That Time I Almost Became a Victim of Voter Suppression

                It was my worst nightmare come to life.

                I avoid any situation that reminds me of my past as an outcast.  Since I still live in the town of my childhood, avoiding it altogether is out of the question.  After all, I drive past my high school and elementary school every single morning on my way to work sans trauma.  That being said, I associate my past pain more with situations than places.

                 I don’t like being the center of attention when among strangers, and I don’t like people looking at me and whispering. 

                But here I was, all the same.

                I had arrived at my town library ready to do my civic duty and vote in the gubernatorial primaries.  At that hour, seven forty-five in the morning, the parking lot was all but deserted, a very different picture than the last time I voted, during the election of 2016.  When I entered the room where the event taking place, I was cheered to see there were no lines, because I needed to get this over with so I could get to work. The volunteers were basically sitting around chatting.  This should have been a snap.

                But it wasn’t.  The volunteer flipping through the book couldn’t find my name.  I peered at it upside down; this happened the last time and I was able to locate myself.  But this time I was notably absent. 

                He gestured at a table across the room.  “Perhaps Betty can help you?”

                It was happening.  People were looking at me and murmuring.  Yes, they were only senior citizen volunteers, but it brought me back.  I was being singled out.  I couldn’t accomplish the things a normal person could, and I was not being allowed the same privileges.  I was being excluded.  Again.

                I wanted to burst into tears, scream, stamp my feet, and run away.  It is difficult for me to articulate how absolutely panic stricken I was, irrationally so, to the point I could feel myself shutting down.  Answering people in single syllable monotones.

                Betty had me recite my name, spell it, my social security number, and my date of birth.  Repeatedly.  I was a little girl again, and there was something wrong with me.  Everyone was staring.  I was shutting down, erecting a wall.  I didn’t want to deal with this.

                When it was established that I inexplicably existed nowhere in the rolls, I was invited to vote by paper ballot and swear out an affidavit of service.  I declined.  I was going to be late for work, and I desperately wanted to flee.

                Admittedly, this was such an overwhelmingly negative experience that I kept putting off trying to find out what the hell happened with my registration.  I had checked it that morning and found it active.  It directed me to vote at the library, the same location I’d voted during the oh-so-important 2016 election.  Yet, when I checked it after work, I saw a word I swear hadn’t been there that morning:  Inactive.  What did that mean?  How did I become inactive?  And why hadn’t I noticed it earlier?

                After hitting in a few key phrases on the google search engine, I ascertained that someone’s voter registration would be rendered inactive if they moved or were a convicted felon  Neither one of those conditions applied to my situation.  I’d achieved the dubious honor of having lived in the same house for forty years, so moving wasn’t the issue.  I didn’t think I’d been convicted of a felony.  I was reasonably certain that couldn’t happen without my knowledge.

                There is a dearth of information on the internet concerning what to do about an inactive registration.  One would think this never happened to anyone before, only me.  Once again, I was the freak, the outcast, the person inexplicably excluded. 

                However, voting is important to me, especially in this election, so I forced myself to call the Board of Elections while at work, because they’re only open during business hours.  My procrastination and avoidance of the issue led to my call being quite tardy, a mere four days before the cut off date to register for the next election.  This was partly because I’m very busy during the day, and I figured changing my status from Inactive to Active would be simple.  After all, there was no legitimate reason for me to be listed as inactive.  I figured it was just a mistake.

                But no.  There was no mistake.  The woman on the other end of the phone breathlessly informed me that I was no longer registered to vote at all.  The explanation was everything they’d mailed to me over the past year had come back return to sender.  This made no sense, since they had the correct mailing address listed and I’d been receiving mail there, as previously stated, since 1978.  Why the Board of Elections mysteriously could not send me anything at that address is anyone’s guess.  Not to mention, “mailings coming back return to sender,” was NOT a legitimate reason to suspend my voter registration, according to New York State guidelines.

                “If you want to vote in the next election, your registration application has to physically be in this office by Friday,” the woman continued.

                This was frustrating to no end.  I couldn’t take the day off from work to drive into White Plains to deliver my voter registration to the office.  So, I did the next best thing.  I printed it out at home and sent it one day priority mail.  Tracking information indicated it was delivered Thursday evening, meaning it was physically in the office by the deadline, albeit just barely.

                I had an intuition that this was not the end of my troubles with the Board of Elections, and I turned out to be right. 

                Several days later, I checked my registration to discover I was still nowhere to be found.  I figured I would give them another week.  After all, maybe they had so many applications arrive in the office that they’d been unable to process them all.

                My frustration level was at its zenith.  I felt like just throwing up my arms and saying, “The hell with this!” and just not voting.  After all, New York is usually a blue state.  It’s not like they’re in dire need of my vote.  But after spouting off so much about politics, it seemed hugely hypocritical of me not to vote. 

                Clearly, I needed to fight for my right to vote, at a time when I had no fight in me.  I’ve been perpetually exhausted since my mother’s death, worrying constantly about finances, work, family members, and dying alone.  I just didn’t feel up to a battle over voting.  I felt so weary, so goddamn weary, of having to fight for things that come so easily for everyone else.  I have friends who never have a problem voting.  They registered back in 1992, and whether they show up to vote at every election or only once in a blue moon, they never have the slightest issue.  It seemed so goddamn unfair.  Why me?  Why always me?

                Yeah, I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

                Finally, I bit the bullet and emailed the head of the Board of Elections explaining my situation.  I struggled to be nice, because I was angry.  But I figured that I was more likely to catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so I refrained from threatening to contact the ACLU and get a court order reinstating my registration.  That was a last resort, once I had exhausted all other avenues.

                This time I got results.  My registration was restored by the following day.

                I’m hearing my issue is not unique.  All over the country, people are finding themselves inexplicably stricken from the voter rolls without legitimate explanation.  I’m grateful that I didn’t have to take this further.  Even so, it was an enormous hassle and pain in the ass. 

                And I don’t know why.

                The inferiority complex that has dogged me all my life says I’m not good enough to vote, that my people are white trash, and I’m not worthy.  I know that voice is completely irrational, but I can’t help wondering why I was singled out.

                Maybe it’s because I have slightly more prominence than the normal average Jane.  Due to the book thing, and the blog thing, I’m not an average nobody, I’m a more significant nobody.  But a nobody, nonetheless.  I’m no Taylor Swift.  Although being an author has attracted the attention of the occasional foaming at the mouth crazy and D list politician, mainly on the Twitter, I’m not exactly getting inundated with fan mail.  Reviews on my books are still like gold and I have less views to my Facebook author page than zits. 

                My ego wants to believe that I was singled out because I was an author, and not because I’m worthless, but my ego also knows that um, I’m no big deal.  There are still quite a few people out there who believe I’m a delusional woman with a hobby.  Keeps me humble.

                The rational, thinking part of me wonders if I’m being naïve in believing it’s not because I’m an author.  That my inferiority complex is keeping me from perceiving the truth-that somehow, while I slept, I crossed the line from nobody to somebody, and someone out there with clout googled my name, read my political views, realized that I’m just the kind of voter they’d like to suppress, and that’s the explanation for all this bullshit.

                Or maybe, it was just opportunity.  That anyone who is a registered Democrat is having the plug pulled for the slightest excuse.

                How many people will show up to the polls on election day and be denied, and just walk away shaking their head in defeat?

                Had I not decided to vote in the September primaries, I would never have known what was going down.

                So, here’s my message today:  Voter suppression is real.  It’s a thing.  It almost happened to me, and I don’t know why.

                 I have made a practice of standing up and putting a face to a statistic, so here you have it. 

                Despite everything, I’ll be voting in the election this year.  No one will stop me.