This site is about food, about where it comes from, how it’s made, and how that affects everything from our waistlines to our weather. It’s also about policies and politics, about the decisions made in cities across the world and on the national and international level that affect what (and how) food is grown.
With this in mind, I decided to head out to swingstate Ohio to help get-out-the-vote in Columbus, Ohio. Now that I’m back in Brooklyn, I want to share just a couple of the sweetest moments of working with Vote from Home. (I was connected to them through friends at Vote Today Ohio who were also mobilizing to get people to register and vote early.)
On our last day in Columbus, my boyfriend John and I were tasked with heading out to track down problem cases – missing registrations, no social security numbers, no date of birth, that kind of thing. Our first stop was at Grant Hospital downtown—the maternity ward. When we got to Room 543 we knocked and a quiet voice invited us in. A young woman was sitting up in bed, beaming. Between her outstretched legs was her 12-hour old baby, Julian, bundled in blankets. As she signed her voter registration form, we chatted with her friend, cooed over her Buddha-esque baby, and thanked her for calling us. She would be out of the hospital Monday evening at the earliest, she said, and if we hadn’t shown up, she would not have been able to register. Thank you for helping me vote, she said.
Leaving the hospital, we headed out to an address on Kelton Street. From the partially filled out registration, we noticed that Virginia, the woman we would be meeting, was born in 1932. In a neighborhood east of downtown, we pulled up in front of a modest house. Through her screen door, I could see Virginia sitting on her couch. She was surrounded by stacks of opened mail, magazines, a can of soda. AMC was playing quietly on an old television. Her walker was at her feet. She called for me to come in. Visibly shaking, Virginia started apologizing for her condition –Parkinson’s, they think, she told me. Then, she gestured for me to sit down beside her and together we finished filling out her voter registration and her request for an absentee ballot. When it was time to sign, I held the clipboard, and slowly – letter-by-letter – she shakily signed: Virginia Alston. (The Vote from Home people plan to follow up and help her with her ballot).
Another favorite moment was when my younger brother Matt and I went to one of the halfway houses, this one for women coming out of jail. When we got to Alvis House, the manager said there was only one woman who wanted to get taken down to the early voting and registration center. So Matt and I piled back into our 9-seater van with a forty-something woman from the shelter named Candace—or Candy as she said we should call her. On our way to the voting center, we talked about the economy as we drove by some of the boarded up houses on Bryden Road. We waited with the van, while Candy went inside to register and vote. As we were driving back to Alvis House, I have to admit a part of me was feeling like maybe we hadn’t really done much, just clocking one vote. But that’s when she said, leaning in from the back seat: I just really want to thank you two. You just helped a first-time voter.
I suppose in an abstract way I’ve always understood that the voting laws are designed to make it hardest for poor people to vote, but I only have come to really understand it through this experience in Columbus.
Since voting registration is tied to your address, who are the people who have to re-register every election? They’re the people who get evicted, who get foreclosed on. They’re the mothers who have to head to battered women’s shelters, or the young people who bounce for apartment to apartment. They’re the men and women convicted of big crimes (and little ones) who find themselves in and out of jail. These are the people who have to re-register every year, not the families with 30-year mortgages who live in one home their whole lives.
During the whole week we were in Columbus–visiting halfway houses and barber schools, staffing community barbeques in low-income communities and going to homeless shelters–nearly 100 percent of the people we met wanted to get registered to vote. (A few took more persuading than others). Many of them didn’t realize that they had to re-register because their address had changed, and many of the rest of them thought they were already in the system and were surprised when we would check online with our iPhones and learn that weren’t.
Until we have a fundamental overhaul of our voting laws so that it’s as easy for the wealthy as it is for the rest of us to get registered (and stay registered!), this experience has made me commit to taking time every four years to help register people to vote. It seems like the least any of us could do to make our democracy less of a sham.