As I completed my ballot last week—absentee from Leawood, mostly but not entirely for Democrats, with many minor elections left blank—I began to mull over whether I was fulfilling a genuine obligation or just engaging in a kind of civic masturbation. Do we, as responsible members of this republic, have a citizenly duty to vote? And if we do, on what grounds ought we to feel compelled to exercise it?
One justification often given by people of a vague righteousness is that we must “uphold the process.” Of course, this is strictly true; someone must vote, or the notion of functional democracy vanishes. But this isn't actually much of a systemic concern, because someone always does. In fact, certain constituencies (the financially interested, the policy wonks, and the culture warriors) always vote. And why wouldn't they? Their unique diligence usually allows them to have it their way. It's a curious idiosyncrasy of our collective political personality that we require prompting to act in our own self-interest.
But those notorious demons haunt us—especially those who find themselves electorally disenfranchised—with words of discouragement. “You have no voice, and you never will,” they whisper in our ears, or perhaps, “You're always voting for hegemony no matter which way you pull the lever.” (The latter, of course, is only the paranoid version of the omnipresent “write-in” crowd.) They dare us to eschew the long lines and the propaganda and the misery, and to allow history to wash over us as observers, rather than participants.
Unfortunately, although these aren't sufficient excuses to stay home, their rejection doesn't exactly provide moral impetus to vote, either. We have been bestowed the option—in financial market jargon, the right but not obligation—to voice our opinion, and such an option includes the privilege of silence. But while there might occasionally be good reasons to abstain, we mustn't forget that this decision is itself a rational choice for which we can be held accountable. It's a right every American is free to exercise, but one he shouldn't thoughtlessly, for if he does, he has forfeited not his right to be a pundit—anyone with a bit of wit and a winning smile can become such a creature, admits your columnist—he has forfeited the right for his commentary to be taken seriously, both by others and by himself. Joseph Schumpeter was fond of saying that the ballot is stronger than the bullet, but why the separation? History is overrun with examples of one being used as means to the other. To these designs, we owe if not the pull of the lever for one shill or another, then an abstention rooted in care and decisiveness rather than a yawning laziness and apathy.
But we should, further, positively desire to lend our voices to the chorus. We should never allow our faculties of opinion to atrophy. We should never allow the capricious cultural zeitgeist built on the shoulders of others to command our own whims. We should never stifle or mute our outrage and indignation at injustice. We should never tire of persecuting our leaders, holding them to the fire and enjoying watching them burn; it's good for us, but it's not bad for them, either. And perhaps most of all, we should never forget what it felt like to be without a voice, without the right to protest for one, and without the hope that we ever could.
These aren't the virtues of a contrarian; they're those of a democrat. Vote or don't—it won't be the worst reason you've ever skipped class—but do so not for the process, but for yourself.
