How the voting really goes

This morning, I packed up the boy, explained that we'd be stopping off to vote before heading to co-op, tucked my cheat sheet in the stroller basket and headed out.

It is warm here but humid and rainy, and no one is in front of the polling place handing out buttons or last-minute flyers, like I remember as a kid. A few of the judges were taking pulls on cigarettes and Dunkin' Donuts.  Down in the basement of the Catholic school, four judges stand behind a cluttered table and they don't require my voter registration card or even an ID. They just ask for my signature and that I return the magnetic pen when I am finished marking my vote.

And when I do finish, I opt not to use the privacy screen as I push my ballot into the electric ballot-counter-sucker-upper since Lil E and I are flanked only my the older gentleman who hands me a paper receipt when I am done. After all my rah-rah rallying and my big suffrage speech yesterday, I don't even get a sticker to show Lil E what a good American I am.  And I have to admit, I am a little disappointed.

Maybe I like the ritual of voting as much as I like casting the ballot. Maybe I've just never been comfortable being quietly political. If I am going to make my voice heard - with a magnetic pen or poster paint - I guess I want it to be really heard. If I am going to wade through all those judges (why oh why do I always forget to research the judges? It happens every. single. time.), then I guess I want to wear a little USA sticker to show that I actually did take five minutes out of my day to do my civic duty.

We head out and cut across the parking lot, past the campaign signs and recycle bins, toward the other church where co-op is held.

"That was voting," I tell Lil E over the stroller proudly, "How cool was that?"

Taking a moment to shove a piece of Nutrigrain bar in his mouth, he quietly harkens back to the Chicagoans on election days of yore and nodding, says:

"Mommy, I want to go vote again."

Annnnnnd (one more) Chicago scene.

ps. Election junkies - If you've already paged through the paper and seen enough of the red ties and dramatic graphics on your local news, here's an interesting read on why this Election Day is being talked about as the beginning of Year of the Woman 2.0. In the meantime, I'll keep voting until we actually need to refer to one year in our millennium as Year of the Man.

pps. Maybe next election, I'll just order my own sticker (like the one pictured here) so I can just get on with the issues already.

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Sticker price: Election Day (bahbahbahbuuuuh-whooosh) 2006

I am one of those people who have to vote.

As the daughter and granddaughter of staunch union members, it is in my blood. I have many memories of walking the picket line on very cold winter days with my mother and her Chicago Public School teacher friends. And I am fiercely proud of that.

As a feminist, I am invested in equity, particularly those people who have been or are marginalized in this culture.  As a woman, I know that I need to punch my card every time I can to make sure that my rights are not whittled away by a misogynistic agenda or referendum or corporate lobby.

As a mother, I want to do every single thing I can to carve a path for my son so his world is safer and more just. I also want him to see that voting isn't just about the little sticker at the end (neither is using the potty, but there's plenty of time for him to catch on to all that) but is one (big) way we make sure our voices are heard in an over-stimulating, multi-mediaed society.

Every single time I head over to the Catholic school across the alley from my apartment, walk down the rickety ramp in my loud, clompy kickass boots (yes, the ones that walked me through grad school and many marches), and head to my little booth in the corner of the basement polling place, I send a thank you to Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton is a hero of mine and one of those women that I believe all women in this country owe a thousand votes of gratitude. 

She's best known as Susan B. Anthony's political partner and one of the keys to unlocking the vote for women in this country.  Cady Stanton did have an incredible, impactful partnership with Anthony, and I admire what they achieved together.

Liz, seated on the left, just wants you to
stand up for your rights.

As her own person, Cady Stanton was a gifted writer, a passionate speaker and a brilliant organizer who called on women to do something radical: simply stand up when they were speaking. Cady Stanton was a part of a revolution that gave women the floor, and eventually, more property rights, grounds for divorce, and the privilege to vote. 

Like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, I am committed to reproductive justice for women. I care deeply about the environment, minimum wage, immigration, education and many other hotly-debated topics in this election. Most of all, I am politically on fire to keep abortion safe and legal in this country. Tomorrow, when I vote, I will be carrying my Planned Parenthood endorsement sheet with me. 

Tomorrow, I will be marking my vote with both fear and hope. For our country. For our lives as women. For my son. 

As much like a country song that sounds, I really do take pride in that moment. Because it was hard-won by suffragists like Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Because it was engrained in me by my parents' protests and picket signs. Because I get a sticker (OK, we all know Lil E will get the sticker). 

Because I really do believe that it matters.

Photo credit:
Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony / Library of Congress via Wikipedia.com

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Is this smart or is this too much?

See for yourself.

Then let me know if you think this is the key to fighting the seemingly inevitable post-flight sniffles or if this is preying on mama germ paranoia.

This paranoia troubles me. On the one hand, I want to avoid those sleepless nights with a sicky kid just like every other parent. I also detest this consumerism-driven standard that we must be completely and properly sanitized before we ever even think of holding a baby.

I hate that Purell has invaded how much some mamas trust themselves to create a safe place - lap or living room - for our children. I've been balked at more than once for committing a cootie faux pas and yet, I admit to be hesitant about airplane seat head rests.

No matter where I land on these washable airline seat covers, it comes down to this for me: With a carseat, toys, books, snacks, sippy cups, change of clothes for an urpy boy and and myself and possibly any other passengers in the vicinity, and a magazine that keeps the "sure, he'll nap on the plane" hope alive, there is no way I will add one more thing to my over-stuffed carry-on bag.

And you? Go on, get up on that (not so sanitized) soapbox.

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