Not Enough Ink

I have been privileged to have voted in a great number of elections in my lifetime, although being a life-long Democrat means that I have been on the losing side for the majority of the time. However, I would have to say that for many reasons the voting experience yesterday for me was the most exciting ever. Afterward, as I was walking away from the polling location, I definitely had tears in my eyes.

It started in the polling booth when I pulled that blank voter card out of the folder and placed it on the table in front of me. I just stood there and marveled at it for a while, like a general giving one last look over the field on the eve of a great battle. There I was, preparing to cast my vote for a black man for president. And this time, I had a pretty good feeling about his chances. And it wasn’t because of his race, but rather because of the race he was in—he was clearly the better candidate. I filled in the oval next to Obama/Biden. I went over it again just make sure it was clear, crisp, and left no bit of white remaining.

I proceeded down through the congressional candidates, the city government, the local school board, and finally into the propositions. Eventually I came to Proposition 8. Again, I paused and stared at the two blank ovals. I took a deep breath. Then I filled in the oval next to the NO.

I filled it in again to be thorough, and to leave no element of ambiguity. I briefly considered adding an exclamation point to the right of the oval, but figured there might be a chance it would confuse the optical reader and mark my vote as invalid, so I decided against that. Instead, I went back and filled in the oval a third time. I filled it in again a couple more times after that, all for good measure. It was as if I felt the more I marked it in, the more votes I would rack up. Three, four, five votes—I’ll just keep darkening it more and more.

I thought about all my married friends, both opposite and same sex. How fortunate for them that they were able to find that special someone with whom to share their lives. I know the profound joy at having found my soul-mate out of all the billions of people in this world. I know how precious a gift it was to be able to pledge my life to that person before friends, family, and God. Now some people wish to take that gift away from so many others—how cruel is that?

I darkened in the oval one more time.

I thought of the scenario of both propositions 2 and 8 passing—the former adding rights for farm animals and the latter taking rights away from Gays and Lesbians. Would that not mean that we place a higher value on the rights of chickens than we do for human beings?

Again, I added another layer of ink to the oval.

Then I thought about what I was taught about homosexuality in the California public school system. On the day after the assassination of Harvey Milk in San Francisco city hall in 1978, a teacher (yes, a TEACHER) made the comment “well, at least somebody knows what to do with those faggots.”

I darkened the oval three or four more times.

Then I feared that if I did it too much more, I would wear completely through the card and it would invalidate my vote altogether. So I finished up and turned it in.

Now I watch the news with heavy heart as this hateful abomination known as Proposition 8 has passed by a margin of less than 500,000 votes.

Sometimes there is just not enough ink in the world.