Voting day in West Hollywood feels like a throwback to a "Leave it to Beaver" time, which I kind of like, maybe because I never experienced the reality of that period. Today is a General Municipal Election, and I go to my polling place to vote for city council and trustee positions.
I vote this time at the local elementary school, a few blocks away from the Sunset Strip. I walk past the kid-sized seats in the auditorium, to the long tables manned by poll workers. I give my name and am directed to another lady, who gives me a ballot. She cautions that I should be sure to vote on both sides. "Oh, you mean I have to take it out and put it into the machine again?" "No we don't have machines this time. Just turn it over." I notice a white-haired lady, sitting quietly to one side. I wonder what she's doing there.
But staying focused on the task ahead, I go to the collapsible booth and use what looks like a black Sharpie to register my selections. The city has a significant Russian community, so the ballot is in both English and Russian.
I walk back to hand in my ballot. An older, also white-haired, chubby lady is ahead of me in line, to get her ballot. The poll worker speaks to her in English. And all of a sudden the quiet lady, the one that I'd wondered what she was doing there, starts to speak in Russian, at exactly the same time. I have the bizarre sense of being transplanted to the UN, even while still being in a local school auditorium. At first the voter walks towards the wrong voting booth -- I guess it's confusing for her to hear 2 languages at once, too. The Translator goes into action again. This time the voter follows everything, thanks her and goes to the booth. And then the Translator is silent. She sits quietly, legs crossed, waiting for her next moment.
My next stop is a temporary campaign office, to do a few hours of phone banking for one of the City Council candidates. The volunteer coordinator had been surprised to hear me say that I like making calls, but I do. It's a little bit like taking a mini-adventure with each call: you never know what world you might enter.
This was a get out the vote effort, to reach those who'd identified themselves, during precinct walks or phone calls, as supporters. I set myself up at a table with a cell phone. In front of me is a mural depicting the White House in the center, a red thermometer on the right side, that stops halfway. On the left, a blue thermometer, that erupts into a geyser of blue liquid that partially covers the White House.
I start making my calls. It's easy and almost restful to telephone on someone else's behalf. As I dial, a photographer starts taking photos of me (as Volunteer Helping to Get Out the Vote) with the mural as a backdrop. When I was an Obama campaign phone banker, I'd spent plenty of time thinking about what I was going to wear. This time, unfortunately for me, I'd been working at my desk all day, popped out to vote and then popped on to volunteer. Big mistake. Coco Chanel once said “I don't understand how a woman can leave the house without fixing herself up a little - if only out of politeness. And then, you never know, maybe that's the day she has a date with destiny."
Well, she was right, because the photographer was shooting this all from the back. I looked great, from the front, (makeup, hair, outfit -- casual but put together) but my downside was from behind. My jeans were kind of low, the way jeans are these days. That wasn't a problem, but that day (I was racing around, remember) I put on underwear that was higher than I might otherwise have chosen. Not bad except when a photographer is shooting you sitting in a chair. In trying to make sure that my t-shirt was pulled down, I snapped my own underwear. !
Never one to let embarrassment get me down, I kept calling. I laughed silently.I took a break for pieroshki (slightly sweet dough, deep fried, stuffed with meat or cheese). I tried a meat one. It was very good.
The questions that local voters ask aren't so much about big topics, like health care, for example. People have concrete concerns, like what about getting a traffic light on the street where we live? Even local politics has a tough side. One voter asked me "How would you feel if I told you that your guy spent $200,000 to win the election?" which was apparently an untrue rumor that made the rounds. My reply: "I don't know anything about it, as I'm a volunteer. Let me put you on with a staff person." And then I had another pieroshki. Cheese this time.
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