Youth vote
A vote is a paper crane. Cast by the millions. Stolen by the sneakiest puff of hot air and littered somewhere far off.
I folded my cranes to the left. Sharp shiny corners drawing blood. Tucked into the belly and it always bothered me there were no eyes in the end. Expressionless thing of cold hope.
In grade school, we would tie their heads to strings and hang them from the ceiling with push pins or just tuck an inch of twine under the chalky tile and it holds, asbestos dust and last year’s erasers making the weight.
The ones nearest the exit rustling with every swift slam of the door.
Three or four of them twisted together from the brief disturbances, wings all akimbo, heads smashed. They hung there most of the first term and we grew accustomed to the polka dot effect after a day and forgot they were there in a week.
We had an election that year, three Grade 4 classes shouted and pointed and squealed for two days and wrestled out a capital between them.
It was Monkeys vs. Robots in the end. I can’t recall the third contender. Maybe a crocodile. Something with a thick skin made friendly with a backwards ball cap.
Every class voted for itself save a few bleeding hearts urged to display an early development of pathos. An against-the-grain distaste for winning. “Their song was better,” said the double-crossers. “It’s stupid,” said the losers. “It doesn’t count.”
The winners got a pizza party.
We conjugated French verbs, en masse, ad nauseam. One afternoon we turned the lights off and got to watch a Hollywood movie, “Look Who’s Talking,” and the most Catholic of the parents got mad because John Travolta touches Kirstie Alley’s thigh in a suggestive manner, and so there were no more Hollywood movies after that.
Before Christmas break we cleaned out our desks. Abandoned granola bars and brown bags made soft as baby leather. The tallest kids on chairs to rip down the paper cranes, but they are careless in their job and leave pushpins hidden and hungry for vulnerable feet.
The Monkeys and the Robots and the Maybe-a-crocodile are forgotten and within a year the reminder of it is embarrassing and we move on to more serious elections, like class treasurer.
I took a paper crane home and drew eyes on it but it had a carnivorous effect so I threw it away in the end but not before trying to make it fit in. Put it on a shelf between a koala bear and a Cabbage Patch Doll and the crane looked like it was going to eat them when I wasn’t looking. Or when I was looking, which was too terrifying to let pass.
I was a year shy of being able to vote in the Quebec referendum, which made the idea of a vote very serious and precious to my generation. A cold hope of singular responsibility. Our first legal vote was the 1997 federal election.
“Their song was better,” said the double-crossers. “It’s stupid,” said the losers. “It doesn’t count.”
It’s like that every time. Grow mystified on the short walk home from the polls, back to where you belong, wondering what you’ve done, if anything. Draw the eyes on it in the hopes of uncovering its humanity. Try and make it fit and pretend the carnivores don’t see you.
Those paper cranes were a nice idea though. Creased and tidy busy work.
About the Author
Amelia Curran (musician) is a Juno Award-winning songwriter from St. John’s who is celebrated for her complex and poetic lyricism that delivers powerful imagery in song. Amelia’s political and humanitarian work has seen her raise awareness about mental health issues through community initiatives and documentary work.
As a speaker and author, she has brought these discussions to schools and music conferences across Canada.