Poor lost souls. This is pathetic.
“If I die tomorrow, I did my duty.”
Long before Election Day, voters across the country have been lining up to cast their ballots. We sent teams of reporters and photographers to six cities — Houston, Albuquerque, Chattanooga, Sarasota, Atlanta and Columbus — to capture how people feel as they wait for their chance to be heard.
The line is a barrier. It stretches along sidewalks, around corners and through parking lots, zigging one way and zagging back the other. It is a daunting impediment to those who cannot wait. A reminder of this nation’s long history of voting hurdles. Protection against a deadly virus and a defiant response to those who have sought to deny the most basic right in a democracy.
The line is an inspiration. The crowd moves with shared purpose. Strangers hand out water bottles. A woman sways to gospel music. Lawn chairs are pulled out and pizzas ordered. Red, white and blue are the colors of the day.
The line is a promise. Hours of standing, six feet apart, a few steps at a time, for the chance to make a choice. One person, one vote. A right first granted to White, male landowners in 1776, then claimed through political and violent struggle by women, Native, Black and Latino Americans and naturalized citizens.
All now have a place in the line.
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