VOTE ON THIS!

By Kristin Scheimer

I carefully slip on my Election Day shirt; a white tank top with an American flag on it, only instead of stars it bears a peace sign.  

I’d bought it at a peace march a few years back when I’d had the distinction of being the only one in our group with family who had marched in the peace marches of the ‘60s.  My uncle had been an especially active demonstrator, and I had felt him walking with me that day.  Today, Election Day, I feel the spirits of some of my greatest heroines walking beside me as I make my way to my polling place. 

The air is dry but warm, and I walk the three blocks with a bounce in my step.  I feel people looking at me.  I know there is no mistaking where I am heading in my special shirt.  As I pass a young man with blond dreadlocks, he smiles at me and says, “Now how are you this morning?  Are you going to vote?”

“Yes I am,” I grin, trying to hide some of the giddiness I feel.  I begin walking with even more of a purpose.  It happens every Election Day.  As I make my way down the street to my polling place I feel them walking with me: Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, Alice Paul and all the other men and women who made this possible.  I feel strong and proud.  I can vote.  I’m a woman and I can vote.  It's pretty exciting.

As I arrive at my polling place, I am quite pleased to see the voting signs and lines of people.  Inside the room, I give my name to the volunteers, and receive my ballot.  Then I stand in line and wait.  One of the volunteers is making a phone call trying to get more voting booths.  He tells us the place has been packed since 7am when they opened.  I look at the line of people waiting to vote.  Every age, gender and ethnicity is represented. I feel proud.  

Finally, it's my turn.  I carefully open my sample ballot, marked with how I want to vote.  I never leave these things to memory.  I had read all the information about each of the candidates, but who can keep them straight?  After voting for President, I take my ballot out of its little case just to make sure the black ink has marked the correct numbered circle.  

After I finish voting, I double-check all the numbered circles.  I just want to make sure.  I tear the pink receipt off the top, slip my ballot into the box, and smile as a volunteer hands me my favorite part: a sticker that reads, “I voted.”  Quite a different experience from Susan B. Anthony’s.  They didn’t give her a sticker after she slipped her ballot into the election box, but they did give her a nice prison cell for the night. 

And then it is done.  I have voted.  I have spoken my piece.  Not just because I idealistically feel a thrill at taking part in a democracy.  I don't just vote because I feel that if I don't my candidate won't win or that I feel my vote counts.  I vote because it's MY right to vote; It's MY voice.   

I vote because in the 1800s, American women went to prison trying to secure suffrage for women, 

because one of the main intentions of the original Ku Klux Klan was to prevent black men from voting, 

because in the 1980s, 10,000 people were killed in Zimbabwe for trying to vote against the existing government, 

and because a short time ago women in Afghanistan defied the Taliban by voting at a time when people were being killed just for registering to vote. 

 I vote because if people are willing to kill to keep a person from voting, then voting must be a damned powerful thing.  I vote for those people who can’t.  I vote against apathy.  I vote out of respect for this very small but powerful right.  I vote, quite simply, because I can.