As far back as I can remember, my parents always took my brother Jack and I to vote with them so we could “see how democracy works” and “exercise our civic duty,” as my mom would say. I loved it — I would always go in with my dad when he voted and he would let me pull the crank, back when you voted with the crank machines with the little arrows to push down. 

I don’t remember much about the 2004 election, except for the rows of red and blue arrows. To five year old me, the machine was huge and confusing. I remember my dad picking me up to pull down the crank, thus casting his vote, and the privacy curtains behind us flinging open. It was magical. I thought that it was so cool, and told my dad that I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to vote.

The first time I voted was when I was nine years old. Yes, nine, like the number between eight and ten.

It was November 4, 2008. The year that there were two new candidates on the ballot, as the Bush administration neared its final days — after eight years in power. Barack Obama, an Illinois Senator, faced off against Arizona Senator and war veteran John McCain. My mom’s mind was made up, and she was voting for Barack Obama. My dad, on the other hand, still hadn’t decided who to vote for — despite the fact that we were a “Democratic family.” 

In the auditorium of one the local high schools, I stood next to my dad inside the poll. 

“I don’t care who wins,” he said, looking at me. “You pick.” 

Nine-year-old me stood there, wide-eyed, next to my dad. I get to pick? I get to vote?

Rolling up onto my tippy toes, I pushed down the blue arrow for Barack Obama and Joe Biden. And just like I did in 2004, I pulled the crank (without the help of my dad this time), casting my first ever vote in an election. It felt cool, knowing I had a part in who gets to be the next president of the United States.

2012 was the election I didn’t go with my parents to vote in, thanks to Superstorm Sandy. Barack Obama was elected to a second term, so thirteen year old me was happy, because he was the Democratic nominee — and we were a Democratic family.

Fast forward to 2016. 

I’m five-ish months shy of turning 18. I can’t vote in this election, I can only watch in horror as the election night coverage projects Donald Trump to become the next president of the United States. I cried, afraid of what the next four years would look like.

Two years later, the 2018 midterm elections — the second time I voted, the first time as an adult. The crank machines of my youth are no more, having been replaced with a scantron-like paper ballot. But while the nostalgia of the crank machines are gone, the excitement of voting is still present. I bubble across the ballot, voting blue up and down, left and right. That night I saw the “blue wave” take over and realized that my vote, my voice does matter. I did that. I went out and voted blue!

The 2020 election, the first presidential election I’m eligible to vote in. I watched as potential Democratic nominees dropped out of the race, leaving Joe Biden as the candidate on the ballot. The coronavirus has rocked the “traditional” way of voting, massive amounts of mail-in ballots holding the votes to hopefully change the future of the country, the fear of the pandemic very real and very present still.

I stood in line, on a cold, rainy Monday morning in October, outside Brookhaven town hall to vote early, unsure of what the polls would look like on Election Day. I waited for two and a half hours before I stood inside the polling booth, looking at another scantron-like ballot. It’s 2020 and I’m voting on paper. Hey, at least I went out and did my civic duty.

Was I excited? Of course. 100 years ago I wouldn’t have been able to vote at all.

But now, here I sit, on my couch, twelve years almost to the day since my dad let me vote for him, terrified of the results. 

The last four years have shown how ugly America can be — the hatred and racism buried in deep pockets of the country. I did my part and voted, but did everyone else? Did everyone else either mail in their vote or brave the lines and wait to cast their ballot like I did? I mean, people will do it for a sale on Black Friday — but did they do it for the fate of the country?

I don’t feel the same excitement staying up and watching the Election Night news broadcast anymore.

November 8, 2020. 

The results of the 2020 Presidential Election are announced. Democratic nominee Joseph R. Biden is the president-elect.

I’m at work when the news finally breaks, a busy Saturday in a post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving Target when a coworker asks me if I’m happy. Confused, I ask her what the hell she’s talking about. 

“Joe Biden won.”

I shake my head. No, Arizona and Nevada haven’t called the election yet. No way.

I run behind the guest service desk and pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans to see a slew of text messages from my mom, my brother — even my little sister sent me a Snapchat telling me Joe Biden won.

Am I still nervous about the fate of this country? I’d be a fool not to be. Misinformation spread like wildfire this election cycle, former president Trump claiming the election was “stolen” from him, inciting an insurrection from his mob of MAGA followers a few weeks ago as the electoral college counted their votes, officially confirming Joe Biden’s victory.

However, for the first time in four years, I have some hope. Not a lot, but some.

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