You probably remember the election I’m talking about. Don’t worry! I’m not going to get political. History Lesson: The 2000 Presidential election was marred by butterfly ballots in Florida. Because the ballots were confusing, there were many did not vote for who they intended, OR they double punched and/or aborted second punches, causing “hanging chads”. These hanging chads made the ballots invalid, as the intent of the vote was unclear.
This butterfly ballot chaos lasted two months, so on November 24, 2000 when the Aggies came to Austin, it was still quite the hot topic of conversation.
Being the savvy girl that I am – always with my finger on the pulse of the nation and a keen observer of current events – I decided the Texas A&M game would be the perfect opportunity to decorate myself with a sign that mirrored the times. (I can’t seem to find my sarcasm font. Assume the last paragraph was typed in a sarcasm font.)
I began to research butterfly ballots. I still don’t understand what the big problem was -while I concede that the design of the ballot wasn’t ideal, it just didn’t seem that confusing to me. There were arrows leading from the candidate to the corresponding hole. It didn’t require a compass, protractor or a slide rule to match the punch holes to the desired candidate.
(I’d like to interject a quick story from my childhood: When I was 10, my family and I moved to London for a year while my dad attended the Royal College of Defense Studies. While we stood in line to board the plane, the customs officer asked if anyone was carrying a weapon onboard. Unable to be a party to international safety violations, I started crying and confessed I did. Alarmed, my parents and the customs officer asked me to show them. From my carry on (which was my school backpack) I produced a compass. US customs and my parents tried really hard not to laugh as my math supplies and I boarded the plane. In my defense, those things are dangerous!)
But back to the year 2000. Armed with a picture of the butterfly ballot I began carefully crafting my game-day sign. Pleased with my cleverness, I added glitter and even solicited my uncle, who is a dentist in Austin, for some of those things he uses to clip the bibs to people while they’re in the chair so I could wear the sign around my neck.
The sign was complete. I could not wait for game day to wear it.
(I have recreated the general idea of the sign here, but assume more burnt orange and a lot of gold and orange glitter.)
Game day arrived. Kacie, Holloway and I got an early start, staking out seats at Sholz Garten to watch the Longhorn Sports Network pre-game show. As the morning turned into early afternoon, we passed the time chatting it up with other Longhorn fans and drinking very large cans of beer.
Even better than beer and football talk, was the fact that people LOVED MY SIGN. As intended, it provoked much thought and sparked lively commentary on the current political state of our nation. And by that I mean: it got me a lot of attention, which I enjoyed.
As kickoff got nearer, the burnt orange faithful began to make their way across campus en masse to the stadium.
As they do every game day, the Austin PD had officers at the intersections to direct foot and vehicle traffic. Like good citizens, we waited for our cue to cross MLK Blvd. When all street traffic had stopped, people began crossing MLK on the other side of San Jacinto.
Being full of beer from the garten and anxious to get to the game, I saw this movement from the corner of my eye and also began to cross the street. Unfortunately our traffic officer had not given us the go ahead to proceed. Everyone else managed to realize this, but it wasn’t until I had taken five or so steps that I realized my mistake.
The policeman, in an effort to stop me, came right up behind me and blew his whistle. Right. In. My. Ear. He was close enough to me to have placed a hand on my shoulder to stop my forward motion. He was close enough to say “Ma’am, you can’t cross yet.” Instead he chose to blow his whistle within 6 inches of my head.
I was startled so badly that I jumped straight up into the air like a cartoon character. This sudden movement caused my poor sign to begin flapping around me. I stood there stunned for a moment before walking back to the curb, head hanging (like a chad) in shame.
Just to make me feel bad, the moment I stepped back up to the curb, the policeman gave the motion for people to start crossing.
I was so sad. The saddest little butterfly ballot there ever was.
Fortunately, the people around me were quick to ease my embarrassment and confusion by assuring me that it was complete overkill for him to have reacted that way to my premature crossing.
Kacie and Holloway, though sympathetic, couldn’t stop laughing or reenacting the scene. I got to watch a pantomime of my shame over and over again.
Just when things were starting to look up, and the stadium was in view, I had another clash with authority. The stadium police wouldn’t let me inside with my sign on! My dreams of national TV exposure were dashed as I was told I could either keep the sign on and stay outside or throw it away and go in. Being ever faithful to the Horns, I took off my sign and laid it next to the trashcan.
But don’t feel too sad for me. The Horns won the game and we rounded out our third consecutive nine-win season. And when I left the stadium, the sign was gone. I hope it went to a good home.
To this day, I cross streets very cautiously, always assuming there is a whistle cop nearby.
And still, 11 years later, every time I vote I remind myself that I am lucky to live in a country where I have a voice. And, as I fill out my ballot, I remember that whistle cop and hear freedom ring. Right. In. My. Ear.
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