VOTING RIGHTS FOR ALL
My Demeaning First Time
Voting as a disabled American
My first attempt to vote was on November 3, 1992, the year of Bill Clinton vs. George H. W. Bush. I was living with my parents and was in my first year of grad school. The three of us went to the elementary school down the road together.
I was excited to exercise my right as an American. I was also nervous because I knew my physical impairments would prevent me from holding the stylus and punching the hole next to my choices.
I knew this was how voting worked in our county because Mrs. Steele, my aide, took me with her to vote in 1976. Before she voted, she showed me the booth, how to insert the ballot, and how to insert the stylus to punch the hole; then, I waited beside her as she voted. She emphasized that voting was a private act, not giving even a hint at whether she voted for Ford or Carter.
She always prepared me for tasks I would need to do as an adult. For example, she made sure I could sign my name legibly. Yet, doing so required me to sit on the floor, my legs bent backward in a “w” with the paper on the floor between my knees. It worked, but we never considered the practicality, such as how this might work in public places signing voting log books.
My dad was a consistent voter, while my mom usually only voted in presidential or school-related elections. I checked with him to make sure the process hadn’t changed. We decided that dad would vote first, then help me.
We found an accessible parking spot, went in, and got in line. When we reached the front line, Dad showed his driver’s license and signed in. Then handed the poll worker my ID, giving my name and address.
“This is for my daughter,” he said. “She has cerebral palsy and can’t use her hands.”
“OK…” she said, giving me a look that I knew meant she was questioning my cognitive ability plus the deer-in-the-headlights look of What are we going to do with her? After 22 years of living with a disability, I knew both looks all too well.
She pointed to a space beside my name in the log book and told me to sign my name. The area was tiny. Sure, I could sign my name, but not in that Lilliputian space.
“Can I sign for her?” Dad asked.
“No, she’ll need to sign for herself or make an ‘x’”
Now, the easiest option here would have been to make the mark and get on with the process. But I’m very stubborn and, like my shero Tina Turner, I “never, ever do nothin’ nice and easy.” The hard way is all I know.
“I’ll have to put it on the floor,” I insisted, Mom interpreting.
More of those looks.
So the election worker handed the ledger across the table. I assumed my writing position on the grimy elementary school hallway floor and signed my name as small as possible.
“Now, I’ll have to help her fill out her ballot,” Dad explained.
This brought even more wide-eyed looks from the woman, glancing between her fellow volunteers and whispering.
“We don’t think we can let you do that.” One said.
My heart both sank and started beating faster. I knew I had the right to vote, but I also realized that the volunteers must observe rules. Although the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) had been signed that July, they were scant guidelines for implementing it. I wasn’t sure these women even knew such a law existed. Obviously, they had no guidance about how to accommodate a voter with my needs.
After leaving the table and circling in a conference, they came back with a solution. Dad could help me punch my ballot, but only if one Democrat volunteer and one Republican volunteer stood behind us to ensure that he wasn’t telling me how to vote.
I wanted to balk at this proposal, citing my right to privacy, but I didn’t want to make a scene.
So that’s how I voted for the first time. I pointed to the candidate I wanted, and Dad punched the corresponding hole, under the watchful eyes of two election volunteers. On our next trip to the polls, we weren’t met with any resistance nor did anyone watch over us.
I’m thrilled that times have changed; voting machines have touch screens and can be used with assistive devices, allowing people to have ballots enlarged, spoken through text-to-speech, or use alternative input devices. Alternatively, they can request a mail-in ballot. I choose to vote at home with assistance from my sister. I now sign my name without sitting on the floor, but I don’t think my signature is as consistent.
Yet, with the voter suppression techniques and schemes to discount ballots, especially signature matching, I worry about my vote being counted.
I’m a privileged white American, but the sanctity of voting will never be lost on me. I try to select candidates who will uphold and secure this right for all of us. Even if my vote counts, I fear it won’t be enough to turn the current tides of suppression.
If not, I’m up for summoning the spirit of John Lewis and making "Good Trouble." I hope you’ll join me!
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