It's All About Me

Liz doesn't live here any more

I don’t like to talk politics at the best of times. Heck I don’t like to talk politics at the worst of times either. It’s not because I don’t have strong political beliefs… I do. I just get so passionate and worked up when discussing my views that it does more harm than good. It’s gotten to the point where our house has a strict “no politics after 10pm” policy. That, coupled with our “no Q & A on the ABC before bed because it makes Liz all angry-like” usually means happy, and stress-free Liz. Of course, come election time, it usually means I have a less-than-comprehensive understanding of party policies. I admit it, my personal party policy is “vote above the line ALL the time.” But this election was different. This time I was so incensed at the tripe pouring from the mouths of our supposed leaders that I felt I should study up and make an informed decision when I mark my ballot.

Except that this year, I wasn’t going to HAVE a vote.

That’s right. No vote for Liz.

I’ll start at the beginning. I move around a lot. I mean A LOT. Five times in three years a lot. This means that I’m not always the quickest off the mark when changing my enrolment details. After all, I never quite know when I am going to have to pack up my swag and shove my life in the back of a truck again. So when I moved out of my little apartment in Kelvin Grove to move in with The Boy I took a little longer than usual to reclaim my electoral rights. But, as the AEC is a big fat stalker, sure enough it wasn’t long before that little purple form showed up in my mailbox, bugging me to update my details. What I have never understood, is if the AEC knows when I move, why don’t they just update my details themselves? Why isn’t there a little box to tick on your ‘change of address’ licence form that says ‘Electoral details as above’? Ahhh that’s right, because government departments don’t talk to each other and that would, god forbid, be ever so slightly more work for them! I resentfully fill in the form and post it off, confident in the knowledge that I have just signed myself up for an automatic fine, should I forget to vote because I am doing something more interesting like… oh I don’t know, living?

Fast-forward to the present. All the ads to update your enrollment details by a certain date wash over me. I don’t need to because, for once, I actually did that on time. The election draws nearer and I am getting more well informed by the day. I have watched so many shows, read so many articles, and listened to many different points of view to make up my mind who will receive my vote. It’s particularly important this year as by this point I have formally decided that yes, Tony Abbott is the devil, and I need to vote however I can to keep him out.

But something isn’t sitting easy with me. For some reason my brain keeps telling me to contact the AEC, just to make sure that everything is A-OK. So once more, I let my anxiety run my life and make the call. I spell my name, recite my date of birth and quote my address to the girl on the phone. “Could you be enrolled under another address?” she asks in that nasal tone that only call centre operators seem able to develop. “Excuse me?” I ask. “COULD you be enrolled at ANOTHER ADDRESS,” she emphasizes. “Um, I don’t think so but… well here’s my old address…” I recite the address to her. I barely get to the suburb when she cuts me off. “AHHHH yes here we are. You’ve been struck off the list.”

“Pardon?” I ask, unsure what she means.

“The electoral role,” she says. “You’re not on it.”

“How is that even possible?!” I ask, incredulously.

“Weeeeeeeeeell,” she drawls. “We tried to contact you at your old address and you didn’t respond so we struck you off.”

This doesn’t make sense. “WHY on EARTH would you contact me at my OLD address?” I ask.  “You sent me mail at my NEW address and I changed my enrollment on TIME for once.”

“Yeaaaaah,” she continues, “we never received that. And when you didn’t respond to our letters…”

“WHAT FREAKING LETTERS?! WHY WOULD YOU SEND ME LETTERS WHEN YOU KNEW I HAD MOVED? You sending me a letter at my new address is the only reason I RE-ENROLLED IN THE FIRST PLACE!” I shriek, clearly put out.

“I can’t answer that ma’am,” she says, plainly disinterested.

“So… can I vote then?” I ask.

“No,” she replies curtly.

“No? That’s it? NO?” I ask.

“That is correct. No. You can vote in the next one though.”

I hang up, dejected. All that work and research for nothing. And suddenly, I cared a whole lot about politics. I wanted my vote, I wanted my say, it was my bloody democratic right, damn it! Never one to shy from a confrontation, the Boy jumped to my defence, recalling the AEC to see if there was anything else I could do. Apparently the first lady had been VERY unhelpful and, technically, I could rock up to the polling booth and demand my constitutional right.

And that’s what I did. I marched right in ready to give them what-for. Turns out I didn’t have to. There was an actual table full of people like me who had somehow disappeared off the electoral role.

“So, how do I know if my vote has been counted?” I asked.

“You won’t,” the AEC rep said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” I said, feeling dejected. I somehow feel a little forlorn and more than a bit useless. So much research and I have no idea if it even mattered. And what’s worse is that I voted in the seat of Brisbane… a seat that was SO close that it was be decided by the results of the provisional votes alone. I feel like a failure of an Australian.

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