Bringing home the vote
By Andrea Malcolm
The other day I received a letter from Helen Clark thanking me for my help on Election Day. Let me explain. I joined the Labour Party two years ago. Apart from forking out for the annual membership fee ($60), joining the party put me at the disposal of the Mt Albert electorate office and I was occasionally called upon to deliver Helen Clark newsletters.
Trudging from mailbox to mailbox on these distinctly unglamorous excursions, I’d feel that this wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I signed up. I’d planned to make a difference at the grass roots level and get the sort of government I wanted.
But work, play and a baby got in the way of greater involvement.
The one meeting between Helen Clark (as our MP) and local party members that I managed to make it to was a washout because she couldn’t make it (being bunkered in the Beehive for an emergency meeting after Orewa I). And I was put off the various Helen-in-attendance BBQs with the advice “They’re really just an opportunity to hit you up for a donation.” But then election year arrived and even I started to feel motivated. Don Brash has that effect on people.
I offered to be a scrutineer on election day, having only a vague idea of what that entailed. The mechanics of the job were fairly mundane. Turn up, sit by the electoral officer, and, in the case of the Labour Party, write down the page and line number of the voter. This information was collected by Labour runners and taken back to the electorate HQ so that, as the day went by, the party knew who hadn’t yet voted and these people were rung up and offered transport to a polling booth.
Labour is big on getting people to vote because historically the bigger the turnout, the better it does. National scrutineers on the other hand didn’t have to do any of this. The other part of the job was to keep an eye on the whole procedure, make sure the queues aren’t too long, people aren’t walking out without voting or being hindered in anyway.
But what I loved about it was the primo opportunity to people-watch. I was sent to a polling booth in Mt Roskill (home of the Exclusive Brethren; no, none of them voted) and was surprised to see a queue had formed even before the polls opened. There were four Labour scrutineers, two from National and none from any other parties. The woman from National said she wasn’t allowed to talk once the polls opened. My instructions were that we couldn’t answer questions on voting from the public and above all don’t touch the actual roll because this would constituted tampering. When my baby showed up with this father I wondered if there was a rule against kissing the electorate.
Although we were a bit of a backwater booth there was a steady stream of people all day except when it rained. Just as they say, the wet weather had a definite dampening effect on the turnout. In general, an air of excitement filled our battered church hall. A hugely diverse ethnic population meant many immigrant voters and they all seemed to have a real sense of pride and excitement about what they were doing. Endearingly, nearly every parent with kids would give their voting papers to their child and lift them up to put them in the ballot box. People were patient and generally jovial.
At lunchtime the National scrutineers left never to return. The Labour group lasted another four hours. I wouldn’t have minded seeing what happened in the last half hour before the polls closed as veteran electoral officer Don told me that that’s when all the “crazies” turn up. In a past election, one such individual grabbed the ballot box nearest the door and ran away with it. Luckily he was caught but Don had learned his lesson and pointed out to me that none of the ballot boxes in our hall were too near the exit.
At 4pm we headed back to Sandringham HQ where we offered tickets to the election party at the Dominion Road War Memorial Hall. But I was hankering to see my three-month-old as this was the first time I’d been away from him for more than an hour. Plus I wasn’t too sure how much of a celebration it would be. Winston not withstanding, it turned out OK and I got my letter. Now it’s probably back to the coal face - mail drops for the next three years.
The other day I received a letter from Helen Clark thanking me for my help on Election Day. Let me explain. I joined the Labour Party two years ago. Apart from forking out for the annual membership fee ($60), joining the party put me at the disposal of the Mt Albert electorate office and I was occasionally called upon to deliver Helen Clark newsletters.
Trudging from mailbox to mailbox on these distinctly unglamorous excursions, I’d feel that this wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I signed up. I’d planned to make a difference at the grass roots level and get the sort of government I wanted.
But work, play and a baby got in the way of greater involvement.
The one meeting between Helen Clark (as our MP) and local party members that I managed to make it to was a washout because she couldn’t make it (being bunkered in the Beehive for an emergency meeting after Orewa I). And I was put off the various Helen-in-attendance BBQs with the advice “They’re really just an opportunity to hit you up for a donation.” But then election year arrived and even I started to feel motivated. Don Brash has that effect on people.
I offered to be a scrutineer on election day, having only a vague idea of what that entailed. The mechanics of the job were fairly mundane. Turn up, sit by the electoral officer, and, in the case of the Labour Party, write down the page and line number of the voter. This information was collected by Labour runners and taken back to the electorate HQ so that, as the day went by, the party knew who hadn’t yet voted and these people were rung up and offered transport to a polling booth.
Labour is big on getting people to vote because historically the bigger the turnout, the better it does. National scrutineers on the other hand didn’t have to do any of this. The other part of the job was to keep an eye on the whole procedure, make sure the queues aren’t too long, people aren’t walking out without voting or being hindered in anyway.
But what I loved about it was the primo opportunity to people-watch. I was sent to a polling booth in Mt Roskill (home of the Exclusive Brethren; no, none of them voted) and was surprised to see a queue had formed even before the polls opened. There were four Labour scrutineers, two from National and none from any other parties. The woman from National said she wasn’t allowed to talk once the polls opened. My instructions were that we couldn’t answer questions on voting from the public and above all don’t touch the actual roll because this would constituted tampering. When my baby showed up with this father I wondered if there was a rule against kissing the electorate.
Although we were a bit of a backwater booth there was a steady stream of people all day except when it rained. Just as they say, the wet weather had a definite dampening effect on the turnout. In general, an air of excitement filled our battered church hall. A hugely diverse ethnic population meant many immigrant voters and they all seemed to have a real sense of pride and excitement about what they were doing. Endearingly, nearly every parent with kids would give their voting papers to their child and lift them up to put them in the ballot box. People were patient and generally jovial.
At lunchtime the National scrutineers left never to return. The Labour group lasted another four hours. I wouldn’t have minded seeing what happened in the last half hour before the polls closed as veteran electoral officer Don told me that that’s when all the “crazies” turn up. In a past election, one such individual grabbed the ballot box nearest the door and ran away with it. Luckily he was caught but Don had learned his lesson and pointed out to me that none of the ballot boxes in our hall were too near the exit.
At 4pm we headed back to Sandringham HQ where we offered tickets to the election party at the Dominion Road War Memorial Hall. But I was hankering to see my three-month-old as this was the first time I’d been away from him for more than an hour. Plus I wasn’t too sure how much of a celebration it would be. Winston not withstanding, it turned out OK and I got my letter. Now it’s probably back to the coal face - mail drops for the next three years.
2 Comments:
Yes, I've done the scrutineering thing a couple of times. It's always a long day - a good book is essential. Plus, there's always one know-it-all tosspot (usually very old) who tells you that you're not supposed to be wearing your rosette because this constitutes "advertising on election day". Telling these crusty old badgers where to get off is always the highlight of the day.
Me too. Mind-numbingly boring, with always the fear that you might spot an irregularity and then what would you do?
Scrutineers are the unsung heroes of elections. Essential to the process and until now unacknowledged - kind of the opposite of pollsters.
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