Election Day and Other Stories

Musings of a pollworker.

By Ava Lattimore

Illustration by Vanessa Zhou

*The views expressed in this piece are my own and do not represent the views of the NYC Board of Elections.

Election Day.

Based on the conversations I snuck in during my four hour poll worker training, it seems like people sign up to be poll workers for one of three reasons: They need the money ($350, to be exact); they like politics; or, there is a guilt that rots and metastasizes inside of them for taking up space they feel they don’t yet belong in. I know the third reason exists because I feel it every day. It’s for this reason I was initially somewhat dismayed when I received my assignment to work at P.S. 036. I wanted to see the world! By the world, I mean anywhere outside the 7.5 block radius of Morningside Heights I had gotten used to over the past few months. 

I spent the first 12 years of my life in Morris Plains, New Jersey, the next five in Westchester, and save for two formative collegiate years in California, I’ve felt as if I’ve been trapped in an orbit around the city my entire life. Ever since I moved in, I had been eagerly counting down the 30 days until I could finally register to vote in the city I plan to make my permanent home. After registering to vote online, a conveniently placed link inspired me to go a step further. I thus applied to become a poll worker within the same hour. I envisioned becoming a poll worker as a small step toward connecting with this community in a way that extends beyond Columbia’s ostracizing gates.

I entered the polling site at 5 a.m. on Election Day with nothing but my poll worker’s manual, an Orange Exuberance Yerba Mate, and a dream to serve the people of New York. The voting area radiated the kind of charm that only a repurposed elementary school hallway could possess. Shameless plugs for preteen politicians lined the walls; the overhead lights were simultaneously too yellow and too bright. The site was orderly: At one end of the hall were rows of privacy booths, in the middle were three tables, each with a supply cart behind them. Near each table was a sign with the corresponding Election District and Assembly District, and across from the tables were the consecrated ballot scanners. At the far end of the hall behind a large black table was the Poll Site Coordinator, an unassuming man who ran the entire operation.

The Coordinator directed me to work alongside Jonathan at ED/AD table 010/69. Jonathan was a Democrat, and I was … also a Democrat, but for all record-keeping purposes, I was a Republican. I learned there are not enough registered Republicans in NYC to maintain a 50/50 split at every polling site (there is no real explanation for this rule beyond a sense of bipartisanship), so the BOE assigns Democrats to be Republicans for the day. It seemed like a weak charade, but it was enough to pacify the eight federal election monitors swarming our tiny polling site at seven in the morning. For that first hour and a half, life was simple. Jonathan was a 24 year old man from Texas who moved to the Big City to pursue theater. He was a veteran pollworker and a clear favorite in the eyes of the Coordinator. He showed me a fun way to pass the time by entering names of people we know into the system to check if they voted already. By 6:05 a.m., Curtis Sliwa and Jonathan’s boyfriend had already cast their votes. Andrew Cuomo and my physics professor had not.

As soon as the polls opened, the early birds began to pour in. For 30 minutes straight, we consistently had at least one person over age 80 and one under age 4 in the room at the same time. Jonathan was manning the tablet, so my job was to place the ballots in the envelopes, hand them to voters, and mark an X on a sheet of paper for each scannable ballot handed out. We quickly settled into a rhythm. I latched onto my running joke of the day: passing out “Future Voter” stickers to every person who brought their dog with them. I thought if the rest of the day could go as smoothly as those first 30 minutes, this would have to be the easiest $350 I’ve ever made.

At 6:30 a.m., the Coordinator separated Jonathan and I for being “too competent.” I was crushed, and thus began the humble journey of three brave steps to ED/AD table 008/69. It was here where I met Victoria. Victoria was a 60-something year old Bronx native now residing in Harlem. She wore a light grey sweatshirt with matching sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie. She smelled like cinnamon and cigarettes. She told me I looked nice, and that she wished she had dressed up more, but her dark grey matching set was in the wash. “I hate it when that happens,” I replied.

Victoria doesn’t like to talk much about her personal life. She hates the stereotype that New Yorkers are rude and frequently emphasizes the importance of not telling strangers your business. Victoria also showed me a five-minute Youtube clip of The Jennifer Hudson Show entitled “Queer Teacher Gets a Life-Changing Surprise!” in which said Queer Teacher was her step-son who was named 2023 New York State Teacher of the Year. Victoria’s husband died two years ago. She has a tattoo of his face on her left forearm. On her right forearm, she has the names of all seven of her children written in cursive, including her step-son, because really he’s more like a son to her. She also told me she has never liked tattoos.

To me, this woman appeared divinely inspired. In a peculiar way I envied her disposition. She stressed me out beyond belief to the point where I cut my first break 45 minutes short because I didn’t trust her to be alone at our table. She spoke freely about politics, candidates, religion, and her hot pink iPhone never left her hand. I’m not sure whether she didn’t read the poll worker guidelines in advance or just didn’t care. Each time a voter had the same name as one of her children, Victoria would roll up her grey sleeve and point to the corresponding tattoo as if she got it in honor of that very voter.

In any case, I didn’t feel like it was my place nor my responsibility to correct a woman who was 40 years my senior. Furthermore—she had no reason to see this in me—but in her, I saw a glimpse of my own family. She invoked the name of God in a way that only an ex-Baptist would. I asked her why she stopped going to church, and she told me she felt that they weren’t truly preaching the world of Christ. She was a true believer in the notion that only God can judge. She also said she couldn’t attend a church with gay pastors. She loves her queer teacher step-son more than life itself. She contains multitudes more so than anyone I’ve ever met.

Despite our differences in beliefs and how we approached our jobs that day, I developed a deep admiration for Victoria. In her, I saw New York, and I saw myself. For 17.5 hours on the first Tuesday of November, all of us working the election were equals. However, I continued to grapple with an undying need for approval from those I saw as older, more established, and more deserving of their place in this city than myself. Victoria became a poll worker because she retired and wanted some extra cash. I believe that, out of the three reasons I posited, this one is the least selfish. Unlike myself, she wasn’t attempting to quell personal guilt about not doing enough for the city that she loves.

Our relationship turned briefly rocky at 10 a.m. when we were struck with the case of the missing ballot, which hung over our heads for the remainder of the day. A middle-aged blonde woman approached our table, and I entered her information into the tablet while Victoria handed her a scannable ballot inside the ballot sleeve. A few minutes later, the woman returned to our table and claimed we had forgotten to put a ballot inside the sleeve. I was manning the computer, so I never actually saw the ballot get placed in the sleeve. The line was long, so Victoria quickly apologized, said she must have forgotten, and handed the woman a ballot from the pile. An hour later we discovered that we had one ballot unaccounted for, and we never did manage to figure out where it went.

It is compelling to maintain the idea that elections routinely run smoothly. It feels better to have faith in the judicial system than not. I was mortified for days after the election about this missing ballot. I envisioned a reality in which I would get sued for allowing voter fraud to take place at my polling site. Even though the more experienced poll workers assured me that ballots go unaccounted for quite frequently, it was easier to imagine myself in serious legal trouble than to accept that elections only mostly work out okay.

Besides the missing ballot, by far the most frustrating and recurring voter issue on Election Day was surprisingly close to home: the pervasive struggle to prove one’s residence as a college student. New York, as a general rule, does not require ID to vote. However, if no proof of residence is provided at the time of registration, a voter will be required to present ID at the polling site. The first time a voter left the polls due to lack of ID, I felt like my patient had just died on the operating table. At 9:19 a.m., a young woman in a red sweater with lipstick stains on her teeth paused to catch her breath while I entered her information on my tablet. I told her she needed to provide proof of residence, and in an instant, her enthusiastic demeanor in spite of her fatigue vanished. She said it was too much work and that she was already in a rush. I pleaded with her to come back later. She did not.

Some stories had happier endings. Around 8:15 p.m., a young man and woman entered the polling site. They were both Columbia students, but they lived in an apartment, so they paid for their own utilities. When the woman’s name came up with “ID REQUIRED,” I presented the options to her, which were to present a valid New York driver’s license, utility bill, bank statement, government check, paycheck, or other government document with her name and address. She pondered for a moment and then showed me a copy of her utility bill on her phone. I told her that’s perfect, she just has to print it out. Fifteen minutes before the close of polls, both she and her roommate returned, and both successfully voted using scannable ballots.

The majority of students facing the same dilemma were not so fortunate. Out of every voter I had to turn away for lack of proper identification, only one of them was not a Barnard or Columbia student. It was especially disheartening to break this news to my peers and even more so to witness their dismay upon hearing this news from me, a student who they expect to be in their corner. 

I may have been the last person in New York City to learn that Zohran Mamdani won the mayoral election that night. Even if this was not the case, I can confidently say his victory was announced long before the results from polling site P.S. 036 Margaret Douglas ever made it downtown. At 10 p.m., while New Yorkers rejoiced, I was still completing the Return of Canvass, stuffing color-coded bags into supply carts, and attempting to solve the mystery of the missing ballot from 12 hours prior.

If I’ve learned anything about public service from being a public servant for a day, it’s that you can’t go into it wanting to help people, and you can’t go into it expecting to feel better about yourself for doing so. I walked out of P.S. 036 at 10:30 p.m. feeling like I owed voters an apology. I also knew I did the very best I could. It is impossible to succeed at such a peculiar endeavor as poll working, but it is possible to complete it. I was proud of myself and sad to leave the people who became like family to me over the course of the day. But, as it goes with every family, I look forward to seeing them again, same time next year.

And Other Stories.

Dear Voter,

I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I gave you an affidavit ballot. Did you believe me when I said it would count? I wanted you to. I gave you an “I VOTED” sticker, which means I believed it, at the time. I’m sorry I let you walk out of there still angry with me. I’m sorry I left you with lipstick on your teeth. I told you I wished I could turn back the time and I meant it, baby, I meant it.

I’m turning back the clocks now, baby. It’ll be different this time. I’m crouching on the floor of my room on the phone with the BOE. It’s Tuesday, September 23. They tell me they need me badly. Am I still interested? I applied for this position 18 hours ago. I registered to vote just 19 hours ago. Of course I am interested. We schedule our first date for Wednesday, September 24. I am thinking about you in bed tonight.

On Wednesday I am standing outside Adam Clayton Powell Jr. State Office Building. It is the tallest building in Harlem, and people have mixed feelings about that. A greying man in a wheelchair with a bandaged wrist does a wheelie in front of me. I am chewing on room-temperature shrimp from Space Market. I have mixed feelings too.

Inside Adam Clayton Powell Jr. State Office Building, I meet Bob Marley. It is not a first date so much as gentle lubrication for it. Bob Marley likes nepotism. Bob Marley dislikes Kevin from Michigan. After four hours of training and an open-book exam, I am ready for you, baby, I am ready for you.

I turned back the clock, baby, so we could have a second chance at Election Day. I fantasize about your Colorado driver’s license and EBT card. I had a dream about that email from Barnard Housing you showed me on your phone in front of everyone. I want to scan your ballot where you voted for Zohran Mamdani twice. I want to tell you, no, it doesn’t matter that you registered with the wrong middle initial and live in apartment 308 rather than 803. I’m sorry your birthday is on 9/11/2001. I’m sorry you were evicted from your building which happens to be the one that I live in right now. I thought we were neighbors. I never should have brought it up.

Please, baby, come back to me. I would change everything if I could. I want to see you again. We can fix things next year. You’ll bring the Con Edison bill and I’ll bring the scannable ballots. We are doing it over again and this time I am telling you that you are enough. 

Love,

Ava Lattimore, Election Inspector-R