Early Voting Story Time: The Silent Ones
Early voting kicked off in Georgia today, and the polling station had that fake hype vibe—like when someone tries to convince you that pumpkin pie is just as good as sweet potato pie.
Everybody’s smiling, nodding, and going along with it, but deep down? We know better.
There were no Kamala shirts, but the chatter said it all. “Kamala’s got this, no question,” one lady whispered like she was trying to hype herself up.
“She’s about to flip everything around,” another guy chimed in, sounding like a student on his second guess during a test.
I stayed quiet, nodding here and there, keeping my face neutral. Meanwhile, inside, I held back a grin. Y’all think Kamala’s got this? That’s cute.
My mind was already made up—Trump was getting my vote, but I wasn’t about to say that out loud. Not here. Not today.
Then I saw them—my people. The silent ones. Scattered through the line like undercover agents. We weren’t clapping, we weren’t hyping anything, just standing there with arms crossed, trading glances like, This ain’t it.
One brutha in a Braves cap caught my eye, gave me a quick head shake, and I gave him a little nod back. No words needed. We knew what’s up.
Meanwhile, the Kamala hype train rolled on. “She’s gonna bring everybody together!” someone said with the same shaky confidence folks use when they swear, “Pumpkin pie is basically the same thing as sweet potato!”
I almost burst out laughing right there, but I held it together. Y’all really think that? Man, bless your hearts.
When I finally reached the machine, I stepped right up like a man on a mission. I scrolled right past Kamala’s name without hesitation and clicked Trump. That little click felt like sneaking the last slice of sweet potato pie before anyone even realized it was gone.
Submitting my vote? Chef’s kiss. If only they knew.
On my way out, the poll worker slipped me an “I Voted” sticker, like it was top-secret intel.
Out in the parking lot, I saw the brutha in the Braves cap leaning on his truck. We locked eyes again, and this time, I couldn’t hold it in. I cracked up, throwing him a thumbs-up. We did it—Silent Squad for the win.
I climbed into my car, glanced at the MAGA hat in my glove box, and thought about throwing it on—just to roll through the lot one good time for the culture. But nah. Some jokes are funnier left unplayed.
As I drove off into the crisp autumn air, that “I Voted” sticker gleaming on my chest, I grinned all the way home. If only they knew.