In barangay Shakespeare, every vote counts, such that it is the duty of any registered voter to exercise this rare and democratic right to be heard, hopefully without first having to provide poll marshals with varied NBI, police and barangay clearances andtattered voter’s ID issued in 19-kopong-kopong.
If one has voted in national elections in the past 10 years, then it should be reasonable to expect that one’s ballot can be cast with little trouble.
There are the usual bogeymen hovering in the poll booths, such as fears of dagdag-bawas, and the issue of a wasted vote. In a close contest (and this edition is turning out too close to call) every vote counts, yet the choice must not boil down to which frontrunner’s name to write on the ballot. Even the dark horse languishing in the surveys must be given the time of day, surely until polling precincts close late in the afternoon.
It’s easy to excuse oneself from this responsible citizen’s duty, citing either cynicism or laziness, perhaps a combination of both. The long years of martial law have had a numbing effect on voters who grew up during the regime, same with the failed expectations of EDSAs 1, 2 and 3, the historic highway reduced to being a site of serial uprisings.
In 1987, during the first senatorial and congressional elections after democracy was restored the year previous, casting one’s vote had an intoxicating effect no liquor ban could deny. There were 24 senatorial slots to be filled out, aside from the other congressional and local government posts.
There were so many candidates that it was not surprising when senatorial Bobbit Sanchez lost due to a number of spoiled ballots. There was another Sanchez, Gil, then running for senator, whom Bobbit said should have been disqualified as a nuisance. A similar issue looms in the Senate race this year with two Bongs, the bowler versus Captain Barbell.
The nuisance angle never fades, though it is a drop in the bucket when it comes to things that can go wrong on election day and the counting that follows for days on end. On May 10 (tomorrow!), it’s all systems go for Murphy’s law that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
In barangay Geriatric, the elderly troop to the polls and after ascertaining their names on the antiquated lists, vote not so much for the memory of better days but in the hope of a fair deal for their grandchildren and great grandchildren.
How can perseverance run out on survivors of the Occupation, martial law, and the peso’s fall, now in the twilight of their lives when this may be the last of the presidential elections, if a parliamentary form is put in place in the next six years?
Indeed the turnout might be crucial, the canvassing of votes up to the declaration of winners even more so.
Not since the 1986 snap polls has democracy–or the demo-crazy state of mind of true nationalist libertarians–hung by a thread.
A sample ballot running through our minds never fails to cure insomnia during late nights and early mornings. The names there written are worthy to do battle against terrorists and lift the fading economy.
It’s a dream slate literally, with equal amounts left and right, and dead center is a delicate balance like lightning. Isang tulog na lang! Sample ballots like counting sheep, green green how much I love you green, the ballot box on the hill, and tally sheets in the balcony.