Woman Walking in an Exotic Forest, by Henri Rousseau (1905)
Armed with a mask and my own sanitizer, I marched into Greenville County Square on Monday for poll manager training. I walked past a long line of absentee voters wrapped around the building and laughed to myself. Democrats Gone Wild, I thought. South Carolina added a new option to the list of reasons one can claim for voting absentee this year: Number 18, State of Emergency. You don’t even have to tell them which emergency you’re claiming.
Down a hall and to the right, I entered a room holding more people than I’ve been with since February. They were wearing masks. Mostly.
From a chaotic pile, I was offered what I hoped was a clean pen and asked to write my name, address, and signature on a blank sheet of paper. Next, they put me in a seat at the front of the room. Our chairs were meant to be six feet apart, I think, but over half of them only made it to three.
Training began with a tense Director of Elections ripping his mask on and off repeatedly to show us what we can and can’t do on Election Day. He said that it’s hard to communicate in a mask and backed up slightly before removing his completely. He went on to speak for twenty minutes in a booming, projecting baritone that made me regret being placed near the front.
Don’t people know the virus spreads through aerosols?! I thought for the hundredth time this year. I picked up my chair and dragged it further away.
In the tutorial, the director emphasized that our masks can’t sport political messaging, which I knew, and said we’ll be given face shields to wear on November 3, which I was delighted to hear.
But he went on to contradict the state’s online training, which instructs poll workers to wear masks at all times. The director said that actually, when we’re behind a sneeze guard, masks aren’t required. Since poll managers will be spaced near one another behind sneeze guards, and breathing directly on keyboards everyone will use, I didn’t appreciate that contradiction. Following the state’s guidelines and staying masked all day is the least we can do.
It only took ten minutes for fear and anxiety to take over our training. First, one volunteer pitched a fit that we can’t require voters to wear masks. The Director of Elections did not appreciate her indignation. If you cannot be gracious to all voters, he emphasized, then this is not the job for you. We can suggest masks but not require them, he said. She asked if the Election Commission could offer masks at the door.
Absolutely not, he replied. We can’t make people wear them. That would be a waste. We’re not providing any masks. Not on our dime. This is a job interview, he added, and you should put your phone away and practice some courtesy. She was silent for the rest of the afternoon.
That outburst quickly inspired another one. What if people show up to intimidate us with GUNS?!, screeched a woman on the other side of the room. I am not willing to die over this!
If the Director of Elections didn’t appreciate mask anxiety, he certainly didn’t have time for guns. Why would you bring that up to scare the rest of these volunteers?, he scolded her. They don’t want to talk about guns.
At that point, we were discouraged from asking any further questions. You’ll have to stay late if you ask too many questions, he said. No one wants to stay late. His colleague agreed.
The tension in the room was palpable.
My grandmother worked the polls for years in a small town called Williston, South Carolina. Sometimes, she would be assigned to neighboring towns that were even smaller, one red light instead of two. In those towns, she could get the job done all by herself. I always knew when she was busy with an election, and it was clear that she loved the job. She enjoyed working the polls in her small town because she knew every person who came in.
I only visited her at an election once and remember it well. I noticed the paper ballots and pencils, an ease and casual approach to the whole thing, and two workers, one of whom was my grandmother. There’s a big difference between what I saw as a child and what I'm seeing now. My grandmother held a quiet trust in the election process that doesn’t exist today. There's a deep and pervasive anxiety on both sides that I don't think she experienced. My sense of my grandmother’s job was that she helped people vote and generally had a good time doing it. Now, there's a lot more at stake.
Poll worker training did bring up some anxiety for me. Not everyone has the same standards for safety, and some prefer to hold no standards at all. Will I really be safe on Election Day?, I wondered. The answer is sort-of-yes, but not as safe as I’d prefer. Statistically, I am likely to encounter someone who is Covid-positive. But banking on my gloves, mask, and face shield, I decided to keep going.
It feels good to be part of this process. We know the system is broken, but it was overwhelming and eye-opening to witness for myself all the margin for error that we suspect is there. Taking it out of the abstract and watching each step is illuminating, especially understanding how easy it is for tired, anxious humans to make mistakes. People will be exhausted, nervous, and apparently hungry — we were told in training there won’t really be time to eat.
My criticism of the training and people involved comes with a great deal of compassion. It’s easy to oversimplify and say that people should do better. And this entire country should absolutely do better. But the Election Commission is clearly spent, and while we may disagree on Covid precaution, I never doubted their desire to give every citizen a successful and ethical voting experience.
At a certain point, I can’t complain about this system if I'm not willing to help. So now I'm part of it. And that feels meaningful, like something I hope to continue. These moments around our election process — including the unexpected tears that sprang to my eyes when I cast my own vote — always show me that I'm more patriotic than I thought.
Someone asked if I will be interested in serving as a poll worker in future elections, and the short answer is yes. It helps me keep believing in the potential of our country to change. It fills me with affection for those standing in line hoping to create a more loving, inclusive world. It gives me a front row seat to the full spectrum of humans this process represents.
It connects me to my grandmother in a way that wasn’t available before, since my entire family resents my political convictions. I’ve been thinking about how she — Helen, my mom’s mom — would handle an election in the time of Covid-19. Quietly and graciously, I'm sure. Dedicated to the job at hand.
I hope I can do the same on November 3.
Between you and me—
Thank you, as always, for being here. If you’re voting this week, may your lines be short and your hearts be full. That’s all.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. Want to support this newsletter? Become a sponsor, click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!
Loved this. Thank you so much for your service!
Thank you, Lauren. We all must, absolutely must, do our part. Vote. Speak our truth. Act. Hope.