5000 Miles in Five Minutes

My people, on Essex Street circa 1908.

During my last year of graduate school, I lived in a remarkably diverse neighborhood. The numerous modest pre-war apartment houses, mid-century raised ranches, some ‘70’s towers, and some very old classically New England mansions just a few blocks away were homes for a wonderfully technicolor array of people of every economic strata, race, ethnicity, and religion.

As though to make the point, my go-to pizza joint (in a city justifiably proud of its pizza joints) was run by two Jordanian immigrants named Abu and Omar, and it was right around the corner from my apartment. Their place was like Heaven for a grad student. “Hey, Abu, it’s Russ. What’s good today?” I can hear Abu’s voice like it was yesterday: “Ruuuuusss, my friend. Mozzarella is fresh. We just make pesto. Fresh, fresh, fresh. I make you chicken pesto pizza. See you in 15 minutes.” Click. We had some variation of this conversation at least once a week. Absolute Heaven.

There were immigrants in my neighborhood from all over the planet. Abu and Omar were among a small community of Jordanians; I played pickup soccer games every week with several Somali guys who could really play ball with the Peruvians and Columbians who were the crux of our mid-week crew; and there was a particularly large group of Russian families who had resettled in our neighborhood. The Russians were all so happy to be in America that they’d cross the street hopscotching through traffic just to give each other bear hugs so vigorous that you’d think a wrestling match had broken out if you hadn’t see the grins wrapped around their faces showing their unbridled joy at being among friends that they hadn’t seen since the day before.

The polling place for elections was immediately across the main avenue from my apartment, caddy corner from Abu and Omar’s pizza phantasmagoria. This, as you can imagine, was awfully convenient for me, and on the first Election Day that I lived there I took pride in capping my mop with an old baseball hat and grubbily strolling across the street to vote. Super casual, no big deal, we do this all the time, it’s easy and safe … except that wasn’t quite the case. What I found that first Election Day morning as I slinked into the building's ornate lobby was a lesson in appreciation. There as I entered was a large number of my neighbors, dressed up in their best clothes, cleaned up, slightly serious and shaking hands quite formally with each other but beaming with pride, and giddy having just voted or about to vote in America, some voting for anything, for the very first time. I wouldn’t say that I was ashamed to be so nonchalant about my voting, but I definitely was more prideful of and for my neighbors and cognizant of the weight of that day for them. It was one of my proudest moments as an American.

One day last week, after finishing my morning coffee, I sat at our table here in Basalt, Colorado, filled out my electoral ballot that the state so kindly mails to every registered voter, capped my mop with a lid, put on some shoes, drove the five minutes to Town Hall, and put my ballot in the Drop Box. It was cold that morning, so I turned right around went back home, kicked off my shoes, and proceeded with my relaxing shoulder season day. Easy peasy. The subtle grin on my face the whole time was the indelible and joyous reminder of my old neighbors and that neighborhood, and of the wonderful experience of celebrating our participation in the democratic process together.

Next week is another Election Day in America, the traditional second Tuesday of November. Please vote. If you’ve voted already, thank you. If someone you know could use a hand getting to a polling place, please help them. If you know someone who is intimidated by the process or by those who seek to limit access to voting, please take them by the hand and be by their side. If you know someone who is voting in America for the first time, whether because they are now 18 years old or are now a citizen, please give them a sincere and enthusiastic handshake and make them feel welcome as a participant in the most durable democracy the world has ever known.

If you think you have a reason to not vote, shame on you; please do not waste my time explaining yourself. I’ll be busy remembering Abu and Omar and my many friends whose living example reminds me of what my family and so many others endured so that I can exercise this privilege. My family traveled something like 5000 miles to find a place where I could take a casual five-minute gratitude-filled stroll across the street after breakfast to vote as a normal part of my life in America.

Hmm, maybe I should put a lid on my mop. Then again, maybe I should spruce myself up out of respect for the day and for the sacrifices of my family and others who got me here so I can vote. Ok, ok, where's my hair brush?!