María sweeps the steps leading up to her balcony with black railings decorated with hanging flowers pots, wind chimes, and a sign that reads: “LIMBER A LA VENTA AQUÍ” (LIMBER FOR SALE HERE). The sign, set against a beach-themed backdrop, lists 10 flavors, including coconut, Oreo, and tamarind, all priced at $1.50.

It’s only five in the afternoon, but night is already beginning to fall, with the heaviness of the approaching winter. María lives on a narrow street connecting to Allegheny Avenue, north of Philadelphia: two lanes of relentless, aggressive traffic, food trucks with neon lights and names like “El Patrón frituras,” “Puerto Rico Hot Dog,” and restaurants advertising “Hispanic” food or “Latino” flavor.

Next to the Allegheny train station at Kensington Avenue, there’s a bar with brick walls, lit red inside, called “Laberinto de pasión.” A Puerto Rican flag hangs on the glass door, through which I see a giant TV behind the bar, tuned to Telemundo. A reporter in a tie and suit broadcast in front of a line of people at some polling places in the United States. The subtitles read: “Still time to vote.” No one else is watching the TV. The bar is closed and empty, with chairs turned upside down. Around the area, dozens of people suffering from the opioid epidemic move, stagger, or lie on the sidewalk, their skin raw.

It’s election day in the United States. Here, at least in Pennsylvania, polling places close at 8 p.m. At around 5 p.m., María is sweeping her house steps, still undecided about voting. But if anyone has time to make a last-minute decision, it’s her. Her house is directly across from a school that serves as a polling place today.

Originally from Manatí, María has lived in Philadelphia for 17 years in a neighborhood known as Harrowgate. She says her entire family is in Puerto Rico, and although she cares about what’s happening in her homeland, she’s not following the electoral process that is also taking place there today. Regarding the U.S. elections, she’s definitely not motivated, not even to discuss the topic. And from the looks of it, she’s unlikely to cross the street to vote.

With the sky now completely dark, I buy a tamarind limber and cross the street to the polling places. At the gate stands Guillo, a Dominican Republic native, distributing flyers with the “Official Democratic City Committee Ballot.” It’s a list of Democratic candidates for the presidency, Senate, and House of Representatives in Washington, as well as state positions like attorney general, comptroller, and treasurer of Pennsylvania, voted on the same day as the presidential elections. Those running for these positions barely campaign, and almost no one knows them. Generally, people choose them from lists distributed by Democrats (always Democrats) volunteers or paid activists in front of polling places entrances.

Guillo tells me the day has been slow, with few people coming because they’re working. But now, after 5, more are expected to arrive. Unlike in Puerto Rico, where election day feels like a holiday for many, it’s a regular workday in the United States.

From the street, the song “Puerto Rico” by salsa singer Frankie Ruiz blares loudly. It comes from the speakers of a Polaris, a three-wheeled, open-topped sports vehicle, resembling Batman’s car. People in front of the school start singing as the neon-lit vehicle passes. The school is a brick building occupying an entire block. On the side facing Allegheny Avenue, it features murals with messages in Spanish like “Flying toward a bright tomorrow.”

I walk down a slight incline leading to the school’s basketball court entrance, now a polling place. Next to the door is a group of about six women, some sitting on folding chairs, others standing. They welcome people arriving to vote, applauding those who leave after casting their ballots, sometimes highly enthusiastically. They are polling place officials and volunteers, serving as enthusiastic promoters or ‘cheerleaders’ of the electoral process.

They shout in Spanish:

“Thank you for voting, mama!”

“Thank you for your vote, it’s very important! A vote is a vote!”

A young couple enters, and one of the women, knowing I’m standing in a corner observing, shouts at me:

“Papi, take note, the youth showed up.”

A group of ‘cheerleaders’ outside a school during the voting process. Audio by Joel Cintrón Arbasetti | Centro de Periodismo Investigativo

The one who shouts at me to jot down in my yellow notepad is named Carmen. “We’ve seen that in these elections, Hispanics have come out to vote,” she says. “They’ve shown up,” says another woman, over Carmen’s voice, as if echoing her. Carmen finishes the sentence: “They’ve shown up in this vote. Grandmothers have come with their grandchildren. We’ve seen family groups enter together. It’s been a very Hispanic election.”

Carmen has been here since 7 a.m. She says that of those she mentions as “Hispanics,” 99% have been Puerto Rican.

“We’re in the north [of Philadelphia], remember,” she says instructively, referring to the area of the city with the highest concentration of Puerto Ricans. More than 146,000 Puerto Ricans call Philadelphia home. Carmen has lived here for 23 years, always in North Philly. She was born in Río Grande. Her mother still lives in that northeastern Puerto Rican town.

Are you following the Puerto Rican elections? I ask her.

“Of course, we’re following them. I was just talking to her. She, my mother, is watching TV, telling me what’s happening there. She’s told me all about it, that in the polls there, they line up, the streets flood with so many people coming out to vote,” Carmen replies.

I ask what party her mother supports. “My mom is ‘palma,’ (a supporter of the New Progressive Party) as they say in Puerto Rico.” And you, if you were there? “It’s a secret,” she responds. “But here, I’m not going to hide who I support. I support the woman. Because we need a woman who supports us, who helps us rise. And I’m with her 100%, and whether we win or not, I know my vote wasn’t wasted. But to the people who come here, we don’t tell them who to vote for. We tell them, ‘Vote with your mind and heart,'” Carmen says.

She describes her role there as an effort to make the process “massive.” What is evident is that she and the other women here at least make the moment of voting fun and joyful. They celebrate the fact that people come to vote, even if they don’t know who they’ll vote for.

“Because our community is Hispanic, and together we can do something. I’m a mother who lost her son two months ago to violence. So, what happens is we need someone strong who can help us, and if we don’t come out to vote, how are we going to exercise our rights,” says Carmen, dressed in a hoodie and black pants. Her son was 24 when he was killed in Philadelphia. She is 50.

I enter the court where voting is taking place, unsure if I’m allowed, but I go in anyway. The flow of people is constant. They enter and exit voting in about five minutes, without queuing. The court is spacious and excessively lit. The walls are white with a red stripe, and there are at least eight voting machines. Next to one of those machines stands an older woman with glasses, who tells me her name is Nilsa Rodríguez.

“I started here at 7:30 [in the morning]. Participation has been really good. I’ve worked elections for many years, and I’ve never seen a turnout like this, yes, it has been amazing, smooth and no problems at all,” Rodríguez says.

In 15 years of working elections, she says this is the highest participation she’s seen. She’s from Bayamón, raised in Philadelphia, and is 63 years old. She says she’s not following the Puerto Rican elections. In the United States, she got involved in the electoral process following her mother’s footsteps.

Her role here is to observe and oversee the Democrats’ vote “to prevent cheating,” Nilsa says. And to direct people to their electoral divisions, because sometimes they know they should vote in Ward 7 but don’t know the division and end up at the wrong polling place. In that case, a short, hunched woman outside, smoking, tells me in a raspy voice to call her La Flaca.

“I’ve taken quite a few people to quite a few places,” she says. And she does it with her car. Besides transporting people who arrive here by mistake, she also picks up people from their homes who wouldn’t otherwise have a way to get to their polling place. I ask the group of women in front of the polling place if they’re paid for this work. One says it’s voluntary. Another says she gets $100. The other retorts, “That’s not a salary, this is voluntary.”

Carmen advises me to go back inside to interview “a gentleman.” I enter the court and quickly guess who “the gentleman” is. He’s standing at the back, next to a table of polling officials, shouting and whistling, encouraging people, saying, “Come on, let’s vote!” He’s wearing a blue hoodie and has a thick white beard tied in a braid hanging from his chin. When I tell him I’m a journalist, he responds without waiting for questions:

“I’m Puerto Rican, 84 years old, born in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I was in the Army, in Vietnam, and I’m retired. What else do you want to know?” He speaks rapidly and anticipates questions as if he knows the journalistic interview script by heart. “I’ve worked elections for 40 years. More people are coming out to vote than before,” says “the gentleman,” whose name is Emilio, alias “Mike Barba.”

“It means two things, either they want to put Donald Trump in, or they want to take him out. They have their reasons. At my age, and already retired, I have no reason to take anyone out. Hitler could rise, Fidel Castro could rise, Mussolini could rise. None will scare me away. Because with or without a pension, I know how to survive. I am a survivor; I got shot in Vietnam seven times. I spent 30 years defending this country, and they treat you like crap,” says Mike Barba. He avoids mentioning who he voted for. But that lineage of genocides, dictators, and fascists in which he places Trump is more than eloquent.

What motivates him to be here? “I like helping others, and whoever comes here, I help,” he responds. He’s originally from Santurce, moved to Philadelphia in 1956, and has lived on the same street in North Philly for decades.

Outside again. The ‘cheerleaders’ — Carmen, La Flaca, a white woman who doesn’t speak Spanish but laughs at every joke, and a mother and daughter who prefer not to talk to me — continue encouraging those entering and leaving the court. The adult woman with her mother stands, looking toward the gate and the path where people come from; she’s the first to greet them with a “welcome, enter through there.” A tall, burly white man arrives, not amused by the group’s cheers, and Carmen doesn’t hesitate to quietly nickname him “the football player.”

Less than an hour remains before the polling place closes, and so far, I haven’t seen María, the limber lady. She probably won’t vote, and her life will remain the same tomorrow and for the rest of her days.

I say goodbye to the ‘cheerleaders’. And Carmen, who seems to have a journalistic boss’s vocation, tells me to go to another nearby school where many Latinos go to vote. I followed her advice and walked to the other school. There, the atmosphere is like a party. A DJ plays hip-hop in the parking lot, next to the front gate entrance, to liven up the voting process. The school’s gate has signs saying “La Presidenta,” expressing the hope that Kamala Harris wins the election.

I see two women leaving that school, preparing to cross the street. I dare to ask them who they voted for. One of them completely ignores me, crossing the street. The other stays and tells me, covering her mouth slightly as if about to say something embarrassing, that she voted for Trump. Her name is Maribel, she’s Puerto Rican, and she’s lived in Philadelphia for 30 years. She’s 62 and works caring for the elderly in their homes. I asked her why she voted for Trump.

“Because of Russia, China, the communists, the immigrants who aren’t citizens, he [Trump] showed he’s not afraid of them. It’s scary in this nation as we are. I don’t want people from other places coming to destroy,” Maribel says.

She’s not up to date with Puerto Rico’s electoral process but says she “feels a lot for the island.” Her friend signals from across the street for her to cross already. But Maribel wants to keep talking. She asks me several questions. After chatting for a while, she approaches and hugs me tightly as if she’s known me forever. She crosses the street, and she and her friend enter a neo-Gothic facade evangelical church.

On my way back to the train station, a man with a black cane, leaning on the steps of another neo-Gothic church — there are many around here — shouts at me in English: “Who wins?”

I tell him it’s still too early to know. That maybe we won’t know for a couple of days. He remains silent. I spontaneously switched to Spanish and asked if he voted.

In Spanish, he replies no, that he just got out of jail for a DUI (driving under the influence), that he has no IDs, and that he lives on the street. I tell him what I’m doing around here, interviewing people, asking about the elections. With distrust on his face, he tells me his name is Pedro. Originally from San Juan, he moved to Philadelphia in 1994 to work on roof repairs. But one day, he fell.

“That changed my life. I messed up my hands while working in the cold,” he says.

Pedro wants Harris to win. I tell him I’m heading to the station, and he makes a silent expression, signaling, wanting to say it’s far. He tells me to be careful and blesses me.