Polling Station

14
Written by dianeperazzo

They are Mohamed, Nancy, Mathew and Kai.
Ismail, Joshua, Ibrahim and Nguyan. 
Fatima and Fahtma, Maria, Martin 
and Donna. Jacob, Cheyenne, Antonio, 
Anya, Anne and Abiola. 

They come from Drives, Crescents, Courts 
and Privates, Roads, Streets and Avenues — 
they are my community, and they have come to vote. 

They are young men with attitude, grizzled 
cab drivers with tired smiles, sisters in hijabs, 
twenty-something queer couples with piercings 
and purple hair, hesitant first-time voters,
young parents pushing strollers, sometimes 
frazzled, sometimes serene. 

They are a tiny Jamaican woman, her raincoat 
buttoned to her throat; her purse held tight. 
My list says she was born in 1932. 
Her mouth set in a proud line, 
she is independent and determined, 
annoyed when asked if she needs help. 

They are a sad woman with a service dog, a 
tall guy in a long black leather coat 
who looks like an X-Man, a student coming off 
his shift at McDonald’s, a pale lady who 
tells me she just finished her last chemo treatment. 

They are a bearded man my age, in a ragged 
khaki jacket supported by a hand carved cane 
that honours his favourite rock band, Volbeat.  
(We connect over a moment of shared fandom.)

They are a fit young man who breezes in smelling like 
fresh air from a run (others smell more familiar,
like musty winter coats, cannabis, cigarettes, 
cooking spices, my mother’s perfume, 
my father’s aftershave.)

Some have ID ready, others fumble 
in their wallets, backpacks, 
pockets and purses for drivers’ licenses, 
health cards, Indian status cards, hydro bills, 
leases and passports. 

It’s funny how you just know they are 
exactly who they say they are.

Image: Adapted from CBC

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14 Comments

  3. Love it! It is a little different than what i usually see from you, but i do think it’s a slice of nature — human nature. Good reminder that we’re all just people…. Congrats on staying liberal. Many Americans support you! And would hate it if you were mad at us!

    Reply

  6. What a slice of life!  And a show of faith in our fellow humans.  Thank
    you, Diane. xo

    Reply

  7. Inspired by this inclusive poem, I send

    Notes from the other side.

    I enter the Community Center, an old woman with a cane, a voters card
    and my passport in my hand.I am greeted at the door by a young man and
    inside by a woman. She offers to let me jump the queue and I say I’ll
    wait my turn, so she offers me a comfortable chair, which I accept.She
    takes my documents.After some confusion, it turns out the voters card is
    for the past Provincial election but my passport is verified.My eye is
    not as perceptive as Diane’s, but I enjoy watching the orderly
    crowd.When my turn comes – well, one before my turn, the man in front of
    me waves me in – I am found on the list and handed a ballot.I move
    behind the voting screen, scan the long list (but not as long as in
    Carleton!) for my choice, mark my X, fold it, and stuff into the box.I
    feel virtuous (but not virtuous enough to want to do it again next year).

    Looking forward,

    Judith Maeryam

    Reply

    1. Thank you for sharing your experience too, Judith! I know you have been a Deputy Returning Officer in the past and I thought you might resonate! xo

      Reply

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