Not all Trump voters are assholes, but every asshole is a Trump voter

The Polls pt. 3: First day of voting

On October 31st, after one full week of in-classroom training, two full days of training my own team, and two additional days of classroom observation, I take command of Super Poll 25 at Muirlands Middle School in La Jolla—a very affluent part of San Diego. I will be at this polling site for the next four days.

A blanket of fog covers the highway that descends into La Jolla. I can’t help but feel that this is an omen of sorts. Perfect for Halloween, but for democracy? Not so sure. The first day of voting for the 2020 general election: a very spooky day indeed. 

I arrive at Muirlands Middle School at 7:00 a.m., half an hour earlier than I told my staff to show up because I want a few minutes to get my bearings. Plus, official direction from the Registrar of Voters calls for all poll workers to arrive at their polling location by 7:00, but I feel that giving my staff an extra 30 minutes is the first step in my journey to becoming “Cool Boss.” 

When I arrive, Anna is already waiting in the parking lot. Anna wanted to be one of the greeters on my team—a position for which she’s perfect because she’s kind, gentle and from London. There aren’t many things that put Americans at ease quite like a British accent. I also attribute her punctuality to her Britishness. 

Anna and I place yellow signs along the road leading up to Muirlands. “The turf is so hard!” Anna says, and I’m sorry to say that even in her frustration sounds like music to my Americanized ears. 

We also have a large “Vote Here” flag that looks like a boat sail, but there’s a hole in the top where the rod pokes through, which makes the whole thing sort of sag. Fixing it is definitely not high on my priority list, but it’s the first thing my other greeter, Suzy, notices when she arrives. Suzy’s an intense woman that reminds me of fearsome lunch ladies I had in elementary school. 

“You have a sewing kit?” Suzy asks. 

“I have five,” I say. “But they’re in my car.” 

Later, Suzy asks if she can have one of the sewing kits, and I feel like a dick when I tell her that I was joking. That night she takes the flag home to sew it up. 

My crew is mostly made up of women, most of whom are mothers—a point one of them had when we were setting up. Set-up was scheduled to take six hours, but my team did it in two.  

“I feel like I lucked out with all of you.” I had said.

“It’s because we’re all mothers. We know how to get shit done.” 

The only other male is Jeff, a brash, charismatic but self-obsessed elder bro. If someone created a person a lá Weird Science and used every male self-help book, Jeff would be the result. He’s always the last to arrive and the first to leave. Voters love his banter, but I can tell he drives all the women on my team nuts. 

When the polls open, it’s not a mad rush, but a drizzle. I had seen pictures of early voting lines that stretched out for blocks, and it’s not like I expected that kind of turn-out in La Jolla, but I definitely wanted more than the five measly voters that constituted our rush. I’m not sure why I’m struck with this sudden business mindset, but I see this lack of voters as a failure of the product I’m offering. Why should I care? Somewhere in the back of my little brain, a tiny voice says “because democracy is healthy.” 

The morning hours drag on. Voters pass through sporadically: families from the neighborhood, people on their way to work, athletes who just happened to notice we were open. More often than not, the gymnasium at Muirlands is so quiet we can hear some voter’s marker squeaking against their ballot. We can hear Suzy and Anna’s conversation even though they’re outside. They talk about communism, Canada and sex. Jen, one of my check-in technical inspectors, tells me to tell them to keep it down. For the next couple of days, this will be my main duty as a site manager: Telling adults what they can and cannot say.

My line manager informs me that a 97-year-old man is waiting outside to vote curbside. I jump at the opportunity to help him out, because Jeff keeps telling me stats about voter turnout in other states and I’m a little tired of talking about voting. I mean, I know I’m a polling site manager, but it’s not like I want to marry voting. 

I drag out the ADA cart that holds the touch-screen voting machine. I brace for the inevitable onslaught of grief. There’s a certain population that feeds off the shit spewed by Fox News, and, at the risk of generalizing, that population is not young people. For the past few months, Fox News and its affiliates have been serving a steady stream of distrust in this election, especially the voting machines. 

The old man sits in a wheelchair outside, slumped over and breathing hard. The mere act of existing seems to wear him out. I push the cart in front of him, activate his ballot, and show him how to use the machine. 

“I just want to vote for Biden,” he says. “What do I press?” 

His daughter, who’s watching over his shoulder, starts talking about the other contests on the ballot, but he’s insistent. “Just Biden,” he says. 

We print out his ballot. He double-checks it. Nothing else marked except Biden. His daughter wheels him to the ballot box and he drops it in. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I didn’t think I’d be able to vote this year.” And with that, this man restores my faith in America. I’m pretty sure a red, white and blue tear leaks out from my eye. 

This newfound patriotism is fleeting, however, as the Trump voters begin to show up. 

Not all Trump voters are assholes, but every asshole is a Trump voter. They wear Trump shirts to vote, as if Trump was a sports team and not someone trying to disenfranchise everybody that’s not as rich as him. Shirts that advertise a specific candidate or ballot measure are prohibited electioneering laws, and Trumpers act just how you’d expect them to when they’re told they can’t wear their allegiance into the polls. 

One man claims to be a lawyer and that we’re imposing on free speech. He must be a shitty lawyer. 

Another man tapes a piece of lined paper over his Trump, but still likes to flash it when he gets the opportunity, like a hand signal for adult babies. The paper makes a crinkling sound when he walks, and he crinkles his way over to the voting machine. 

“Are these the machines you bought from Russia?” he asks. 

“No,” says Valorie, my goth technical inspector. “They’re not even connected to the internet.” The amount of belittling scorn in which she says it makes me very happy.  

Later in the afternoon, Betsy—another technical inspector—talks about a phenomenon she’s noticed about some Trump voters. 

“They want us to see who they’re voting for. As soon as we activate the ballot, they’ll immediately hit the button for Trump. And It’s always men. It’s like a power move or something.” Becca also tells me about a man who, when deciding between city attorneys, asked which one was a woman so he could vote against her.  

Another guy asks for a new ballot because he messed up, but he won’t return his old one. He claims that if he does, “we’ll know his ballot.” 

I tell him that there are no identifiers and that we already have many soiled ballots from people messing up. He relents. 

“You’re not getting this back,” he says, his voice quivering with—I don’t know—rage? Fear? 

“We need to account for all the ballots,” I try to say. “This ensures that the election is secure and—” 

The man rips his ballot in half, and then again. “Does this work?” he says. “Are you happy?” He keeps ripping until he’s holding tiny shreds in his hand. 

I think it’s about that moment when I realize that Trump isn’t going to win. Watching this older gentleman shred his ballot in an undignified act of defiance pretty much sums the past four years. There’s no question that this guy’s a Republican—only a Trump supporter would be so indignant. 

Watching this wanton, uninformed destruction, I almost laugh. I want to ask him what exactly he’s afraid of, but there’s nothing I can do to help him. He’s too far gone. Too many Fox News worms in his brain. 

We stand there until his old ballot is in quarter sized pieces. “Can I go now?” 

“Yeah, you can go,” I say. 

I return to my seat and think about the ways that could’ve played out better and finally conclude that—to use a Trump term—“it is what it is.” 

This introspection is interrupted by enthusiastic applause. Every time we get a first-time voter, my team announces it to the room, and everyone cheers, regardless of their political party. 

This time, it’s an elderly Spanish-speaking woman. Her grandson tells us that she was naturalized just last week. 

Before she drops her ballot into the box, I ask if I can take her picture. I’m not one who usually takes photos of strangers, but the moment feels so loaded, so hopeful, so optimistic that I don’t want to forget it. 

The woman smiles and poses. I take her picture. 

“How was it?” I ask. “Was it as fun as you imagined?” 

“Actually,” says her grandson. “She thought the process was a little long.” 

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Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Twitter.