Good thing we did! A civic election has to be the toughest of the three levels of elections; municipal politics get less press coverage than provincial and federal politics on the whole, and there's usually a huge selection of candidates, for more positions, so it's not a simple matter of ticking one square for an MLA or MP.
This election, for example, was for mayor, plus (up to) nine city councillors, (up to) eight school board trustees, and, to really complicate matters, a choice of which councillor to send to the Capital Region District, and a referendum.
On top of this, we had a number of hurdles to overcome. Despite registering online, we were not yet on the voters' list, because that had been released to the elections officials over a month ago. This meant registering in person at the polls.
When I showed up at City Hall for the advanced poll, I noted the other hurdles - particularly tough for younger daughter's autism spectrum challenges.
Four line-ups: 1) To enter the voting area.
2) To register, which included answering some questions, and providing the correct ID. The fellow registering me decided, on principle, to accept my library card (which I had mentioned, but not offered) as ID. I'd already presented my passport, along with my provincial health card, which confirms my address. "Library cards are on the list, and -- we can!" he declared.
"Great," I replied. "I'm a literate voter. Also well-read."
3) Another line-up to take one's turn in the voting booth.
4) Most daunting of all, a long curving line to "cast the ballot", that is, in this case, feed it carefully and singly, into the sole "ballot reader", a machine resembling a printer. You had to wait for the confirming click, then they'd hand you your "I Voted" sticker.
The machine, which, I suppose, eliminates hand counting and sorting, takes waaaaaay longer than slipping one's folded ballot into a ballot box. You can't fold your ballot for one thing; you have to conceal it from prying eyes in a yellow folder, although it wouldn't be hard to guess how you voted in the several seconds which elapse between taking it out of the damned folder and feeding it into the damned ballot reader.
Oh, yes, and the ballot itself had to be filled out by meticulously shading into an oval next to your choice(s) with, and only with, the provided pen, much like the dreaded provincial high school exams for university qualification that I remember with little relish.
On Election Day itself, I searched for illustrating photos on the internet to assist younger daughter with visualizing the process to come, because despite being a veteran of all three levels of elections in Hades, this would be a whole new procedure for her.
You can imagine that part of me was rather hoping she'd give this election a miss, and I did explain, more than once that voting in a municipal election in Victoria would involve four long line-ups and a complicated ballot.
However, even after a long day that included a practice session with her accompanist for an upcoming singing competition, and a trip to Pic-a-Flic to renew her DVDs, she was insistent. Of course she wanted to vote. It was Election Day, and she's twenty-two.
Far be it from me to disenfranchise anyone, let alone my own daughter.
We set off to the nearest polling place, the high school, at 6:30 in the gathering darkness, reasoning that we were bound to finish long before the polls' closure at 8 pm.
It took some time to locate the entrance and we were directed to the other side of the building -- where an enormous line snaked out into the parking lot.
After chatting companionably to our fellow queue occupants for - I dunno - twenty to twenty-five minutes, we were finally in the gymnasium, where younger daughter still had to be looked up on the voters' list, even though we told them she wasn't on it.
We joined the queue for registration. At the advanced polls, this had been quick, but, even with four people at work, it was clear that the filling-out of the form took out an inordinate amount of time. When younger daughter sat down, one of the questions put to her was if she knew the final three digits of her social insurance number. This was after she presented her health card, passport, and birth certificate. The Resident Fan Boy deflected some of the sillier questions.
We had told younger daughter that she need only to vote for mayor. We were talking to someone on the spectrum. She took several minutes filling out every part of the ballot. I took some comfort in noting that others were also taking a long time, and somewhat less comfort in watching the line for the ballot reader grow longer and longer. By the time the RFB and younger daughter joined this final queue, it had been over an hour since our arrival.
Worn out, I went to sit on the concrete steps leading out of the gymnasium. In the hall behind me, a long line-up of people still waiting to enter had been brought inside so the outer doors of the school could be shut and locked. The polls had closed - it was now 8 pm - but those inside would still be permitted to vote.
From my perch, I watched the long line of voters approaching the lone ballet-reading machine. I marvelled at how different this population of the electorate was from those coming to the advanced poll. When I voted, I was surrounded by mainly middle-aged and elderly, mostly smartly dressed people. Tonight, it was a Fernwood crowd: parents with babies, toddlers, preschoolers, and primary graders; people with dogs; people who looked like they rode motorcycles, many, many young voters evidently casting a ballot for the first time.
Despite my weariness, I was touched by the faces as each person waited for the confirming click, then slapped their "I Voted" sticker into place, beaming.
One last heart-clutching moment when a young woman attempted the machine, then was directed back. Evidently, her ballot was not quite correctly filled out.
Oh gawd, I thought. Will younger daughter's ballot be okay? It's been over an hour and a half...
It was. I gave her a thumbs-up, and we walked out under a night sky with planets glowing in it.
We got home two hours after we had left.
Somehow, we feel affirmed and confirmed as residents of this city.
4) Most daunting of all, a long curving line to "cast the ballot", that is, in this case, feed it carefully and singly, into the sole "ballot reader", a machine resembling a printer. You had to wait for the confirming click, then they'd hand you your "I Voted" sticker.
The machine, which, I suppose, eliminates hand counting and sorting, takes waaaaaay longer than slipping one's folded ballot into a ballot box. You can't fold your ballot for one thing; you have to conceal it from prying eyes in a yellow folder, although it wouldn't be hard to guess how you voted in the several seconds which elapse between taking it out of the damned folder and feeding it into the damned ballot reader.
Oh, yes, and the ballot itself had to be filled out by meticulously shading into an oval next to your choice(s) with, and only with, the provided pen, much like the dreaded provincial high school exams for university qualification that I remember with little relish.
On Election Day itself, I searched for illustrating photos on the internet to assist younger daughter with visualizing the process to come, because despite being a veteran of all three levels of elections in Hades, this would be a whole new procedure for her.
You can imagine that part of me was rather hoping she'd give this election a miss, and I did explain, more than once that voting in a municipal election in Victoria would involve four long line-ups and a complicated ballot.
However, even after a long day that included a practice session with her accompanist for an upcoming singing competition, and a trip to Pic-a-Flic to renew her DVDs, she was insistent. Of course she wanted to vote. It was Election Day, and she's twenty-two.
Far be it from me to disenfranchise anyone, let alone my own daughter.
We set off to the nearest polling place, the high school, at 6:30 in the gathering darkness, reasoning that we were bound to finish long before the polls' closure at 8 pm.
It took some time to locate the entrance and we were directed to the other side of the building -- where an enormous line snaked out into the parking lot.
After chatting companionably to our fellow queue occupants for - I dunno - twenty to twenty-five minutes, we were finally in the gymnasium, where younger daughter still had to be looked up on the voters' list, even though we told them she wasn't on it.
We joined the queue for registration. At the advanced polls, this had been quick, but, even with four people at work, it was clear that the filling-out of the form took out an inordinate amount of time. When younger daughter sat down, one of the questions put to her was if she knew the final three digits of her social insurance number. This was after she presented her health card, passport, and birth certificate. The Resident Fan Boy deflected some of the sillier questions.
We had told younger daughter that she need only to vote for mayor. We were talking to someone on the spectrum. She took several minutes filling out every part of the ballot. I took some comfort in noting that others were also taking a long time, and somewhat less comfort in watching the line for the ballot reader grow longer and longer. By the time the RFB and younger daughter joined this final queue, it had been over an hour since our arrival.
Worn out, I went to sit on the concrete steps leading out of the gymnasium. In the hall behind me, a long line-up of people still waiting to enter had been brought inside so the outer doors of the school could be shut and locked. The polls had closed - it was now 8 pm - but those inside would still be permitted to vote.
From my perch, I watched the long line of voters approaching the lone ballet-reading machine. I marvelled at how different this population of the electorate was from those coming to the advanced poll. When I voted, I was surrounded by mainly middle-aged and elderly, mostly smartly dressed people. Tonight, it was a Fernwood crowd: parents with babies, toddlers, preschoolers, and primary graders; people with dogs; people who looked like they rode motorcycles, many, many young voters evidently casting a ballot for the first time.
Despite my weariness, I was touched by the faces as each person waited for the confirming click, then slapped their "I Voted" sticker into place, beaming.
One last heart-clutching moment when a young woman attempted the machine, then was directed back. Evidently, her ballot was not quite correctly filled out.
Oh gawd, I thought. Will younger daughter's ballot be okay? It's been over an hour and a half...
It was. I gave her a thumbs-up, and we walked out under a night sky with planets glowing in it.
We got home two hours after we had left.
Somehow, we feel affirmed and confirmed as residents of this city.
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