band of committed voters supporting each other, holding places in line for parking meter refills and bathroom breaks. I realized though that we’d never really once discussed politics, or talked about who we were going to vote for. It wasn’t about that though, it was about the voting, getting out there, doing what it takes, being heard.

The last lady takes your voting machine card and hands out the little Peach “I Voted” stickers. Never had those little paper stickers felt like such a badge of honor.