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Byline: Mimi Swartz
When I was young, my mother used to take me with her to the polls. There was always something magical and mysterious about Election Day, something both wildly public and devoutly private. We waited in long lines alongside cheerful neighbors for what seemed, to my five-year-old self, like hours. The voting booth was like a confessional: even as a child, I couldn't venture with my mother into that solitary, solemn space. Instead, I watched her step in and pull the lever that drew the curtain around her, listened anxiously for the click, click, click of the levers as she pressed them, watched her calves beneath the drapes as she shifted her ...