My friend Noah Millman with an encouraging word:

Let me tell you a story that perhaps explains why I am feeling more irenic than a lot of other commentators today. I spent Election Day working the polls deep in the bowels of Brooklyn, in a predominantly Russian neighborhood that is a Trump stronghold. It was chaos. I saw a host of violations of protocol โ€” tags applied incorrectly; poll workers inappropriately coaching voters in how to mark their ballots; machines malfunctioning repeatedly. Interpersonal animosity got so heated that at one point the coordinator in charge of the polling site called the police on her own deputy, then, when the police left, retreated into the kitchen muttering Queeg-like about how everyone else was against her. Voters, meanwhile, occasionally burst out in either triumphant pro-Trump exclamation or dark warnings that this was our last chance to stop the American Hitler.

But at the end of the day, we held the election. We counted the votes. No one was disenfranchised. No one was intimidated. Multiple voters praised us for running such a professional operation (in response to which I had to stifle my instinctive laughter). I can’t say the count was completed without incident โ€” people were screaming at each other the whole time, and it took far, far too long for so few votes โ€” but it was completed accurately, and with no attempt by anyone to interfere with the tabulation. All the anger and frustration and incompetence reflected the deep dysfunction of a group of people who were still, all of them, trying to make things work as correctly and fairly as they knew how.