Election Eve: Raging Against the Machine in East LA
This is both the truth and irony of American democracy.
What a buzzkill.
Sometime around 10 a.m. this morning, I came to the realization that I would not be able to vote in the 2022 LA Mayoral Election.
Part of me was relieved. I wouldn’t be forced to cast my ballot for Rick Caruso, which I’m sure I would’ve done if I had the option. But, after years of talking shit about career lame-duck Eric Garcetti, who’s finally leaving office after what seems like a two year sabbatical from any actual work, I really wanted to follow through with my obligation to vote.
That’s when I opened up my mail-in ballot and voter guide.
First skimming, and later combing through the print materials, I kept looking for Caruso’s name, along with rival Karen Bass’, the other candidate in the LA Mayoral race, who I still might’ve been convinced to choose at the last second.
After several flips through the ballot cards, though, it was clear: I would not even be allowed to vote for mayor because as of May 2021, I’ve resided in the unincorporated area of East Los Angeles, just a few blocks from the LA city border on Lorena St. in Boyle Heights.
It’s so stupid.
See, East LA, the birthplace of Cheech Marin and location where the “Night Stalker” killer Richard Ramirez was caught by civilians in 1985, isn’t technically Los Angeles, even though everybody here (but me) rocks a Dodgers cap and has an LA address. It’s a no-man’s land, where opinions don’t count, even though the community is directly impacted by every decision the next Mayor of LA will make.
Don’t you remember the 6th St. bridge controversy earlier this year? The Aqueduct connecting the Downtown LA Arts District with Boyle Heights? All of that feeds into East LA, and yet no one here has any call in the Mayor’s race.
I’m a new dad, father of a six-week old, so I’m already accustomed to having no say in anything anymore. But still, I wanted to fulfill my civic duty, especially at this moment, and the lack of choice was really dampening my day, which was overall pleasant, despite the gloomy undercurrent of an overcast morning.
The Mayor’s race wasn’t the only measure on the ballot, just the main event. And no matter how bummed out I was, I still needed to use my freedom of choice. My freedom of choice. Right? So, I sat down and began filling out the bubbles, one by one.
The whole process was tedious.
Like most of my experiences with the electoral process, I didn’t necessarily vote for candidates I believed in, but rather against others that I vehemently disliked.
I’ve despised Gavin Newsom for close to 20 years now, basically ever since I moved to San Francisco in 2004. Overall, he’s proven himself to be a terrible leader and whatever the opposite of visionary is. Handsome fellow, for sure, but a real cake eater, self styled after Patrick Bateman.
There was also no way I could endorse another term for incumbent Sheriff Alex Villanueva. Way too many terrible things have happened on his watch. It’s definitely time for a change, even if the next guy is just as bad.
And then there were the fun measures, like voting in favor of increased gambling, both dice games on the Indian Reservations, and increased access to sports betting at sports booking and race tracks. There were also referendums on flavored tobacco and taxes on cannabis.
These topics are the real heart and soul of any voting experience. But then, after completing my documents, I start to question how I’ll even cast my ballot. I’m not sure I even have the time.
By now it’s 2:30 pm, and I’ve missed any reasonable window for a lunch break, working straight through, spread really thin these days.
Tomorrow won’t be an option either. I have way too many things going on to physically go to the polls, so I’ll need to mail in my envelope tonight. But where can I even do that? Does East LA even have the same access to the voting infrastructure?
I kind of doubt, so after work, I head to Downtown LA, to the LA Athletic Club to be exact, where I decide to take my aggression out on a punching bag for 45 minutes, venting from the frustration of my voting fiasco.
Just a few weeks ago, I was sitting in the steam room here, listening to fellow members not-so-discreetly discussing the Mayoral race and Caruso’s $100-million campaign. It wasn’t any secret that Caruso was trying to buy his way into the Mayor’s seat, but these guys spoke as if they were political insiders, conversing with an added dose of scotch-induced cynicism.
It was actually this conversation, which segued into talk of the leaked audio recordings of the LA City Council (you know, the racist ones), that caused me to set a reminder in my iPhone to make sure to vote, adding the LA Mayoral race to all the other important reminders: doctor’s appointments, bill due dates, cancellation dates for free one-month streaming trials.
The LA Mayoral race was on my mind, and now, here I was listening to Rage Against the Machine and System of a Down, a pair of aggressive and discordant LA bands, in a bougie society and sports club, hammering out boxing combos and Muay Thai kicks.
They're trying to build a prison
They're trying to build a prison
They're trying to build a prison
Another prison system
Another prison system
Another prison system
Minor drug offenders fill your prisons you don't even flinch
All our taxes paying for your wars against the new non-rich
Minor drug offenders fill your prisons you don't even flinch
All our taxes paying for your wars against the new non-rich
Talk about a contrast.
Actually, it’s a rather interesting position and vantage point to find myself at 41 years old.
I’ve never loved the American way. I’ve never believed that our electoral process really ever gets it right. Rarely, at best.
Politicians are crooks, for the most part, and the only good thing about our form of government is that it could be worse, right? Every country has a terrible electoral process, if they even have one in the first place. I’ve come to terms with all of this. I really have. It’s not exactly buying into the system, it’s just having a better understanding of how it all works and clearer grasp on my niche … because everyone needs to find their niche to survive in America, honestly, especially in cut-throat town like Los Angeles.
Crushing lead hooks to the head and body, snapping off front and roundhouse kicks, I’ve beaten myself down enough and need to go looking for one of those special voting mailboxes.
I know where one is … up the hill on Hope St. outside the Central Library. It’s where I voted by mail for the 2020 Presidential Election, back when I actually lived in LA-proper. Again, that was another election where I, and millions alike, voted out of spite. And look at how that turned out.
Nothing is really better, and inflation is really close to bursting my bubble these days.
These lingering feelings of discontent stay with me the entire walk from LAAC on Olive St. to the LA Public Library on Fifth, in between Hope and Flower. It’s a lovely stroll. Passing through Pershing Square in the dark, I’m reminded of how badly in need LA is of more than just a manicure, but an entire facelift, along with lip and cheek fillers.
Seriously, this city needs so much help. There’s so much dysfunction, so much tension. Downtown is a complete degradation trip. I’ve seen it fall into decay before my very eyes this last near decade, ever since I moved here in 2013. And of course, wouldn’t you know it, once I’m finally invested in this city, and so badly want to see things turn for the better, I’m not even allowed to vote in one of the most consequential races of my life.
This is both the truth and irony of American democracy.