The futility of my ballot mark
Within one night of the provincial election, I’m still among the undecided. Undecided about which party should have my support. Undecided about the utility of having an election. Undecided about whether or not I should even vote.
Strike that last thought. It is my civic duty to blacken a ballot, even if it means holding my nose with one hand, closing both eyes and marking with the other. Remember that term: my duty. My chance to be one in several million, without even the potential of winning a huge pile of cash. I’ve collected no buttons, or brochures. There was only one call from a candidate’s team (and I’m unable to prove that the call wasn’t robotic, although the lady did have a slight accent). She wanted to know if I supported a particular candidate/victim… “probably”. Would I venture a guess as to how the others in the household would vote? “Impossible”.
This time around, the results could have a direct impact on me, and that’s disquieting. Remember the odds. My vote has no chance of altering the projected outcome. In the anonymity of that voting booth, I’m not even symbolic in value. Pardon me, if I rage against the machine. However futile, I’ll get off the bus tomorrow afternoon and go stand in line in a local elementary school. After a delay that shouldn’t go beyond an hour, I’ll produce identification, have my name mispronounced and reversed, receive the loan of a cheap pencilt and go into the relative seclusion of a large cardboard box. I’ll then return my ballot to an official, who will assure that I haven’t substituted one piece of paper for another (please explain why I would bother) before depositing the precious symbol of my citizenry in another cardboard box.
Easy come, easy go.
