I awoke this morning at 5:30 AM. Normally I’m incapable of such a feat, but today I was determined to get to my polling place early and beat the rush. Today is not only election day, but my birthday. What better way to start it off than to cast my vote?

I was number twelve in line at my neighborhood polling place by 6:30 AM, darkness still settled over the damp street. The polls were still being set up at the nursing home. A chorus of signs alerting us where to walk, to keep quiet for the residents, turn off our cell phones and not to block hallways.

I was a bit of a lazy voter. I didn’t get my registration in on time, so I needed to register. I’m forever thankful for Minnesota’s same-day voter registration law. I have used it at least three times since I turned 18. I should have been more diligent, as this was not the year to have to go to the back of the line.

At 7 o’clock a cheerful older woman with a binder of names threw her hands in the air and declared, “The polls are open!” and was greeted with a wave of cheers and a rushing throng of people eager to vote and get on with their day. She paced up and down the line, confirming registrations for people, and pulling slackers like myself from the line to register.

I was the first registrant on their forms. It was a smooth and painless process. I got my receipt and head to the back of the line. I started walking… and walking… and walking. The line snaked down the hall, coiled upon itself in the lobby then spilled out into the driveway and to the sidewalk. I had gone from #12 to #182 (as I learned later).

The wait wasn’t so bad, beyond being two hours long. I called into work late after the first hour, making me thankful that most Minnesota employers provide you time off from work to go vote.

I met an older New Age healer in line who has a daughter in grad school in the UK for archaeology. I told of my friend who worked for the DOJ in DC who was an election monitor in the Chicago area. There was a precocious eight-year old boy eager to do his kid-version of the ballot. “I’m voting for Kerry!” he declared. There was a terrific array of diversity. Young and old, all races, all walks of life. Punk rockers stood next to businessmen in suits. I overheard a handyman named Vern getting grilled for his business card from a dapper suitguy who needed work on his home and preferred to use local businesses.

The greeter glided past all of us in line, piping, “Smiles, everyone! Smiles!” like Mr. Rourke on Fantasy Island. I read the entire South Side Pride (Phillips/Powderhorn Edition) local newspaper, and was bemused by the scathing attack on Secretary of State Mary Kiffmeyer. She was called the most incompetant person to ever hold the job. Yikes.

It was finally my chance to vote, and it was all over before I knew it. I filled in my little bubbles on my ballot, slid it into the scanning machine, and ballot number 182 was counted. I got my “I VOTED” sticker and made my way out of the nursing home. I emerged into the wan daylight of this drizzly morning and was headed for my car when I heard my name. The Secretary/Treasurer of my condo association was there. She’d spotted other association members at the polls that morning. I was glad that I posted signs in the lobby of our Standish neighborhood building so my neighbors could find the polls this morning.

Later tonight after the polls close I’m having friends over for some exit-poll speculation, snacks and lively debate. I’m looking forward to it. I’m hoping that I get some regime change for my birthday.

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3. The Secretary Of Vote Suppression
4. I VOTED
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