Did anyone else have a harrowing experience voting today?

Voting is an all-day affair in the District of Columbia.

It is true that I’m young and haven’t voted in many elections. (However, you will be horrified to learn that — although I am a Gen Zer — this is the third presidential election in which I have voted.) Despite my youth, I remain convinced that my voting odyssey today was extraordinary.

In many ways, today was my first time voting the “old-fashioned” way. As an undergraduate in 2016, I voted via an out-of-state mail-in ballot. In 2020, as a fresh resident of D.C., I voted in the midst of Covid-y confusion. This year, I was determined to stand in solidarity with my fellow citizens, to wait in line at the local school/library/church, and to cast my vote. (Okay, yes, I really just wanted an “I Voted” sticker.)

As a resident of Ward 2 in the District of Columbia, I strolled over to the polling place closest to my home — an unassuming, 1970s Presbyterian church. “Vote Here” signs — red letters on printer paper, flapping in the breeze — led me with the steadiness of a drunkard to the church basement door. The coast seemed clear — the line did not extend past the door, the volunteers were efficient and kind, and democracy seemed to be taking place before my eyes.

But lo! Upon registering at the first table — and receiving my registration receipt — a fateful announcement was made. The paper ballots were “not working,” according to an election volunteer in a red apron. (I had not been aware that such a failure was possible — later it was revealed that the paper-ballot-scanning machine was down.) All who were snaked around the black stanchions, mostly yuppies, shared the grim yet stoic look of Southwest customers whose flight was delayed. The apron-clad volunteer recommended that we try another polling place to cast our votes.

Because I was armed with a car, it was little trouble for me to head elsewhere — however, we would have to get our registration ticket “scratched” before we left so the system knew I had not yet voted. I stopped by the registration table, had my receipt “scratched” by a volunteer behind the pedestaled iPad, and proceeded to my second polling place of the day.

Next stop? A gleaming glass-and-steel library in the West End of D.C. After taking one look at the line (the end of which I could not see), which extended out the library door and down two city blocks, I decided I would try my luck at a third polling place in my ward. Onward to a library in Georgetown! (Perhaps the rich liberals had it figured out, no?)

Upon my arrival at the tertiary voting location — an hour or so had already passed since I first set out to vote — I was met with a hopeful sight. The line outside the door was only 20 or so voters long. I strolled to the back, the soul of patience — until an election volunteer preemptively warned us that the line was much longer inside. Thousand-yard stares set in. The parents with the double stroller rolled away. A vape appeared. The price of democracy, eh?

I was locked in at this point — the hour in line oscillated between contemplating Being and scrolling through X. At long last, I reached the promised land: the registration table. A smiling young woman with glasses — and lots of Taylor Swift friendship bracelets — checked me in. Or so she tried. With a furrowed brow, she told me that the system showed I had already voted. My shoulders drooped as I explained what had happened in the basement of the Presbyterian church — my registration receipt must not have been “scratched” properly.

Taylor Swift Bracelets conferred with the manager of the red aprons, who determined that she would need verbal confirmation of my story from election volunteers at the Presbyterian church to let me vote. After a couple of call attempts with no answers, I accepted my fate and sat in a plastic chair, listlessly waiting.

Meanwhile, the overworked manager became engrossed with another problem — a “large man” was sitting in the women’s restroom of the Georgetown library, saying strange things to the women who entered and refusing to leave. Because of his size, the petite brunette manager had no option but to call the police.

I had a front-row seat to the chaos until, finally, my story was confirmed by an official from the church basement, and I was allowed to submit my ballot.

The whole experience got me thinking about wait times and voting. (Sorry I was late coming into the office, boss!) If I had to work a time-sensitive shift today — say, at a hospital or a warehouse — I would have been screwed.

A 2020 report from the left-wing Brennan Center for Justice determined that “long waits at polling places are disruptive, disenfranchising, and all too common. Black and Latino voters are especially likely to endure them.” My question for the data scientists — is this an outcome of racial disparity or a standard consequence of voting in areas with a high population density (as such areas are more likely to be inhabited by a diverse population)?

The tolerance for waiting in line to vote also differs along demographic lines. A 2021 report from a survey outlet found that “higher percentages of women, younger adults, Black and Latino Americans, and those with less education and income indicated they would be less likely to stay and vote in the midterm when facing wait times of 90 minutes or more.”

I do wonder how many Americans have left polling centers without casting a vote because of long wait times. Did anyone else have a harrowing experience voting today?