[dropcap]M[/dropcap]y mother was born and raised in South America. When she was a young girl in Peru in the 1950s and 60s, she often listened to her parents’ friends and neighbors discussing the various candidates running for office. She and her siblings would gather with pad and pencil to tally the votes as they were read. It was exciting and felt like a game. When her family immigrated to Canada in 1968, she no longer knew that same inclusion. She recalls feeling that she “just had to be submissive” to the process taking place around her.
She married my American father in 1976 and was naturalized an U.S. citizen in 1988 before his career with the U.S. State Department took us overseas for his first assignment. I remember that exciting day; the swearing in, the parade float she sat on in Washington D.C., friends gathering to celebrate at our Maryland home that evening. And only a few months later, she cast her first vote as an American citizen in support of George H. W. Bush. She felt pride and gratitude in being part of this solemn process.
This election cycle has certainly been memorable. My four sons have listened to my husband and me discuss the candidates, watch clips from interviews and the debates.
[pullquote]”And suddenly, I had tears fill my eyes. I blinked them back, feeling a little foolish to show that kind of emotion at a plastic waist-high table in the Nacogdoches County courthouse annex.”[/pullquote]
My one-year-old daughter kicked her feet, squirming in her stroller, on the first day of early voting as I filled in the rectangles next to names of men and women competing for civic office. And suddenly, I had tears fill my eyes. I blinked them back, feeling a little foolish to show that kind of emotion at a plastic waist-high table in the Nacogdoches County courthouse annex. But, all around me was the hum of volunteers directing voters through the identification process and handing out paper ballots, friendly greetings and jovial admonitions to take an “I Voted Early” sticker on the way out. Lying passively in front of me was a sheet of paper that I got to fill out any way I chose, including writing in any of the names legally approved and taped to the table top – which I did confidently, for Evan McMullin. What a great privilege, I thought. But, an awesome and humbling responsibility. Who I vote for will impact so many lives, not just my own or those of my family members. It made me pause with wet eyes.
As a woman of mixed ethnic heritage and international upbringing, I have gathered little bits of so many places, cultures, and peoples during our three diplomatic assignments and extensive travel, and tucked them into my heart and mind. There are so many ways to dress a person, to speak a thought, to live a life; so many ways to prepare the same ingredients and create a vibrant array of dishes. We all have something to contribute, was a thought I marveled over as Spanish coastline, Dutch gardens, or Austrian Alps passed my childhood minivan’s window.
[pullquote]”Our vote is our voice, our conscience, our hopes, our fears all in one series of marks, each unique from the next voter or the one before.”[/pullquote]
By putting our hand to the ballot, pen tip quivering with anticipation, we add our individual experience to the collective outcome that is our nation. All the talk and rant and discussion and debate and accusation and analysis of the past year, and more, comes to a head. Made of ink. Our vote is our voice, our conscience, our hopes, our fears all in one series of marks, each unique from the next voter or the one before. We can step out of the box of other people’s expectations and into the voting booth with our own will and reason to guide us. Then walk out with a smile and a nod to hold the door for someone else coming in.
