I worked with my sister, Lisa (who flew in from Brooklyn) at a polling place in Dania Beach from 645am to 7pm yesterday. Our “job” was to spot any issues, trouble-shoot any problems, facilitate situations, and notify Voter Central at Obama Campaign HQ (we ostensibly were “neutral”; we wore no candidate paraphernalia and never spoke of either candidate. The only button we wore said “Voter Protection Lawyer”).

It was a truly inspirational day. Out of maybe 1000 people who voted, more than 900 or so were African America - and the rest were low-income whites and Hispanics. Yet they stood in line together, united in purpose and spirit.

Octogenarians and 18 year olds voting for the first time. Able-bodied and disabled snaking through a long, slow line.  There were grandmothers who’d never voted, and ex-cons whose right to vote had been restored (and some whose rights had been restored, and needed us volunteer Voter Protection Staff to help them get recognized and be allowed to vote).

They all were there to exercise their rights.

We were two white folks in as urban a dot on the SoFla map as you can find. And we were welcomed as friends there to help. We handed out 500 sample ballots, and helped people understand what they were voting on — though we took pains not to influence their decisions. We even kept a dozen from waiting five hours in the wrong line at the wrong precinct.

Little stories will make up the tale of this campaign, and efforts like ours. One man, “Suddi,” his voice tinged in accent and his beard speckled with gray, approached us. He was an auto-dealer garage manager who left for the afternoon to exercise his naturalized right. Hand extended in greeting, he was elated at what had transpired - and effusive in his thanks to two people who came out to ensure no one was left out or cast aside. His emotion drew tears from Lisa. It’s a picture I will never forget.

Another man was denied his vote. The poll worker said he’d already voted. Once he came outside and began speaking with Lisa and a local newspaper columnist, they realized his son - who bore the same name - was the one who had voted. The man returned to the sign-in desk, and was able to vote.

One older African American man, whose mother helped settle Dania back before there was even a county called Broward, was there with his adult children. Son, Trevor, was a Brown University graduate keen on launching a foundation to support mentorship. His daughter recalled her parents taking her to the polling place in Dania, and explaining what it meant - really meant - to vote.

All in all, there were no issues or “flash points” to speak of, mostly because the poll workers assigned to the polling place were from the neighborhood. They knew the voters from the streets, the schools, from church. This was community activism. Children ran about. A former mayor walked the line. People brought snacks and drinks and hot dogs for people who stood at one point for five hours. Throughout it all, people chuckled, they laughed, they had as much fun and camaraderie one can have from such an experience.