Remember playing 'telephone' as a kid?
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- February 25, 2024
- 1304
I got a little blue card in the mail with my new voting location printed in clear black ink. It was jarring to see on paper after voting in the Berlin South precinct (that’s south of state Route 39 for the newbies) for so long. There they knew my name and asked about the grandkids, maybe some light chatting about how long Mom and Dad have been gone, that they’re missed.
My first presidential election was in 1988 at the Berlin North precinct, where I pulled a little lever on an old-fashioned machine. I can see it in my head, and if someone remembers those machines, let me know. I took my sticker and wore it proudly. Our little corner of the U.S. was tallied, and George H.W. Bush took his place in history. In 1992 I walked into a tiny building in Walnut Creek, with my daughter on my hip, and voted in that election. In 1996 I voted at Berlin South and would continue voting there for many years.
Next time I vote, I’ll walk into a completely different setup and will show my driver’s license (I need to update this too) to someone I’ve never met before. All this is OK because what matters is voting.
But what also matters is discernment. This word is thrown around a lot in religious circles but not enough in political ones. I used to say “just vote” and feel good if someone registered and actually voted. Now more than ever, we need to hit that discernment button in our hearts.
I always felt proud to vote, and as I reflect on it, I realize I took the process for granted in those early years of my life. In the U.S. we vote, tally, and in all the elections I’ve taken part of except one, someone peacefully became president, senator or county commissioner. For many countries in the world, election day is filled with deception and violence. I wish I could buy some Bar Keepers Friend and polish ours up shiny and new.
Election day in some circles has become like that game we used to play when we were small. It was called the telephone game. You’d whisper something into someone’s ear, and they would whisper it into the next person’s ear, and by the time it had gone round the whole circle of people — and the last person had said out loud what they’d heard — it was not even close to what had first been said. There is always bound to be a crowd of riled-up people who believe what the sentence turned into despite being wildly untrue. I prefer not to listen to whispers or even loudly projected versions of those whispers.
Just like there’s not much difference between my age of 55 and my friend’s age of 52, there’s not much difference between the age of 81 and 78 come November. But I’d lay down that argument today. What matters is we don’t lose ourselves in the middle of that circle, the place where an innocuous string of words turns into something else, something shadowy, something meant to mislead by design.
We did it once and still haven’t recovered. My heart skips at the thought of this being an election year. My heart skips at the division the last nearly nine years have wrought.
I’ve pulled a lever, poked a hole with a pin and touched a screen to vote — and I’ll do it again this year. But before you do, step outside that circle of the telephone game and decide for yourself. When we only listen to repeated phrases over and over and over, we can begin to believe a message that’s scrambled — a message meant for only a game, not real life.
Melissa Herrera is a published author and opinion columnist. She is a curator of vintage mugs and all things spooky, and her book, “TOÑO LIVES,” can be found at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives. For inquiries, to purchase her book or anything else on your mind, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com or find her in the thrift aisles.