Divided on Election Day

Last Tuesday was spring election day in Wisconsin, and Ron and I took the day off to help with the recall effort. It seems that every eligible senator in Wisconsin is vulnerable to recall by the opposing side, and Ron and I are among the Democrats working to recall the Republican senators in the wake of Governor Walker’s Budget Repair Bill, which most of them had supported.

We showed up at the doorstep of a friend who had organized our recall group that day. It turned out we would be helping with the campaign to recall Senator Olsen, a man who, to be quite honest, I had never heard of. As our friend handed us “RECALL OLSEN” signs, pens, and clipboards, I said as much: “I have to admit I don’t know anything about Senator Olsen.”

“He’s actually been pretty good, in the past,” said a young woman, “He’s been a big proponent of education.”

“But he sold his soul by voting with Walker,” admonished another woman, drawing agreement from the group. 

“Yeah—how can you believe in education when you’re voting to cut it by $800 million?”

“He could have stood up for what he believed in—Dale Schultz did!”

So off we went, Ron and I, to Briggsville, a little town in Senator Olsen’s district. We fit the stereotype of typical Wisconsin lefties. We live in Madison and drove to Briggsville in our little fuel-efficient car, taking the day off from our jobs as conservation scientists. To top it off, I’d brought Arabic flashcards with me; I had just started taking a class in the language. We giggled that the flashcards would seem to confirm everything Sarah Palin thought of people like us: hippies, socialists, Muslims.

Briggsville is an hour north of Madison and was just as small as it sounds: maybe one gas station and a stoplight. The polling place was a modest little room off of the firehouse; across the street was an old-fashioned stone post office.

Upon arrival, we adhered to our coaching, walking in to inform the Chief Election Officer of our presence. Inside the firehouse was a simple, all-purpose room with a low ceiling, folding tables and chairs, and four women sitting around chatting amiably. No voters were in sight.

The women smiled as we walked in, and I confidently said, “Hi, we’re here with the campaign to recall Senator Olsen. We just wanted to let you know that we’re here.”

The womens’ smiles dampened slightly, but we all forged our way through the murky awkwardness of knowing we were on opposing teams. “Well, I don’t think we have any good place for you to set up in here.” “Oh, that’s okay; we’ll be outside. We’re actually not allowed to set up in here.” “And you do know that you’re not allowed to solicit signatures until after people have cast their votes? Good; let’s keep things as civil as possible.”

The Chief Clerk was a tall, robust woman with short hair who looked like the kind of mom who liked to shout at referees in her kids’ soccer matches. The Chief Election Officer, technically the short-haired woman’s boss, was quieter—a dark-haired, middle-aged woman with a pretty face and tasteful makeup. The corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, although, I realized, there was no real warmth when the smile was aimed at us.

We set up outside the firehouse door, facing the street and the little stone post office, over the shoulder of which we could see the glazed ice of Mason Lake. It was a surprisingly picturesque setting, and the street was quiet. We could occasionally hear the trilling of sandhill cranes nestling in some half-frozen marshy cove.

We’d carefully placed our camp chairs about 10 feet from the cement walkway leading inside. The Government Accountability Board memo on our clipboards specified that we were allowed to be just outside the entrance to the polling place and 10 feet off the path, as long as we didn’t cause a disruption. We weren’t allowed to approach voters until after they voted. Under no circumstances could we speak with anyone about the day’s election; we could only speak about people and issues that weren’t on the ballot. We had a second memo from the Recall Olsen campaign, advising us to call if there were any problems.

We fussed over where to place our big “RECALL OLSEN” signs so they’d be visible from the road.

We waited.

It’s unnerving to sit out in the open in a small town with a big, liberal political sign. We got used to being looked at. In the first hour, every time a car drove by I struggled with the arrangement of my face, usually settling on some obscure expression that I thought was both pleasant and defiant. Gradually, I stopped noticing when cars drove by.

It was cold. We had long johns, winter coats, scarves, gloves, hats. I rubbed my hands together to stay warm, and we talked to pass the time and distract ourselves. I surreptitiously studied my Arabic.

In the first twenty minutes, about six people came and went out of the building. Still getting used to being there, we awkwardly tried to smile at them without “soliciting” them as they went in. They awkwardly tried to avoid our gaze.

Then the tall, no-nonsense Chief Clerk emerged from the building. “We’ve gotten several complaints that you’re too close to the building.” She made no pretense at being apologetic. “People are saying that you’re intimidating them, and we can’t have that at a polling place. We’re going to have to ask you to move farther away.”

My heart jumped. “I think the rule is that we need to be 10 feet away from the path,” I said, “but we are allowed to be near the entrance.”

“Well, you’ll need to move 100 feet away from the building.”

Pretending that I wasn’t certain, I stood next to her and flipped my clipboard to the memo at the back. “Hmm, let’s see here; let’s look at this memo from the Government Accountability Board. …It does say that we can be here, just ten feet off of the path.”

She looked impatient. “Well, then why don’t you move a little farther away. How ’bout the edge of the pavement there; that looks more like ten feet to me.”

“Okay,” we said, and scooted our chairs over one or two feet.

“But if we get more complaints, we will have to ask you to move farther away. We can’t have you disrupting the election.” She turned and bustled back inside.

Settling back into our chairs, we held a whispered conference. Complaining about us? Who—the few people who’d come and gone? Intimidating them—us, really? It seemed laughable.

“If she tells us to move, I’m calling the GAB,” I vowed. I felt noble and self-righteous, like the persecuted union organizer in “Norma Rae.”

A young man with a thick Wisconsin accent and a frail, white-haired mother walked up, the first people to approach us. “Is this where we sign to recall Senator Olsen?”

“Yes!” we breathed, elated. We gushed at them as they signed: “You’re our first of the day, so by signing this, you’ve made our trip worthwhile!”

It was true. We’d begun to wonder if anyone in Briggsville was with us; getting even two signatures meant we’d helped at least two people to have a voice.

While they were signing, I went to get my camera. I’d been wanting to take a picture of us for posterity, but now I wanted evidence of where exactly we had placed ourselves. I wondered if the ladies inside could see me taking a picture of Ron in his chair, and I hoped they’d take it as a warning.

We resumed our waiting. A few more voters went in and out. One man said cheerfully, “I’d sign, but I already did! Can I sign again?” We laughed. Even out here in this little town, there were Dems.

The dark-haired Chief Election Officer came out of the building. “I’m sorry to do this,” she said apologetically, looking at me with her crinkly eyes. “But we’re just getting too many complaints in a row. People are saying that you’re too close to the building, and it’s disrupting their ability to vote. I’m going to have to ask you to move 100 feet away.”

Flabbergasted but careful to keep my voice cordial, I repeated that we were allowed to be here, ten feet off the path.

“I’m sorry; these are my voters, and I need to listen to them.”

“Okay,” I said, valiantly remaining calm. “Well, then I’d better make a phone call. The Recall Olsen campaign told us to call if we had questions, and I want to double-check with them.”

“Okay. I’ll make a call too.” She gave a nod and went back inside.

The recall campaign’s phone number sent me directly to voice mail. Frustrated, I called the GAB. The man on the other end said, “Well, without being there, I can’t make a judgment about whether you’re causing a disturbance or not. But the Chief Election Officer is the authority at that voting location. If she says you’re causing a disturbance and you disagree, you can challenge it in a municipal court, but in the meantime you need to move.”

“Okay,” I said, collecting myself. “If she asks us to move again, we’ll move. But we’ll contact the Recall Olsen campaign and ask them if they want to take it up with her.” He agreed.

I hung up and we stayed put, steeling ourselves and discussing where we’d move if she made us. There really wasn’t a great place: across the street, or far away.

Several more people gave us words of encouragement as they went in to vote. “Already signed—unless I can sign again!” “Just let me know when I can sign for Walker!” “Thanks for being here; how many signatures have you gotten?”

With all these supporters, we wondered again who exactly was complaining about us.

But we never received a clear answer. More time passed, and the Clerk and Election Officer still didn’t return, and with each passing minute, it became more apparent that they weren’t going to.

It finally dawned on us: we had won! The crinkly-eyed lady must have made her phone call, and learned that she couldn’t move us unless we were “being disruptive.” The longer we sat un-harassed, the more quietly gleeful we became.

There was at least one man who lodged a real complaint about us at the polls. Pudgy and angry, he stormed out of his car and shouted at us as he marched up to the entrance: “What you’re doing is illegal! You need to be at least two hundred feet away from the building! Alright; I’ll have you moved.” His wife also chided us sternly as she followed him (more slowly) from the car: “You really are too close to the building. You can’t have your propaganda that close.”

This happened hours after our victory, and nothing came of the man’s threat to move us…though he did shout something unintelligible from his car window as they sped away.

As we shivered our way into evening, the vast majority of people ignored us. But what surprised us was that many people were on our side. Even in little Briggsville, there were dozens of them, smiling from their cars, giving thumbs-ups, telling us they’d already signed. One local man hobbled over from across the street, saying, “I’ve been collecting signatures for the last few weeks, but I never know if I’m allowed to sign the petition myself if I’m the one canvassing. Can I sign yours?”

Eventually, the pink glow of sunset faded across Mason Lake, and the polling place closed at eight p.m. We packed up and got back into our car, grateful for warmth and eager to leave before our adversaries emerged from the building.

Driving back to Madison, our petitions and Arabic flashcards tucked safely away, we no longer had quite the sense that we were returning to an isolated liberal hotbed. We’d seen firsthand that this battle is taking place across the entire state of Wisconsin.

It’s a battle that brings both inspiration and anger to all of us. It caused me to try to oust a senator I’d never heard of, just because he was on the other side. And it caused the kindly Briggsville election officials to hassle us, just because we were against them. This battle divides us, left and right, in every community.