Scenes from an overflowing, confusing caucus night

Scenes from a caucus: Not my first. Perhaps my last.

Scene 1. Leaving work, my colleagues ask with genuine interest: "Why are you going to your caucus?" Because I want to register my support for my favored candidate. And this year there will probably be a lot of young, enthusiastic caucusgoers, which is encouraging and inspiring to see. Plus, I have a resolution to offer on an issue I care about.

Scene 2. Walking the six blocks to the local elementary school, it's chilly, but delightful to be able to get out on ice-free sidewalks in the early March dusk. A car slows and the driver asks, "Where's the caucus?" Just a couple more blocks. See you there!

Scene 3. Lines out the door. Drivers looking for parking places. Walkers converging from all directions. This is democracy in action. I'm proud to be a part of it.

Scene 4. Finally inside. Friendly volunteers use their phones to look up people's precinct numbers, directing everyone upstairs to find the correct room. Bottleneck. Gridlock. Inching along. But good spirits all around. We can do this; it's a nice problem to have.

Scene 5. By chance I end up near the door of the appointed room. No one is going in or coming out. A kind soul a bit closer to the action relays information. "They're electing a chair. We haven't missed anything." The line for the precinct meeting next door is moving quickly, people receiving and casting their ballots and leaving if they choose. Are we doing something wrong here?

Scene 6. Ballots appear for those of us stuck in the hallway. We write down our presidential preference and give the ballots to the volunteer collecting them, who will take them into the room to put in the homemade ballot box decorated with silver wrapping paper. Quaint. We are trusting. People with young children, and many others, are relieved that they've exercised their voice and begin to make their way out of the crowd. But I have my resolution to introduce, so I make my way further into the crowd.

Scene 7. We wait. Someone mentions signing in. Where? On what? I listen to the murmurs. "No one should have voted before signing in." "But lots of people did. That's what we were told to do out in the hallway." "Do the number of votes need to match the number of sign-ins?" "Who's in charge?" "What happens next?" "Is this what you expected?" "Is this how it was last time?"

I manage to sign in, and wonder if my ballot ever made it into the box. Some in the packed room sit with knowing looks, not surprised by what they see, and not alarmed. Others, including me, are restless — losing patience, losing confidence.

Scene 8. With people still in line to cast a ballot, we seek volunteers to count them when it's time. Volunteers step forward, and we're grateful. But progress is slow; confusion grows. Sensing discord building and anticipating protracted discussion about procedural matters (again, not my first caucus), I weigh my options and find a pathway out of the room.

Scene 9. The hallways and stairwells still teem with neighbors. The line still extends outside the building. It's encouraging and inspiring, I suppose, but also sad that it's so difficult to participate. The walk home is chillier and darker. I carry with me my unheard resolution and a vague sense of failure.

Beth Wiggins lives in Minneapolis.