On Tuesday, February 19, my toddler and I attended our first caucus. Although I've voted in every single election since I turned 18, bucking Hawaii's trend of low voter participation, I've never bothered attending a caucus. Perhaps it's because I shy away from pigeon-holing myself as a card-carrying anything, preferring the freedom of voting case-by case, rather than according to Party loyalty. However, my caucus apathy also stems from the fact that the presidential nominee already is a "done deal" before Hawaii even commits its delegates.
This year, Hawaii had a chance to shape political outcomes, as the Democratic presidential race between Barack Obama (Punahou '79) and Hillary Clinton (Wellesley '69) has been particularly competitive. The popular voice, for once, could sway the course of events, shifting much-needed delegates to either nominee: how could we pass up the opportunity to voice our opinion? As I told my toddler, "If you don't make your choices, someone else will make them for you."
And so we drove into Palolo Elementary School's driveway at the stroke of 6:30 p.m., when District 20's site opened up for registration. In our possession: a completed blue Democratic Party registration card. We arrived just in time to snag the last space in a schoolyard quadruple-parked with cars, end to end. The school swarmed with people, queuing for WikiWiki Voter Registration forms and blue Party cards. Squeezing our way through the teeming masses, we made our way to the registration table, where a volunteer received my registration card, checked my ID against a list of registered voters, and waved me to a table marked Precinct 1. For the second time that night, we slid into the last possible space.
Seconds later, the cafeteria became standing-room only. Energy electrified the room, cafeteria benches protesting the weight of adults squeezed side by side, excited conversation punctuated by panicked cries for more registration cards, forms, and voter sign-in sheets, and frantic queries to find one's precinct. In other words, absolute chaos.
About ten minutes after we'd sat down, our precinct official ushered the whole lot of us, three tables worth, into the schoolyard, as apparently the Party'd not anticipated the massive overflow of people, and needed to clear space at the front. No room at the inn! As we passed the monkey bars, the toddler queried, "Mama, why are they sending us to the playground? I thought we were going to the Democratic Caucus." Out of the mouths of babes!
Our official whisked us to the covered basketball court and informed us that we'd have to wait there until 7 p.m. "And we've run out of ballots", he said, "so you can just write the name of your preferred candidate on a sheet of paper, if you have one. I'll come back at 7, and then you can vote, and either leave or stick around for the Party meeting...Have you all signed in?" "Huh? What sign-in?", we collectively responded, and our Senator, Les Ihara, scuttled off in search of sign-in sheets...
So there we were, a motely, working-class mix: patrician, lavender-coiffed Japanese ladies in their eighties rubbing elbows with the Rasta dreadlock guy practicing skateboard tricks, 100th Battalion veterans, middle-aged men clad in well-worn zoris and their best shorts, and a posse of activists sporting Obama t-shirts. Students on laptops sprawled on the asphalt floor, while professionals checked email on their Blackberries, to the live slack-key strains of a guitarist playing "Island Style" in the corner. My toddler, the youngest one there, coolly absorbed the collective insanity. One man smiled at us, and tilted his chin in her direction: "Ey, anyone check this one's ID?" Everyone laughed. Then, in the absence of any organization, our neighborhood galvanized in fine grassroots style. "Anyone get peppah?" someone called out, and a lady riffled through her handbag, triumphantly brandishing a pad of paper pilfered from the Las Vegas Fremont Hotel: "Get! Ho, I was feeling so bad fo' taking this, but lucky, yeah? Comes in handy..." So we mingled, laughed, and conversed, ripping our papers to share with our neighbors, passing around pens, and generally had a great time. Neighbors took it upon themselves to make sure that everyone had signed in and that newcomers were apprised of the procedure. When our precinct official returned at 7 p.m., he was shocked to find us lined up and ready to cast our makeshift ballots into his ripped manila envelope. "Whoa! You guys are the best precinct ever!" he said, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
My toddler deposited my ballot in the envelope: a first exercise in democracy. Shades of elementary school elections!, I thought, pondering just how simple it'd be to rig the proceedings, slipping a few extra papers into the envelope. No need to sign one's ballot, not even an inked finger to prevent multiple voting, a la Third World elections-- just sheer integrity and trust metaphorically duct-taping the process together.
That was it. We beat our retreat out of Palolo Elementary at 7:03 p.m., inching our way through the driveway congested with prospective caucusers, onto double-parked 10th Avenue, and went home.
Aftermath:
A political whirlwind has preempted the toddler's usual school-teaching activities with her stuffed animals since the evening of February 19. She's held her own caucus, and Lianne, the teddy bear, is running for U.S. president: a female candidate and a true third party choice, giving McCain, Clinton, Obama, and the newly-entered but omnipresent dark horse candidate Ralph Nader (again?!) a run for their money. The tabby cat, Mr. Mao-Mao, would've run too, but I informed the toddler that he doesn't meet the age requirement, being only 2 years of age. So apparently, he's now working for the Obama campaign...
