Election Day 2012

          It is six in the evening, and I am in P.S. 112, Queens, in line seventy, the longest line to vote. There are four lines, filled with people of varying ages and ethnicities. Many children are running around while their mothers explain to them what they are doing there or where they are going to stand before they run off to play with the others in this crowded gymnasium. I walk up to an older black lady sitting at a table by the entrance of the gym to figure out what the voting process is, as I am only prepared with my state I.D. and my vote. I tell the Election Information worker that the last time I voted in this school was my first time, four years ago, when Barack Obama first ran for president. She looks up my address from a thick book in front of her, but before she sends me off to my line, she advises me that the best thing to do in the election process was to vote every year to secure my name in the voter database. I felt humbled by her lecture and as I reflected on the lack of activity on my part, even to learn who the senatorial candidates were. But I am here and it's a start. 

          As the line moves, a lot of confused faces search for their designated queue as the people who have already found theirs wait patiently to fill their ballots. I am filled with a sense of purpose that defeats my post-school lethargy, and as I look around me, I imagine others feeling the same way. How many of these people just got out of work or curtailed their schedules in time to be here? Which of these people were postponing dinner plans to make sure their votes counted? I entertain myself with a warm feeling of solidarity as I project my own sense of purpose onto the faces of the strangers around me. But whether I was creating imaginary realities for the voters that I saw, their presence at that place was intrinsic of volition and of concern for their lives, for the lives of their families, and perhaps even for the lives of those standing in line beside them.