Tuesday, November 5th, I found myself at P.S. 250 George H. Lindsay Elementary School, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, at 5:00 a.m. In the weeks (months? years?) prior, I had found myself feeling increasingly out of touch with my own democratic practice and government involvement. To a degree, this was to be expected. I didn’t study political science, I didn’t pursue government-funded public service, I didn’t even typically feel I understood what I was reading in the news when I made an active effort to engage with global politics (Though I often still don’t. This is a work in progress). The effort to engage felt hopeless a great deal of the time. I felt I was always looking to the wrong source, misunderstanding the core points of what I was reading, or had no idea of what I could do to move forward towards a more healthy, progressive, and well-rounded society.
In a sudden surge of the overwhelming need to involve myself in what felt like a crumbling democracy, I filled out a form signing up to work the 2024 presidential election. I clicked send on my application, feeling a great sense of pride and terror and waited in fear that I would or wouldn’t be selected to work on that fateful Tuesday.
I was greenlit to work pretty quickly. It turns out there’s a pretty immediate need for polling place workers. Shocker, I know.
In the weeks leading up to November 5th, I nervously worked through the several hours of required government training and anxiously awaited my station assignment. I was relieved when a few days before the election, I was assigned to be an information clerk (I was dreading a ballot inspector job, or something involving that wildly strange machinery). However, even though I didn’t have an extraordinarily complicated job, this assignment meant I would be dealing with every voter that walked through those doors, face to face. I sat behind a folding table for about 9 hours that day alongside a young Asian man a bit younger than me, a young white woman a little older than me, and an older African American woman somewhere above middle age; a true picture of the beautiful diversity of the community I am privileged to live in. All day we sat and greeted voters as kindly as each of us could, checking them in to vote, and sending many to other locations when they had come to the wrong polling place. We were ruled over by a tiny elderly tyrannical woman who knew all of the ins and outs of the polling process. I loved her, despite my quaking fear of her.
I didn’t consider when signing up for this job, just how much of a connection I would find to my own community that I live in. It’s far too easy to walk around my own neighborhood blindly. While I do make a concerted effort to keep my head down and not engage with those around me (I live in Brooklyn, after all, and it is sort of the socially accepted way of living in this particular city), I realized that, maybe this was a product of my own deep-seated anxiety and, though it pains me to say it, probably some inherent racism somewhere deep down that I’ve neglected to acknowledge.
I was shocked to find a distinct lack of conflict throughout election day. Both from my own expectations and preparation in the New York Board of Election training, I was expecting significant conflict, anger, lashing out, and generally negative discourse. This was, of course, a very hot-button election for numerous reasons. The day of, however, was distinctly calm. Surges of people came through at various points, not quite a steady stream, but not sparse either. The quiet calmness with the buzzing undertone of a monumental election day was punctuated by friendly laughter and greetings between friends, neighbors, and families. One of the more distinct pleasures was the opportunity to give out future voter stickers to the little ones tagging along behind parents who walked in ready to punch in that monumental personal decision. A decision that would affect those little ones- and their future little ones, on and on for decades to come.
The day eventually came to an end, and I was dismissed around 10:00. I trudged the few blocks home, still feeling a sense of hope through the fog of exhaustion. While I normally would stay up watching election results with bated breath, the burnout of a 17-ish hour workday won over, and I collapsed into bed.
I woke up on Wednesday, November 6th, with the most crushing, debilitating, heavy disappointment I could imagine. I simply could not wrap my head around what had happened. I could not possibly believe that we, collectively, had made this choice.
I walked around New York City that Wednesday in a fog. A combination of sleep deprivation, fear, and something that felt like mourning took over my body. I mourned for all of us. I mourned for those of us desperately seeking refuge. I mourned for those of us trying our hardest to live life in the most beautiful way possible. I mourned for those of us who depend on powers above our grasp that provide the things we need to survive. But I also mourned for the relationships that would inevitably suffer for this moment in history. I knew we were going to see families break apart, siblings in opposition, friends lost, and communities cracked from within.
At a moment when unification was needed the most, there was a seismic split among us all.
I walked through that day blindly sorrowful, for more reasons than anyone reading this might expect. In a moment of overwhelming emotion, I could not stop myself from weeping. I ordinarily try to keep my emotions tucked away in public and save them for a private moment (key word being try.) This proved impossible that day. After a long bout of tears, I sat in a subway car on the yellow line. My headphones were in, but they weren’t playing anything. I was so desperately depressed at that moment, that I couldn’t even stomach music.
I know my eyes were cloudy, and my face red and splotchy while I tried to choke back my disappointment and next wave of tears. This was a day where it felt like everything was going to crash down around me. The atmosphere was somber, and the energy was low. My train reached a stop, and a young man, probably near my age, stood up to get off as the doors were about to open right next to where I was seated. He stood next to me, and through my empty headphones I heard him say “Excuse me?” I looked up at him as he looked me dead in the eyes, gave me an understanding smile and nod, and reached out his hand to fist-bump me in silence.
This stranger will never know, could never know just how much that tiny gesture meant to me.
All of the tears that I’d been holding back rushed out as he walked out of the train car and onto the platform. But these tears were different. In that tiny inexplicable moment, my fear, sorrow, and distress transformed in a small, but important way.
At that moment I realized that the end of the world was, in fact, not here. I knew that there was hatred, violence, and struggle ahead, but as long as that compassion and empathy remained, we would persist. Humanity will not be crushed or buried away as long as compassion and empathy are alive- even in the moments when it seems darkest.
I am very aware of the fact that many of you reading this will not agree with me politically. You may think that I’m stupid. You may think that my ideals are fundamentally flawed. You may find this little outcry trite and ultimately juvenile. Please, hear me when I say this. That is ok.
My friends, enemies, fellow humans, and self (this message is for me too), I implore you, don’t let anyone snuff out your compassion. That is what will keep us alive in the way we need and deserve. Don’t let a veil of hatred sit over your eyes. See those around you for what they are. Fellow living breathing human beings. Please treat them with grace and listen to them with open ears. I promise it will serve you. Don’t lose the lens of tenderness. We are all that we have. Don’t waste the gift. Don’t lose your humanity.
Fred Rogers - “We speak with more than our mouths. We listen with more than our ears.”
Such a lovely reminder to continue to love one another through everyday interactions. And yes, there is still hope for humanity, even when it’s hard to fathom.