I Want My Dang Sticker
I Want My Dang Sticker
Voting by mail means no sticker. Why do I miss that dumb little sticker?
I voted by mail this year. Roughly 50 million of my closest friends have already done the same, according to the U.S. Elections Project. Voter turnout this year has already amounted to about half of the 2016 total, with an untold number of Americans still submitting their ballots and flocking to polling places in the lead-up to Election Day next Tuesday. It’s heartening to see so many people taking part in the democratic process.
Sure, the Supreme Court could be gearing up to fudge the election. But at least people are voting. I hope that mail-in voting and early voting are permanent fixtures going forward, even when there isn’t a deadly pandemic happening. Early voting is good. The dropboxes are good.
I have one minor gripe, though. Besides all of, you know, the general doom and gloom in the air.
I want my dang sticker.
You don’t go to the polls just to get the “I VOTED” sticker. You go to select the candidates of your choice, hopefully some whom you’re actually excited about and haven’t been foisted on you by machine politics. You cast your ballot and on the way out a volunteer hands you a sticker.
The stickers are nice. There’s a few different varieties that’ll pop up on your social media feeds. Here’s the one I got for voting in the 2018 midterms.
It wound up on the cover of one of the notebooks I used for school. Some people put them on their laptops or on their jackets. Everyone puts them on their Instagram feeds. And that’s half of the point of the stickers, really. Research that shows that they increase voter turnout. People want to show that they’re being responsible. There’s a hint of shame that comes with not going to the polls and getting your sticker.
I did my civic duty, and pretty early too. I visited my local dropbox on September 28th. I have no reason to feel like I haven’t done my part at the voting booth, even if my booth this year was my dining room table.
Yet every time I see a picture on my timeline from someone who voted in person, I get this deep craving in my bones. It’s like seeing a picture of some heinous greasy food that you know tastes like sin. You want it. You need it.
Does that craving come from having one more thing to post to Instagram? Sure. I’m not immune from that particular flavor of dopamine rush. But I dunno, maybe I’m a sap. I like getting that sticker because I feel like I’ve done something.
As I mentioned above, voting in this country can often feel like settling for scraps. There’s a reason a lot of people don’t do it. This year isn’t an exception. It’s hard to find people who are really ecstatic about Joe Biden, whose main selling point is that he’s not Donald Trump. That selling point has him vaulting out to quite a lead over the sitting president, not because everyone has Biden Fever.
I live in a place where the only real traction is in local races and ballot initiatives. My district in New Jersey is about as blue as it gets. The state is safely Democratic as far as the presidency goes. The presidential primaries are always all but decided by the time it’s our turn to vote. My congressman inherited his seat from his father. We churn out a Republican governor every now and then, but usually they’re Democrats who used to work at Goldman Sachs. My vote matters, but not nearly as much as I’d like it to.
So yeah, I can’t help but roll my eyes when people talk about voting as a cure-all. Voting alone doesn’t accomplish anything if the same mediocrities and their eventual mediocre hand-picked successors are on the ballot more often than not. That sort of complacency is part of what helped give rise to the current state of things. Real change comes through dirt-under-your-nails organizing, protesting, and redefining what people think of as realistic.
And even as I say all of that, I still miss that sense of gratification that comes with leaving the voting booth and collecting your sticker on the way out. It feels like I’ve done my very small part to make my voice heard. Maybe I’m pining for a less pre-determined outcome deep down inside when I feel like that.
Maybe I’m feeling that casting my ballot should be a grander gesture with broader ramifications. Maybe I’m wishing that the challenger I voted for in a primary actually had a chance, and that things will change.
I might be playing pretend on some level - and experiencing some serious white privilege, for that matter - when I smile and look down at my sticker in normal years. This year is far from normal, and there’s a chance that some of the ballots cast this year won’t be counted at all.
I still want my sticker. They’re a nice little reminder of what’s possible and what should be.