Thanks to the current reign of the Ego-in-Chief, otherwise known as president of the United States, I’ve been questioning the wisdom of the electorate. It’s nothing new. Each time an election doesn’t go my way I wonder what those other guys are thinking, mutter to myself, grumble to my friends and dismissively bite my tongue at anyone who is pleased with the result.
The bitterness doesn’t last long. Maybe a week. Maybe less. But this time, as the country stumbles down an unexplored path in democracy and representative government, the nagging second-guessing has not subsided. All the pondering has led me to an uncomfortable hypothesis: very few of us are qualified to vote.
Sure, once we reach the legal voting age we automatically become eligible to vote for laws and lawmakers, but are we intellectually up to the task?
The question loudly presented itself this week as I watched video of motorists brawling on Third Avenue one recent afternoon. Not on the sidewalk. Not on a center median. But in the street. Amid passing cars that zipped near and past them within a few feet. The young looking foursome engaged in hair pulling and face punching in a case of presumed road rage gone crazy.
Do those people vote? I wondered. Do they have a say in who the next district attorney is? Or if we’ll pay more in taxes for public safety?
The question came to mind again as I watched another video of a man in Los Angeles County hop out of a truck on the freeway and approach other gridlocked vehicles, attempting to get in their cars. It was L.A. and it was the afternoon so traffic was moving at its usual trickle but still, here was this grown man running up to strangers and trying to get into their cars for who knows what purpose. Would that man be voting for governor two years from now? Wait, is he the kind of person who votes to legalize weed and weaken gun laws?
Questioning people’s judgment can be troubling. Even more so when you examine your own questionable decision making.
I think about all the times I went back to the Las Vegas buffets for seconds and thirds (and maybe even fourths) despite not being able to breathe comfortably. Or the one time a year ago I stood on a bucket on top of a chair to reach the ceiling because the step ladder was all the way in the other room in the closet. Or when I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand even though I had just diced jalapeños. I cried so hard my contacts fell out.
I wonder about the dumb, fleeting decisions I make more often than I like to admit and I wonder if my neighbors would be comfortable with my deciding who represents them on city council and where their tax dollars are spent. I suppose for them ignorance is bliss.
