In Defense of Minority Voters By RaeAnna Rekemeyer
It was mid-October 2016 in the Chicagoland area, and I was in line with my best friend to cast an early ballot for the presidential election. I like to vote with someone who makes me feel at ease because I always get nervous before voting. I’m prone to anxiety, which is only magnified when I’m in the presence of people I perceive to have authority over me. The people handing me my ballot have the power to not hand me my ballot. I’m very passionate about voting, especially when it came to being on the right side of history. I wouldn’t abstain from voting when the most underqualified and anti-American candidate, potentially ever, was running for the presidency.
My best friend and I were chatting away as the line continued to move smoothly. Once we reached the desk, we gave our names and took our ballots with no questions asked. I had my driver’s license in hand just in case they asked me for identification, but they didn’t. I put it back in my pocket, feeling relief wash over me to have my ballot in hand. I was ready to vote for the first female presidential nominee and, more importantly, to vote against the man standing in opposition to everything I believe in..
As I turned to fill out my ballot, I smiled at the woman behind me: a woman of color. Chicago’s diverse, but there’s a great deal of inherent racial bias, which has created one of the most segregated cities in the US.
The woman approached the table and gave her name like every person before her had done. Instead of handing her a ballot, the poll worker asked to see her identification. They hadn’t asked this of anyone else the entire time I’d been in line. I’ve heard and read about voter discrimination, but I’d never, to my knowledge, seen it occur. I slowed my walk so I could hear the conversation between the worker and the woman. Without saying anything or pointing out the inequity of being singled out to show identification, she pulled her driver’s license out of her wallet and handed it to the worker.
With barely a glance at her license, he handed it right back.
“This is an unacceptable form of identification. It has to be a state or federal ID. We need a birth certificate or passport,” the worker said.
“Oh, I didn’t know. I’ve never had to have that before,” the woman said.
I spun around and walked back to the table. I handed over my driver’s license and compared it to hers.
“This is a state-issued ID,” I said, pointing to the “Jesse White—Secretary of State” text emblazoned across the top of both our licenses.
“I can walk through TSA with this and cross state borders, which makes it a federally recognized form of identification,” I continued. “This is more than enough to ensure she is who she says she is. More importantly, you didn’t ask me or my friend or anyone else in line for identification before handing us a ballot.”
“It’s random. We have to,” said the poll worker.
I was angry for this woman. I was angry because this shouldn’t happen in the country I believe in and support.
“You randomly selected the one person of color in this entire room, who is also a woman, giving her double minority status? Then, when she produced proper identification, you try to turn her away? I find that hard to believe. If you want to keep this woman from voting, I will happily call the police and report you for voter discrimination and suppression. I have nothing else to do today,” I declared.
The worker handed her a ballot.
The woman and I turned from the table and walked away.
“Sorry about that,” I murmured.
She looked at me and squeezed my hand. There was nothing to say. We could say nothing to change what almost happened. I don’t know who she voted for; it was none of my business. I know who I voted for, and I know she was able to cast a vote in one of the most contentious elections ever. That’s all that matters. We made our voices known.
My best friend and I were chatting away as the line continued to move smoothly. Once we reached the desk, we gave our names and took our ballots with no questions asked. I had my driver’s license in hand just in case they asked me for identification, but they didn’t. I put it back in my pocket, feeling relief wash over me to have my ballot in hand. I was ready to vote for the first female presidential nominee and, more importantly, to vote against the man standing in opposition to everything I believe in..
As I turned to fill out my ballot, I smiled at the woman behind me: a woman of color. Chicago’s diverse, but there’s a great deal of inherent racial bias, which has created one of the most segregated cities in the US.
The woman approached the table and gave her name like every person before her had done. Instead of handing her a ballot, the poll worker asked to see her identification. They hadn’t asked this of anyone else the entire time I’d been in line. I’ve heard and read about voter discrimination, but I’d never, to my knowledge, seen it occur. I slowed my walk so I could hear the conversation between the worker and the woman. Without saying anything or pointing out the inequity of being singled out to show identification, she pulled her driver’s license out of her wallet and handed it to the worker.
With barely a glance at her license, he handed it right back.
“This is an unacceptable form of identification. It has to be a state or federal ID. We need a birth certificate or passport,” the worker said.
“Oh, I didn’t know. I’ve never had to have that before,” the woman said.
I spun around and walked back to the table. I handed over my driver’s license and compared it to hers.
“This is a state-issued ID,” I said, pointing to the “Jesse White—Secretary of State” text emblazoned across the top of both our licenses.
“I can walk through TSA with this and cross state borders, which makes it a federally recognized form of identification,” I continued. “This is more than enough to ensure she is who she says she is. More importantly, you didn’t ask me or my friend or anyone else in line for identification before handing us a ballot.”
“It’s random. We have to,” said the poll worker.
I was angry for this woman. I was angry because this shouldn’t happen in the country I believe in and support.
“You randomly selected the one person of color in this entire room, who is also a woman, giving her double minority status? Then, when she produced proper identification, you try to turn her away? I find that hard to believe. If you want to keep this woman from voting, I will happily call the police and report you for voter discrimination and suppression. I have nothing else to do today,” I declared.
The worker handed her a ballot.
The woman and I turned from the table and walked away.
“Sorry about that,” I murmured.
She looked at me and squeezed my hand. There was nothing to say. We could say nothing to change what almost happened. I don’t know who she voted for; it was none of my business. I know who I voted for, and I know she was able to cast a vote in one of the most contentious elections ever. That’s all that matters. We made our voices known.
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RaeAnna Rekemeyer was born and raised in Iowa. She graduated from Cornell College with degrees in Literature, French, Russian, and an Emphasis in Literary Translation and Analysis, so she knows how to read really, really well. From a young age, she had a passion for learning. As she grew up, this passion expanded into social justice advocacy, focusing on gender and racial inequity. Today, RaeAnna is a full-time freelance writer in Houston, Texas and founded the blog ...on the B.L. , which combines her love of learning with her passion for advocacy and her dog. |