Steven Waldman

I just finished voting. My neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York is mostly Carribean-American and strongly Obama.
A few observations.
Very few signs. On most election days, all up and down Rogers Ave, you see signs for various candidates. This time, no. You wouldn’t even know there’s an election. (Life in a non-battleground state!)
The lines coming out of the elementary school stretched around three city blocks. The tone was not ecstatic. It was serious. People were friendly but definitely not jubilant. It had more the feeling that they were doing important work.
Hard not to get emotional as very old, or handicapped, black voters shuffled up the front of the line.
Finally, perhaps sensing the strangely quiet nature of the line, someone jumped out of a building screaming at the top of her lungs in joy. Everyone laughed nervously. “Let it out,” she said.
Another older woman walked up and down the street, declaring. “Thank you. Thank you. We’ve suffered too long. Thank you for being here. Praise the Lord. Thank you, Jesus.” Some quiet Amens were whispered back.

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