Letters to the Web Editor

The following takes place between 3:30 and 4:30 p.m. on the day of the Texas presidential primary.

I arrived home just after 3:30 p.m. and immediately began preparing both mentally and spiritually for what lay ahead.

I continually reassured myself I was doing the right thing, but this did not assuage my anxiety.

I took my voters card, and pausing to gaze at it forlornly, placed it in my shirt pocket. Next to it I slid my Ipod. More than any other, this afternoon I would need the inspiration of my party’s leaders. Lastly, I found my wallet and keys, moving mechanically toward the door. I could put this off no longer.

As I entered my polling place I was directed either to the right or to the left. Ironically, like the slower traffic, I kept to the right.

I have seldom felt more out of place than I did at that moment. So this is how the other half ... no, the other side ... lives?

I glanced about nervously, feeling like a member of the Temperance Society at a Roman orgy. “God, please don’t let me be recognized," I prayed.

I had one last glimmer of reprieve when the gentleman sitting at the table was unable to find my name on the rolls. “Perhaps I’ll live to vote another day,” I thought. Father, let this cup pass from me!”

“Oh here you are, sir,” he said, sending me to the next table.

I was tempted to run howling from the right lane to the left when I observed a “Build Bread Not Bombs” pin on the woman who directed me to my booth.

“No,” I thought. This was the moment. All the agony would soon be at an end. I just had to do this one thing.

So, with a deep breath, with Rush ringing in my ear urging me on like a final Allah Akbar, I punched the flashing red light and cast my vote for Hillary Clinton.

The worst is over now. Of course, the dreams will continue. My voter’s card is now marred with the red stamp of “Democrat.”

I now find that my political innocence is gone, sacrificed to the god of pragmatism. I only hope my party and my candidate appreciate my sacrifice.

Todd Hague
Tyler