Voting With Angst

Casting my ballot when I know shit won't change

Election Day has been held on the first Tuesday after the first Monday of November since 1845. The line of thinking for this was that farmers and share croppers across the states would have harvested their crops by then and would have time to travel to their local polling place, which in that time could be several hours away, and have time to vote, and get back to sell their harvests on Wednesday. This year's Election days falls on November 8th, my grandma's birthday. The fact that in the year 2022 we still hold our voting dates based on archaic models is why I, a black man, don't believe our policies or government will ever change. So why did I just vote then?

Four months removed from the Supreme Court's insidious decision to overturn the landmark piece of legislation that afforded women across the country access to abortion, once known as Roe V Wade, the Supreme Court justices are savoring the opportunity to dismantle more progress. I say 'once' because in the near future Roe V Wade will be forgotten and removed from the annals of American history, making it kin with the truth about the American Indian War, the TransAtlantic slave trade, and the Civil Rights movement. Justice Clarence Thomas, a man who's personality and person reminds me of Uncle Rucus from the Boondocks, made it perfectly clear that he and his fellow Justices were primed to look at every piece of legislation not codified: cough cough, affirmative action. And oh shit, ain't a farmer's wife in the house.

So I stood in the quick moving line, apathetic thoughts flowing freely. I wore white jogging pants and an off white jacket in defiance to societal rules, prepared to conform to another social norm. I looked at the names on the form that read Libertarian and remembered conversations with older people who informed me that by voting for independents I was in practice: 'Throwing my vote away,' and 'giving Republicans an easy win.' I also evoke memories of pre election Joe Biden's words. In discussion with Charlamange the god he declared: "If you don't vote for me then you ain't black."

I voted for President Biden in 2020, and a twelve-hundred dollar 'Biden Bucks' check can't convince me that he cares about the issues I'm faced with. He hasn't lived up to my standards, and as it stands I won't be voting for him come 2024. Now who think they about to run this black card off me?

But that's the heart of the problem: the amount of racial identity gymnastics involved with politics. African Americans vote democratic down the board without question, have done so the last sixty years, and our communities are still barren of any organized impact. We still live in food deserts, 75% of kids in inner-city public schools suffer from hunger, violence still runs rampant, meaningful opportunities-still lacking. But at least we know Kamala Harris knows how to shuffle.

This is not a cry to switch sides, we know the grass ain't greener, rather I'm willing to challenge the notion that by voting independent I am giving Republican's an 'easy win.' Even when I voted for President Obama fresh out of high school, I questioned the two-party system. Now as a well rounded adult I know for certain that it doesn't work, and leaves the marginalized in this country with no real voice. We've been pigeonholed by party alliances that real, substantive change is seldom seen nor felt. This is exactly why I felt like a car in neutral on a hill, knowing that my vote won't change the reality that affirmative action can be another broken promise in a few months, that millions of women are being told what to do with their unwanted, life-endangering, fetuses.

I placed my form in the machine knowing shit will continue on the status koi. I went and bought me an ounce of state-taxed Grape Gatsby weed, and a CBD infused anti-inflammation roll-on balm for my grandma from my local dispensary (with cash mind you,) stashed the goods in my glove compartment, and rolled my blunt as I typed this, knowing that if I step back outside with the rank smell of cannabis on me, I can be arrested.

America—I hate that I love your ratchet ass.