
It was with great joy and civic pride that I walked into the gymnasium of the local high school, standing patriotically in line with the other locals and waiting with unreserved glee to cast my ballot and perform my duty as an informed, educated citizen of a democratic country. Oh, the naivety of youth! Oh, the gullibility of the green! The foolish dreams of the innocent and the uninitiated! All the advertisements and pamphlets had convinced me that voting would be a happy experience: a proud, life-defining moment full of smiles and good cheer. The reality was anything but. Ah, my friends: by the time I left that gym, I had been thoroughly taught a valuable lesson: society is a lie.
The first sign of unsettling truth came from my fellow citizens themselves: weary; wary-eyed; suspicious; unsmiling; certainly in no mood to discuss the very reason we were all lined up like beef steaks in a butchers glass display. The feeling of distrust was so thick that a cold sweat began to coagulate beneath my freshly washed t-shirt and jeans (I had done a load of laundry specifically for this occasion, which seemed like overkill once I got a good look at the attire of my fellow countrymen). Luckily, we were in a high school gymnasium, and the body odour of thousands of children had seeped into the very floor we now stood upon, which kept my own putridity from becoming obvious. As an accomplished socialite, skilled in the arts of small talk and self-aggrandizement, I sought a conversation with some of the townsfolk in my vicinity, hoping to spark one of the enriching intellectual debates that democracies are known for. Instead, I was met with angry expressions that made it quite clear this person's vote was staying strictly in their heads until that ballot let them transfer it into a small square beside their chosen candidate's name. A few people reprimanded me for daring to ask such an outlandish question: "That's a personal question!" they roared into my innocent, childish ears; tears began involuntarily, and I lowered my neck down at precisely the angle that screamed "submission." I had no idea I would inspire such primitive feelings of the social hierarchy.
As the line dragged me nearer and nearer to the ballot box - and my sense of dread began deepening to the point where I wondered if I could fight my way out of there with the small pencils they provided - I began to pick up on a few conversations whispered by the small cliques forming around the edges of the room: small packs of voters naturally gravitating toward their chosen tribe, or favorite color, or maybe both. What I overheard will forever haunt me: "I'm voting because my husband told me to." "I voted to keep the other guy out." "The party in power has destroyed our country: they have to go!" "The other party will destroy our country: we've got to keep this one in!" "I don't even like this party, but I'm voting anyways." "My whole family has voted for the same party since my granddad moved here from Cincinnati." Fear and confusion permeated the room like the screeching runners of the varsity basketball team. My paranoia was so acute I could barely keep step with the construction worker in front of me. At one point, I stumbled onto his steel-toes and he threatened to smother me with a gym mat if it happened again. At this point, I completely forgot which party I was going to vote for.
My conversation with the volunteer was brief: she handed me a soiled ballot with the phrase "get out" written all over it in ever-increasing hysterics. When she started screaming uncontrollably, two giants came and dragged her through the exit doors. I could've sworn one of the men was the candidate for the area, but I confess my perception was far from trustworthy at the time; my heart had easily passed the 200 bpm range, and I was experiencing a slight haziness in my vision.
Finally, I made it into the privacy of the booth. Staring down at the ballot, I realized I wanted to "keep the streets safe." Then I realized I wanted to "fix healthcare." Then it was "get tough on crime." "Fix the economy." "Keep the children safe." "Make the country equal." "Make a good wage." "Afford a home." I could no longer contain it: letting out a barely suppressed wail, I checked off the first box that I saw (which turned out to be the "Do Not Fill In This Box" option) and spun away from the claustrophobic cardboard barricade I was suffocating in. It was then I realized that someone sitting in the bleachers had their phone-speakers blaring campaign ads, and my confusion was nothing more than my mind being made up for me by some simplistic slogans cooked up by a team of campaign strategists that make no sense at all when you really stop and think about them. Feeling like a fool for letting down my fellow citizens, my country, and my self-esteem, I tried returning to the booth to vote properly. I was accused of election-meddling, and escorted out by the two giants, who promptly twisted me into a pretzel and threw me out onto the street. I painfully got up, brushed myself off, and looked right into the face of the construction worker whose boots I had stumbled upon. The last thing I remember is slowly gulping.
My voting experience, in short, was overwhelmingly negative, and I advise everyone not to even bother. Democracy is important: but personal safety and mental health are as well, if not more so. After my experience, it is clear why voter turnout is at an all time low: because elections are very stressful affairs. And at this point in time: who wants that?
Edward Earnest
P.S. Congratulations to Heather Stefanson for being the FIRST female Premier of Manitoba to lose an election; young women everywhere will no doubt look back on her career as solid proof that even the ladies can't escape the vicissitudes of public opinion. The moral is clear: popularity contests are gender-neutral.
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