When I accepted employment as a poll worker, I decided to buy a new shirt—one with a collar. I’m not one to spend much time on presentation, yet the white shirt with blue vertical stripes made me look more professional. I wore it on primary election day when I began a fifteen-hour shift greeting and helping voters.

In being a poll worker I entered a world where we were not permitted to talk about politics because we had to help everyone vote, regardless of party. That resulted in a unique cultural experience inside the public library, one that was tolerable, yet not terribly engaging. I have only so many things to say about pickleball, for example.

What I noticed most during my shift was voter faces—young and old, carefully made up or weathered from outdoor work, vigorous or frail, individuals all. With the exception of a couple of young, first-time voters, no one looked happy. Most seemed resolved. Whatever hopes or concerns had brought them there, they had come with purpose.

My role was straightforward. Greet voters in a friendly manner, look them up in the county voter registration database, verify their identity, resolve any issues, ask them whether they seek to vote a Republican or Democratic ballot, and have them sign a sheet of paper which they traded for their ballot at the next work station. There were few complications during my shift.

Some asked why I had to know their party. We did so to determine which of the two primary ballots to give them. Some looked indecisive, as if my question was unexpected and they needed to give it some thought. Voters weren’t used to the actuality of declaring a party, even if it was to a person paid to hear it. It is one thing to think a person belongs to a party, quite another to say it out loud. Every voter seemed a serious person.

Faces told a lot about the day. Serious, concerned citizens were finding their way to the polling place. For some, simply arriving and completing the process required determination.

I noticed the outfits they wore in presenting themselves to poll workers. Some wore flip flops, shorts and a t-shirt. Others wore “outfits” where some thought went into putting together a look with Capri shorts, top, jewelry, and footwear. Some voters presented the same way they did in other places I have found them in the city, with worn jeans, boots older than some of the voters, and an assortment of chains holding a wallet and such. It was an experience of surfaces. In the few moments each voter stood in front of me to check in, all I knew of them was what they chose to present. Behind that presentation of self was a life I may never know.

I’m not sure I want to do this work again. The pay comes in handy, yet it is a very long day. One of the people who roved among several polling places to resolve issues said I should consider coming back for the November general election. I don’t know if I will, but I won’t forget the faces I saw as voters got their ballots.