I voted in Italy for the first time. Here’s what it was like

From a very young age, I loved the voting booth.

I remember going to the local school on election days with my parents and accompanying them into the little curtained-off area that held the voting machine; sometimes, they even let me press the buttons (directing me, of course, to the correct choices).

My enthusiasm for voting continued into adulthood. I always tried to submit absentee ballots when I was away at college and, later, dutifully did so during the Covid years, determined not to miss an election. Whether the ballot would decide a president or a mayor or a city council member, I was keen on making my voice heard.

Recently, I carried that passion over to my new home in Italy where, as an Italian citizen, I’m entitled to vote just like my Italian-born neighbors. A couple weeks ago, I was called upon to do just that.

The Italian government was asking its citizenry to weigh in on a constitutional amendment. This referendum, a simple “si” or “no,” had the potential to reshape the Italian judiciary, a wonky but nonetheless important decision. (If you’re curious, here’s a good explainer).

I walked across the neighborhood on a Sunday night (the polls were open until 11 pm!) and found the school that, much like in my native New Jersey, would serve as my polling place.

Inside the classroom, I present my voting card and photo ID to be checked against the voting rolls. For once, there are no glitches with my recently-acquired documents, and I am directed to another table across the room.

A kind volunteer unfolds a large paper ballot, the bottom half of which is occupied by two big boxes: “SI” and “NO.” I’m also given a pencil. The matter being rather simple, and already decided in my mind, I grab the pencil and move my hand to the ballot, ready to make my mark.

No! the volunteer intervenes. Not out in in the open! You need to go into the ballot booth! Oh, yes, of course. 😅 In my excitement, I did not even notice the row of curtained stalls behind the table. I sheepishly take my ballot and pencil and head toward them. 

But, I realize, I also do not know how to properly mark this ballot. Am I meant to circle my preference? Fill it in, Scantron-style? I ask the volunteer: “Do I make an ‘X’ for my vote?” He shrugs, as if this doesn’t matter, and says something like, Sure, that’s fine.

Now properly armed with instructions, I swish the curtain behind me, plop the paper on the little table, and draw a big “X” over the box of my choice.

I emerge and hand the ballot back to the volunteer, who then drops it into a cardboard box, to be counted later (I presume) by hand. So I guess it really doesn’t matter how you mark the ballot; no machines here.

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I walk out still laughing about my attempt to vote with a total lack of privacy, and also with a feeling of satisfaction that I’m contributing to my country’s civic life. And is that a small swell of pride? I think it is. 

Every so often, I encounter Americans living in Milan who put scant effort behind integrating into Italian society: Who get by without learning much of the language, or who don’t follow local politics.

I get it, to a large extent: Moving to a foreign country is hard and overwhelming and sometimes the best we can do is just get through the damn day.

And while I can speak Italian and vote, it’s also because I’ve had a big head start. I learned the language back in college, and am lucky to have the ancestry that grants me citizenship. Not everyone is so lucky.

But still, I like to think I actively choose to make the most of these privileges. I force myself to read and listen to Italian news, even when it sometimes feels impenetrable. I try to adapt to cultural customs. I mean, I even give myself Italian language homework!

So forgive me for feeling a bit proud that I engage in the civic life of my new home, that I learn about its politics, and that I vote when the moment calls for it.

I’m only mad that I didn’t get a sticker.

Every week, I ask my readers a simple question, and reveal the answers in the following week’s newsletter.

This week, I leave you with a film shot from my recent trip to Venice.