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Poll Worker’s Blues
As I have since 2020, I spent this years primary and general election days manning the polls. If you have ever performed this service, you know it can be grueling. The shift is north of 14 hours, beginning at 6am. In my state the pay amounts to a little over $14/hour, that is, pennies above the Rhode Island state minimum wage. And that would be only if I left the minute the polls closed, which is not how it works. Anyone who is in line at 8pm, the official closing time, must, by state law, be processed. In addition, there is tear-down and clean-up.
New this year: We received a sheet before the polls opened at 7am detailing what to do in the case of various emergencies, including “violence or threats of violence.” This is no joke. I learned that at another polling station in this deep-blue state, the police had to be summoned to deal with some weirdo who stared raving about something or other. What a world!
None of that in my polling station. Everyone who came to vote either said nothing, or engaged in light banter. Some bore stern expressions and strode to the table with purpose. I fancied I could discern the Trumpers by facial expression and carriage until a 40ish woman sporting a T-shirt that read “I’m still a Trump girl” was as sweet and voluble as could be. Another stereotype blasted.
