The Price of Eggs

Where to begin. Why to begin. 

I waited in line to vote yesterday, not once but twice. The weather was as perfect as California can offer. Clear sky and seventy-five. Walking to the senior center to cast my vote, I called my mom to chat, as I always do while walking. She’s still recovering from pneumonia, while taking care of Joe, who is recovering from knee replacement surgery. All was well for the most part. It always makes the walks go faster. 

The line was longer than I expected. Walking home to get my mail-in ballot, filling it out, and walking back to drop it off would’ve been quicker than waiting in line. But I wanted to be there to cast my vote. To do it on a machine. I wanted it to count more. As if the mail-in ballots counted less. Something feels different about waiting in line, in person. More meaningful, because more time went into it. More corporeal, standing next to strangers for so long. Hearing their conversations, catching whiffs of unfamiliar yet familiar human smells. Things you forget if you aren’t around crowds for a while. Which, I haven’t been. I’ve grown an aversion to them, a desired distancing, conditioned and reconditioned by the pandemic. Our personal bubbles are permanently set to a 5 foot radius now, and larger still for some of us. 

The senior center made me sad. People scratching slowly across the floors in walkers, beaten down by age and loneliness. Made me want to volunteer there and crochet with them, as if I had the time. A brief image crossed my mind of walking there once a week, in the California sunshine, to bring some light and youth into the lives of strangers. It was nice for a moment. But it would never happen. 

The line was long. My knees were hurting. “Do you think we’ll get out of here by 3:30?” The man in front of me asked, as I look down to check the time. 2:41pm. God I hope so, I thought to myself. “We’ll have to see!” I replied as earnestly as I could muster. People exhaust me now. I pray nobody talked to me for the rest of the wait. 

The crowd didn’t surprise me. More dogs than expected, which I liked. A lot of older folks, with some people just like me mixed in. All different colors and ages. Very Long Beach. The elderly Indian man behind me quietly and politely asked if I could hold his place in line while he sat. Of course I did, and encouraged him to grab a chair, reminding him to get up in 10 minutes and find me as we neared the front of the line. He smiled and nodded at my any time we made eye contact after that. It was nice. 

Using the lackluster cell service available inside, I hastily researched all of the questions on the ballot. Prop this. Prop that. Who was for it, who against. So many faces and names. District Attorney. House. Senate. Minimum wage. Prescription drugs. Marriage equality. Things that felt important, things that deserved more time and thought than I gave them. Except marriage equality. That was a given. In the very likely event that the national marriage law gets overturned in the Supreme Court, California amends their state constitution to include same-sex marriage as state law. At least I can get married if I stay here. Won’t be able to afford a house, but can vow my life to someone legally. 

The poll workers looked run-down albeit happy to be there. Serving the public. One even mentioned to me he wanted to give everyone a good customer service experience. I could never be so selfless. A 15-hour day of dealing with voters. I wonder why they do it. 

In my private booth, that anyone could see, I clicked through the questions, executing my rights as a citizen. Pausing only for a brief moment on the marriage equality amendment. I almost took a photo, but didn’t want to do anything weird, or spend more time than I needed to there. I got the chills looking at it. Feeling the gravity of it. Finally getting to the primary question. Harris, Walz. At the top of the list. I couldn’t see Trump’s name unless I scrolled further down. I wondered if it was the same on everyone’s ballot. Which I learned it wasn’t. Shouldn’t that be standardized?

I grabbed my sticker and walked home. Nauseously optimistic, as they say. 

When my girlfriend got home we ate leftover chicken noodle soup that I made the night before. The best way I was taught to show love is through home-cooked meals. She realized she couldn’t find her mail-in ballot. I offered to accompany her to the polls, sure that the lines would be shorter. Sure that she could pick up a mail in ballot at the poll and fill it out there. I was wrong. Could’ve have been more wrong. The empty parking lot was deceiving. The line wrapped around the building, so we grabbed our spot on the pee stained sidewalk and began our wait. I’m not sure why I waited again with her. I thought it made me a good partner. And maybe it did. Someone to share the mundane with. Pass the time with. Be someone who is there. 

“Did you pass?” I joked as she left the voting area. I offered McDonald’s as a way to entice her to leave the house and vote, since it was close by, and her favorite. I couldn’t help but feel like a hypocrite after voting against raising the minimum wage and then getting fast food. The workers joked and laughed and served us with a smile, and I felt like a monster. Did I do the right thing? For who? It’s never black and white, with these kinds of things. If it was, it wouldn’t be put to a vote. We enjoyed milkshakes and cheeseburgers on the couch, watching What We Do In The Shadows, as a thick fog of deep, dark, all encompassing fear and anxiety settled upon us. 

The group chat of my closest high school friends was exploding all day. “Who do you think is actually going to win?” is what compelled me to ignore it for the rest of the evening. I couldn’t bear to actually think about the election results, despite being a proud voter. I kept the results page up on my phone all night. I needed to check, despite not wanting to. 

The states got redder and redder as the night went on. This could actually happen. He could win again. My mind swirled all night. My fears focused around women. Women’s rights. The LGBTQIA+ community. The vulnerable people. My peers. Myself. 

The incoming results were astonishing. Disgust welled up in my mouth. How could millions of people not see what we see. What kind of mentality are they in where the more desirable candidate to lead our country is a convicted felon and rapist over a qualified woman of color who has dedicated her career to public service? Nearly every state that was declared Red had counties in major cities voting Blue. Educated, populated areas vote blue. Why is that? What are the rest of the counties experiencing or not experiencing that’s causing them to vote the way they do. It is beyond my comprehension. It can’t just be the economy. The price of eggs. 

I went to bed with the race at 210 projected for Kamala and 230 projected for Trump. It felt like going to bed on Christmas Eve. Not knowing what to expect in the morning. But a sick, twisted Christmas Eve where you wake up the next morning ready to find out if Santa Claus is real or not. Something woke me, maybe the cat. 3:03 AM, my phone read, way too bright for the middle of the night. Santa Claus was my parents all along. And also a murderer who killed my family and left their body parts as gifts under the tree. Or so it felt. Trump had won. There was no dispute. No demanding a recount. It was clear as day, with nothing to offer solace. Alone, cold, and in the dark, I couldn’t look away from my phone until the sun came up. Sleeping from 5AM to 7, with vivid nightmares of eating the beautiful hummingbird I saw the day before on the patio. A bright red hummingbird. 

This morning felt like being sentenced to go back to prison after being out for four years. I felt the inevitability of it all. I feared what was to come. Project 2025. Bigotry. Misogyny. The “other side” being right. Relentless in their self-righteousness. Their unwavering support. Why doesn’t our side have that same level of passion? That same level of ignorance and numbers. Sheep. Sheep with pitchforks and flags. MAGA sheep without a regard for women, or people. Or empathy. Maybe they’re all psychopaths. How did Hitler do it? They did this WILLINGLY. My only hope is that they suffer too. Somehow. 

Head empty, I float through zoom calls and slack messages, feeling like none of it matters. But it does matter. People are counting on me. To be present. To have numbers ready for them. To lead meetings and ask questions and do what I always do. No matter how scared I feel, how empty. The day goes on. My day is exactly as it was yesterday, except in a different universe entirely. 

I post snarky things on my instagram, hoping to grab a laugh or a like. Hoping to connect with a virtual community of people who feel a bit like me today. I made a joke about writing a journal every day and after 4 years, I'll having a manuscript for The Handmaid’s Tale sequel. 

Tonight I’m going to continue to do my job. Hold my loved ones close, whether in person or over the phone. Play video games with far away friends. Wash and dry my laundry. Clean the kitchen. Make plans to go shopping with my brother this weekend. Things that feel normal. that provide comfort and community. Because that’s all I can do right now. 

The Democrats ceded the election with grace. Despair, and grace. Knowing that the future may be grim, but maybe not. So, I suppose I will too. For now. But how far is too far before we try to overthrow the capitol building too? How many rights are too many rights to infringe upon before we snap, and fight back? I’m too gentle to storm a building, start a coup, fight with vengeance, injure people for my just cause. Or am I? Are you?