Election Day Recollection: Misunderstanding, Fatigue and Inexplicable Buzzing

I awoke like any other day, except this day was to be different. On this day, I'd be fulfilling my duty as an American citizen. I had a voice and I was asked- urged- to use it. Trembling with Patriotic fervor, I donned an outfit I deemed fitting for life in an emerging era. I wanted to be prepared for a new America, after all. With a patriotic twist of the doorknob, I was off to change the course of history.

In reality, the action of voting could not be more mundane. It's ironic really; over a year is spent getting you amped up to partake in this great democratic exercise when all you’re really doing is drawing a few lines on a scantron. On top of that, you have to wait in a long, awkward line in order to do so. Selling the Popular Election should be considered as the greatest and most expensive marketing campaign ever- never has so much time and money been spent laboring over such a boring product.

Nevertheless, I stood in line bustling with a nationalism unknown to me. This sensation lasted right up to the moment I got my ballot. The woman manning the booth- a 50 something year old African-American woman- looked up and asked for my name. "JD, er John Beebe", I said. She looked back down and began combing through her booklet with a bit of confusion on her face. I'm used to this. Beebe is a last name that always raises eyebrows. It's surprisingly common surname if you can believe it, but I'm consistently met with smirks and the question, "Wait, your last name is BEEBE?" With the next question, I am always asked to spell it.

I could sense that was the case as the lady fumbled through the heavy booklet. "It's Beebe, B as in boy" I offered, hoping to help her find my name a little easier. After some additional spelling, she marked my name off the list. Handing me my ballots, she said, "I'll have you know, I'm not a boy". She gave me the look that you'd give a pile of dog shit you stepped in on the sidewalk. Off guard, I replied, "Oh, no, I wasn't implying that you were. I was just saying, you know, B as in Boy, for Beebe...". Her look didn't change. "I've given birth to three children. Three. A boy can't do that" she said with a scoff. Not wanting to appear derogatory, I tried to apologize for the misunderstanding. "I just have short hair, but I am not a boy".

I tried looking around, attempting to lock eyes with someone who could back me up. They'd give me one of those, "what's-she-talkin'-about?" looks, where you lean back and kinda bug your eyes out, like you're both startled and constipated simultaneously. But in a room full of compatriots, I was met with a traitors welcome. Defeating and severely misunderstood, I just bit my lip and pulled my gaze away from the mother-of-three. Noticeably perturbed, she asked the next woman in line for her name. "Lindsay Baker, B as in boy". I shit you not. Lindsay Baker-as-in-boy. I waited wildly for the same over-reaction to spout from the ballot workers feminine lips but it never came. Boy, did that make me angry.

Eventually came my turn to ascend to a booth, make a few flicks of the wrist and fulfill my destiny. All things considered, the day was pretty low-key. Anti-climatic even. Sure, that day of work had a certain rumbling to it, the novelty of the moment reaching its crescendo. Red stickers emblazoned people's chests ("Ya Voté!”) and there was a general air of good tidings bound to come. I left work, regrouped with my roommates and trekked across town to attend an election party. We snacked on celery sticks and watched as the electoral votes came in. We all reflected on the importance of the moment, on the benchmark about to be made in history.

But after a calendar year of consuming this campaign, this culminating day couldn’t live up to the hype. How could it? We had been promised a reprieve from the old ways and an ushering in of a utopian paradise. The war coming to a close had been waged most heavily with abstract concepts, the artillery that rang loudest being Change. Freedom. Hope. This presidential decision was to be so monumental, no one would have been surprised if the winner rode to their acceptance speech on a meteor. I liken this final day to hyperventilation- you experience a surge of deep, speedy breaths that seem to last forever. You have a heighten sense of urgency and panic. It consumes your whole being to the point you think you just might explode. But instead of a cataclysmic end of days, you just pass out.

That day had left me exhausted. Maybe it was because I showed up to the party at a point where the winner seemed obvious. Maybe it’s because I live in a like-minded city where I never doubted the support of my candidate. Or maybe it was because I was just plain tired. The TV announced the winner, I rang my sleeping parents and I celebrated. I drank a beer and ate pizza, I prepared for life in this new world. I half expected the sky to open up and the sun to come shining down.

Or maybe that’s what I secretly wanted. I wanted a sign so blatant and obvious in its application that I or no one else could be left with a sliver of doubt that things were going to change. Had to change. I wanted the ground to split open and Gaia to spill over the edges. I need something to manifest and explain that it was alright, that everything was alright.

That message was delivered in a more direct and probably important way. President Elect Obama approached the podium, vibrant with youth and powerful with conviction. And he spoke. For the life of me, I can’t remember what he said, but my entire body began to shiver. A warmth radiated from my core, out through my fingers and into my head. I sat transfixed on the TV, not even hearing but feeling. President Elect Obama finished and left. The buzz dissipated. I was left with a quiet confidence, reignited, knowing that tomorrow would be brighter than today.