The passion for voting was ingrained me when I was about 12 years old. You see, I was a huge fan of Sunfire romances, a fiction series for young adults that formulaically featured an older teenaged girl during a notable period in American history who is torn between two men. The steamy Sunfires taught me more American history than our family’s set of Encyclopedia Britannicas ever did. I learned about the Civil War, the San Francisco Earthquake, frontier life, the Gilded Age, the sinking of the Titanic, and how to make it in 1930s Hollywood. I also learned to be suspicious of the suitor who offers the most stability and comfort, and that I should instead opt for the beau who approves of my independent streak and free-thinking spirit.
One of the Sunfire romances called Laura offered me an eye-opening glimpse at the women’s suffrage movement. It seemed incredible to me that as recently as 1920, in my grandmothers’ lifetime, American women could not vote. Even more disturbing were the graphic details of the suffragette struggle, including police brutality, hunger strikes and force feedings, and the total alienation and disdain that was heaped upon suffragists from the world at large. It blew my mind. One night I closed Laura and sobbed into my pillow, my adolescent hormones aching with anger and empathy for the injustices perpetuated against my gender. I resolved to never, never to take my right to vote for granted.
Today I woke up early and skipped breakfast in order to make it to my polling place at 5 minutes before 7am. There was already a line and voting had begun early. People were quiet as we inched through the doors of the elementary school and closer to the gymnasium. After about 10 minutes of waiting, I got my paper ballot, filled in the circles, and then checked out. The lines had already swelled to twice the size as when I arrived. The poor old ladies working the polls were going to have a hell of a day.
I walked to the subway, musing upon the euphoric feeling that voting in this particular election has bestowed in my soul. I wonder which suitor Laura and the suffragettes would have chosen: The Black man who defeated the former First Lady for the Democratic nomination, or the extremely old former prisoner of war choose a hockey mom as a running mate? Could they have even fathomed of such an election?
