Election Process

"Now please, when we go into the booth, don't yell out the names of the candidates whose levers we pull," I begged the seven-year-old, faintly recalling last year's complete lack of voting privacy. In New York we have these fabulously mechanical machines that offer me some hope that my vote will be counted.

I never have any hope that it matters, but that is an altogether different discussion.

My daughter walked down the sidewalk with me on the way to our polling place, thinking. "Well, how about if when we get inside I say, "[Candidate's last name] ROCKS!"

Nice try.

In front of us on the sidewalk stood an older man passing out fliers. He was covered in a long hooded jacket to protect him from the morning's assault of rain and hail. He offered me a pamphlet and I thanked him. I couldn't remember when the last time was I volunteered for anything. I looked at the materials and noted that they were for the opponent. The silent steadfastness of that man alone made me double check my resolve. "We don't always need to be so out loud," I said to my daughter, meaning it more than she would understand.