Every ten years the state and congressional district lines open up to the public; the only piece of art influenced by the fluctuating votes of human souls. The bold black lines, separating communities with luscious green lawns from those with concrete playgrounds, are redrawn redirecting millions of dollars and sparking waves of protests on state capitol steps. In its sum, the wonky headphones and salamander shapes reflect the imperfect art of gerrymandering. Within its components, the fabric is sewed with the sweat and tears of communities. From ones with family obligations rendering them unable to advocate for themselves to communities a five-minute walk from the state capitol.
In its final form, the line strokes between streets, bayous, and freeways surprise me. Instead of equal representation and distribution of power, districts group communities voting in accordance to a political party with communities who do not vote – essentially maintaining an iron grip on power. To challenge it, I have gone into non-voting communities helping register voters and have taken the time to listen to families terrified of the political process. One of my most cherished memories was meeting an elderly man who had immigrated to the U.S. and became naturalized but never registered to vote. For years, he watched his community change and never understood why he could not stop the process. Now, every time I see the district lines, I sense the unsettled doubt that within each district resides one person taken advantage of and never nurtured with civic love.