Oh yeah, back in the glorious 1970s I was a proud Chicago Democrat precinct captain in the 43rd Ward. That charming slice of near North Side real estate sat between North Avenue and Schiller, Wells and LaSalle. My little 650-voter fiefdom was so deeply, wonderfully Blue you could have dyed Lake Michigan with it. Republicans? Adorable. They had about as much presence as a snowball in July.
Election Day was always such a heartwarming scene. There would be a uniformed Chicago cop standing there, looking official and everything. But heaven forbid that poor guy actually tried to do his job. Next thing you know he would be transferred to the farthest, most miserable corner of the city. So naturally, the boys in blue developed a very convenient case of selective blindness. Eyes wide shut, baby.
The only real political bloodsport was between the conservative Democrats, like Mayor Richard J. Daley and County Board President George W. Dunne, and those wild-eyed lakefront liberals. They were basically card-carrying Socialists/Communists only with better hair. Real radicals, those folks.
Meanwhile, George Dunne was also my 43rd Ward Committeeman. He was my personal Chinaman. A genuine nobody like me suddenly had clout that actually could make magic happen.
Patronage politics? Glorious. Some buddy of mine lost his job? No problem. I would march him into the Ward secretary’s office. Frank Bruno would wave his wand, and poof. Union job with a fat pension before you could say thank you, machine. We precinct captains knew our voters better than their own mothers. We kept them happy with little favors. Parking tickets disappeared. Minor problems vanished. You voted our way or you could take the highway.
I could call elections within five votes in my precinct. We were under so much scrutiny that poll watchers were all over me like a cheap suit. Very little room for funny business there. I was basically running a clean, well-oiled operation in broad daylight.
Now the Black precincts, especially in the Cabrini-Green projects? That was a whole different circus. Folks there had shockingly little interest in voting. Turnout stayed mysteriously low, and the precinct captains were perfectly fine with that arrangement, thank you very much.
Every precinct was supposed to have three election judges to keep things honest. In those neighborhoods, finding an actual Republican judge was like finding an honest man in city hall. Impossible. So they would just grab a loyal Democrat, have him magically switch parties for the day, and call it good. Rules? What rules?
The poll watchers, always white, bless their naive hearts, would pull up and immediately get greeted by enthusiastic young gentlemen from the local gangs. You know, the welcome committee. Cars got keyed. Tires got ventilated. The buildings smelled like a urinal at a punk rock show. Most of them showed up, said yep I was here, and got the hell out well before lunch.But the real magic? That happened after the polls closed. Suddenly all those invisible, non-voting citizens got hit with a massive wave of patriotism.
Election judges and precinct captains rolled up their sleeves and helped these civic minded invisible people cast their ballots.
Miraculously, turnout would hit over 90 percent, and every single one of those votes went straight Democrat. My precinct got their returns in early like good little soldiers. The ghetto precincts? Always fashionably late. Fashionably very productive.
So yeah. Have elections suddenly become completely on the square? Sure they have. And I have got some beautiful swamp land in Florida to sell you at a fantastic price. Cash only, no questions asked.
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