I logged onto the LA Vote Polling Place Locator , and got an address that wasn't my usual Polling Place, the Park Ranger's house down the street.
As a precaution, I drove by his house and saw the flags and signs hung outside his door. I parked the car and checked the Rolls, and there was my name. Good thing I stopped. I walked in and signed in and got my ballot. I was the only one in there voting, making my vote really count, well, that's what I told myself. As I had my pick of booths, I chose the one by the wall of photos. I ticked off my choices and pulled out the card, as I was voting I could overhear one volunteer tell the other about the benefits of living in a high rise in New York City. I paused to look at the collection of family photos; a baby picture, a framed announcement, a vacation photo of two women who must be sisters, and a collection of items hurriedly shoved into whatever available space below the shelf holding the photos. Toys littered the corner by the television, and the smell of breakfast still lingered in the air. I was not sure which belonged in the room more, the cardboard polling booths or the scattered hodge podge bits of a family's life. I am aware that that a vote could change this room, and that is why I vote, because I want this room to remain intact and to do that I have to make myself heard and not leave it to crossed fingers and hopes placed on others.
I got my "I Voted" sticker and with my jacket sleeve wiped off the dust on my rear car window. I never outgrew stickers, I still ask for them from my dentist when I get my teeth cleaned. I placed the "Vote" sticker next to my other stickers, and stood back. It looked fine.
Image: Ophelia Chong / My Rear Window