by Susan Hoffman
I remember the day Harrison brought home a voter registration form. It was the spring of his senior year. His special-ed teacher had handed out the forms and asked, apparently, that the students complete them as homework.
He threw the form on my desk and said, in classic teenager fashion, “Here, we have to do this,” before retreating to his room to watch TV.
Was this a good idea? Harrison, with his IQ of 69, an intellectual disability caused by fragile X syndrome, couldn’t read. I’d have to explain the ballot choices to him and hope he could transfer “his” votes in the privacy of a polling booth. Wasn’t this essentially casting two votes, his and mine?
I read through the form and found a number for the Los Angeles County Registrar, who would, it stated clearly, answer any and all questions related to voter registration.
And so I told her everything about Harrison, his disability, his inability to read, his certain needs to have someone at the polling station show him how to vote. “He’ll need a lot of help,” I said over the phone, “and I know I can’t legally follow him through the steps. Are you telling me someone can help him through the whole process of checking in, finding and entering an empty booth, correctly placing the ballot in the machine, pressing firmly on the stylus to mark the ballot, removing it without tearing it, and depositing it?”
“Yes. By law, we have to help him.”
I didn’t share my concern about influencing his vote. That was my dilemma to face.
I completed the form and Harrison marked an “X” for his signature. Whether he took it back to school or we mailed it, I can’t remember. In any case, his application was approved, and Harrison became a registered voter. He is an enthusiastic voter. He’s never missed voting in an election. And this year, the year he turned 30, he took a passionate interest in the two people running for president.
“Who do you think will win?” he began asking, months ago.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Who’s that guy that makes fun of disabled people?” He’d seen the clip on TV, with Trump flaying his arms as he mocked a reporter. And he’d seen the ads Clinton put up showing Trump degrading that reporter, and other people, too.
“You mean Trump?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’m not voting for him.”
Over the years, I noticed how his awareness of being disabled matched his voting pattern. Does a candidate support the disabled? Does a ballot initiative help the disabled, or hurt us? Watching him sort through his choices made me feel good about that choice I’d made, years back, to register him. He has a right to his opinions. He has a right to advocate. He has a right to vote.
His sense of fairness goes beyond his community. In 2008, Proposition 8 promoted a constitutional amendment in California limiting marriage to the union of a man and a woman. Harrison was puzzled by what this meant, as he didn’t know any gay people. So, we talked about this issue for weeks, and he talked to friends at work. “I’m an American,” he concluded. “So are they. And they should have the same rights I do.”
Harrison moved into an independent living community a few months ago. This meant his polling place had changed. It also changed the way we discussed our ballot choices. Gone were the informal discussions in the car, or the kitchen, or at the dinner table. We needed a new way to get ready to vote.
“How about meeting somewhere for dinner to mark our ballots?” I suggested.
“Okay!” he said.
“That pizza place by the train station? We can both use the Metro and meet there.” I said.
It was Halloween, the night we met for pizza. Just as the hostess was seating us, Harrison said, and urgently, “We need another table! It’s too dark! We can’t see our ballots!” Puzzled, she said, “OK, you pick a table and I’ll send over a waiter.”
A man dressed as Bruce Springsteen took our order, but not before he noticed our ballots and said, “I’ve sent mine in.” Great, we said, and then ticked off what we wanted: kale salad, a diet coke for Harrison, red wine for me, and two pizzas (one discounted on “neighbor’s night”). Then we got down to business.
“See Page 1?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Let’s start with President and Vice President.”
He marked his choice, and so did I. Then we went through the pages with the names of candidates running for state and federal offices. We skipped over the judicial appointments, not knowing any of the candidates. We didn’t agree on some of the initiatives, which made me happy. I still worry that I may influence him too much. But then I note the obvious, that the opinions I hold are very often the same held by my husband and our older son. We’re a family.
On Election Day, I dropped Harrison off at his new polling place, which was just down the street from his apartment. I waited outside, confident he could manage on his own. People entered and left, and still he didn’t return to the car. I was worried. Had something happened? Was he not on the rolls, after all? When he did emerge, his “I Voted” sticker on his shirt, he said, “I messed up two times! But they gave me new ballots and it’s all good!”
We came home together. Somehow I knew I didn’t want to be alone that night. My husband was out of town on business. I needed more than the company of two dogs wanting to play ball. What if the election didn’t go our way? Harrison agreed to watch the returns with me.
Not long into the evening, he said, “She’s going to win, right?” I didn’t know, but I was beginning to fret. When it became clear Trump would win, Harrison stood up and said, sadness gripping the whole of his 6-foot frame, “I don’t ever want to vote again!” I was speechless, at that and, well, everything that was unfolding.
The next morning, over breakfast, I told him I was sad. He was, too. “But we can’t give up,” I said. “Of course we’ll vote again.” He nodded. We always vote. We’re Americans.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Susan Hoffmann lives in South Pasadena, California, where she writes personal essays inspired by her family. She has retired from a long career in art museum education, having written educational materials and taught classes for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. She also wrote promotional materials for the California Institute of Technology and the Art Center College of Design, where she taught courses on modern art.
He threw the form on my desk and said, in classic teenager fashion, “Here, we have to do this,” before retreating to his room to watch TV.
Was this a good idea? Harrison, with his IQ of 69, an intellectual disability caused by fragile X syndrome, couldn’t read. I’d have to explain the ballot choices to him and hope he could transfer “his” votes in the privacy of a polling booth. Wasn’t this essentially casting two votes, his and mine?
I read through the form and found a number for the Los Angeles County Registrar, who would, it stated clearly, answer any and all questions related to voter registration.
And so I told her everything about Harrison, his disability, his inability to read, his certain needs to have someone at the polling station show him how to vote. “He’ll need a lot of help,” I said over the phone, “and I know I can’t legally follow him through the steps. Are you telling me someone can help him through the whole process of checking in, finding and entering an empty booth, correctly placing the ballot in the machine, pressing firmly on the stylus to mark the ballot, removing it without tearing it, and depositing it?”
“Yes. By law, we have to help him.”
I didn’t share my concern about influencing his vote. That was my dilemma to face.
I completed the form and Harrison marked an “X” for his signature. Whether he took it back to school or we mailed it, I can’t remember. In any case, his application was approved, and Harrison became a registered voter. He is an enthusiastic voter. He’s never missed voting in an election. And this year, the year he turned 30, he took a passionate interest in the two people running for president.
“Who do you think will win?” he began asking, months ago.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Who’s that guy that makes fun of disabled people?” He’d seen the clip on TV, with Trump flaying his arms as he mocked a reporter. And he’d seen the ads Clinton put up showing Trump degrading that reporter, and other people, too.
“You mean Trump?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’m not voting for him.”
Over the years, I noticed how his awareness of being disabled matched his voting pattern. Does a candidate support the disabled? Does a ballot initiative help the disabled, or hurt us? Watching him sort through his choices made me feel good about that choice I’d made, years back, to register him. He has a right to his opinions. He has a right to advocate. He has a right to vote.
His sense of fairness goes beyond his community. In 2008, Proposition 8 promoted a constitutional amendment in California limiting marriage to the union of a man and a woman. Harrison was puzzled by what this meant, as he didn’t know any gay people. So, we talked about this issue for weeks, and he talked to friends at work. “I’m an American,” he concluded. “So are they. And they should have the same rights I do.”
Harrison moved into an independent living community a few months ago. This meant his polling place had changed. It also changed the way we discussed our ballot choices. Gone were the informal discussions in the car, or the kitchen, or at the dinner table. We needed a new way to get ready to vote.
“How about meeting somewhere for dinner to mark our ballots?” I suggested.
“Okay!” he said.
“That pizza place by the train station? We can both use the Metro and meet there.” I said.
It was Halloween, the night we met for pizza. Just as the hostess was seating us, Harrison said, and urgently, “We need another table! It’s too dark! We can’t see our ballots!” Puzzled, she said, “OK, you pick a table and I’ll send over a waiter.”
A man dressed as Bruce Springsteen took our order, but not before he noticed our ballots and said, “I’ve sent mine in.” Great, we said, and then ticked off what we wanted: kale salad, a diet coke for Harrison, red wine for me, and two pizzas (one discounted on “neighbor’s night”). Then we got down to business.
“See Page 1?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Let’s start with President and Vice President.”
He marked his choice, and so did I. Then we went through the pages with the names of candidates running for state and federal offices. We skipped over the judicial appointments, not knowing any of the candidates. We didn’t agree on some of the initiatives, which made me happy. I still worry that I may influence him too much. But then I note the obvious, that the opinions I hold are very often the same held by my husband and our older son. We’re a family.
On Election Day, I dropped Harrison off at his new polling place, which was just down the street from his apartment. I waited outside, confident he could manage on his own. People entered and left, and still he didn’t return to the car. I was worried. Had something happened? Was he not on the rolls, after all? When he did emerge, his “I Voted” sticker on his shirt, he said, “I messed up two times! But they gave me new ballots and it’s all good!”
We came home together. Somehow I knew I didn’t want to be alone that night. My husband was out of town on business. I needed more than the company of two dogs wanting to play ball. What if the election didn’t go our way? Harrison agreed to watch the returns with me.
Not long into the evening, he said, “She’s going to win, right?” I didn’t know, but I was beginning to fret. When it became clear Trump would win, Harrison stood up and said, sadness gripping the whole of his 6-foot frame, “I don’t ever want to vote again!” I was speechless, at that and, well, everything that was unfolding.
The next morning, over breakfast, I told him I was sad. He was, too. “But we can’t give up,” I said. “Of course we’ll vote again.” He nodded. We always vote. We’re Americans.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Susan Hoffmann lives in South Pasadena, California, where she writes personal essays inspired by her family. She has retired from a long career in art museum education, having written educational materials and taught classes for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. She also wrote promotional materials for the California Institute of Technology and the Art Center College of Design, where she taught courses on modern art.
