When I first voted in the city, it was at the old high school. The pre-war building — pre–World War I — was a monument of old pedagogical ideals. The lobby displayed murals of the state’s colonial past; the auditorium hosted chamber-music concerts, attended by mostly gray-headed audiences. In my time, they added metal detectors at the doors, to suit modern pedagogical necessities.
You waited in a line that branched out, funneling citizens into their particular neighborhoods. When you arrived at the proper table, you gave your name to an Election Day volunteer, who looked it up in a plus-folio-size volume …
This article appears as “Ballots Past, Present, and Absent” in the November 30, 2020, print edition of National Review.
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