There’s nothing like flying twelve hours back home from overseas and heading right to the ballot box to layer democratic depression on top of jet lag. That is, if one lives in Maryland. The Old Line State is one of only 16 states not to require identification for voting. Instead, voters are asked their name, address, and month/day of birth. There is no way, of course, to know if anyone is telling the truth. It’s all too easy to understand that the legislators of 34 states have more respect for the electoral process and their voters than the panjandrums of Annapolis.

This year was even more infuriating than normal. The woman in line in front of me had to ask her husband (or someone she was pretending to be her husband; who knows?) the correct numbers of their address; he gave her the answer right in front of the election judge, which should be illegal (not to mention that in a perfect world, someone not smart enough to know their own address might not be eligible to vote. But I digress). Yet nary a peep was heard from the judge, although this happened in front of two judge observers, as well.

When it was my turn, I pulled out my ID as usual, stating my disagreement with the state’s cavalier approach to electoral integrity. This led to a more-than-usually-heated exchange with the election judge, who told me she was not even allowed to look at my ID, but she would take my word for it that I was who I said I was. Our Mexican standoff lasted less than half a minute, with her giving me my electronic voting card with evident relief to have the neighborhood crazy out of her hair.

The worst was yet to come. My wife was getting her card next to me, yet her election judge did not even wait for her to give her address before skipping to the birth date and quickly handing over the voting card. Perhaps that judge was distracted by the minor philosophical debate between me and her colleague, but my wife later told me that before she could even answer, the judge said, “that’s okay,” and moved to the next stumper (her birthday).

As we exited the polling place, both fuming, one of our neighbors was heading in with his three young children. No starry-eyed liberal, he explained to all of us that they watched the fireworks on July 4 together, but that this was what democracy really was about. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or feel bittersweet gratitude that young children might still believe in such innocent stories about how we govern ourselves.