My First Vote By Leyla Norman

I remember a chilly November morning almost twenty years ago. I parked in a mostly empty lot at an elementary school way out in the sticks. The place felt remote, but it was only a few miles from my parents’ house in rural southeast Texas. The sky was the usual hazy grey for that time of year. School wasn’t in session that day and the lack of students added to the isolated feeling. The scene felt dramatic, like a theater set built to invite rising action.

As I got out of my car and started walking to the building, I remember feeling excited and full of anticipation. I was doing something important, something I’d thought about doing for years. Behind me I heard tires rolling over the gravel and turned to see my dad’s car pulling into a parking space. Of course my dad would be there with me that day. We drove separately because he had to go to work and I had to get to class as soon as we finished, but neither of us would dream of missing this rendezvous.

My dad jogged to catch up with me.

“Hey, kid,” he said with a wink. “You ready?”

* * *

I sure was. I turned eighteen about a month before I graduated high school in 2001, so I wasn’t old enough to vote in the 2000 presidential election. I’d been so disappointed that my birthday came late; four more years seemed like an eternity to wait for the opportunity to vote. In 2002, I cast my vote in the Texas senatorial and gubernatorial elections, but the state level election didn’t hold the allure of the national election. So, yes, I was ready to cast my vote in the 2004 presidential election!

We went inside the school and followed arrows cut from yellow construction paper and taped on the walls. The building was still and quiet. My dad and I looked from the arrows to each other as we meandered through the dimly lit hallways. The gymnasium door was propped open and labeled with a hand lettered “VOTE HERE” sign.

My dad stepped to the side of the door and dramatically waved his arms at the entranceway. “After you,” he said.

My dad had been ushering me to this moment my whole life. He had impressed upon me from an early age that if I wanted a say in how the country was run, then I needed to vote. He taught me I had a voice and let me know ways to use it.

That day, he was setting an example for me, one I will always remember. His actions demonstrated precisely what he had been teaching me for twenty-one years. He was there to show me how it was done.

* * *

“Our first voter!” one of the two women behind a long folding table announced.

“Well, come on in, honey!” said the other.

The women directed us to find our names on the long list of voters organized alphabetically. Once we signed in, they pointed us to a row of machines lined up against the far wall.

I voted. For the first time in my life, after a childhood of anticipation and preparation, I voted.

Back outside, the air was still chilly, and the sky was still grey. Maybe the world around me hadn’t changed, but I felt different.

* * *

Looking back, I’m not sure who I voted for, what offices were open during that election, or what the current issues were. That was half a lifetime ago for me, and I don’t remember the politics of the day or how I felt about the candidates. I suppose that it really doesn’t matter. I know this: I was taught that my vote had value. I needed to vote. I remember knowing that I had done something critical to help shape the way my future as a citizen of the country would play out. I knew that I had had a duty to do, and I did it. Voting was a rite of passage into adulthood for me and the opportunity to make my very small voice heard.

The day was also memorable because the man who taught me about my civic duty was there to support me. The memory of how I felt that day, my dad being with me, and the cold, grey morning stay with me.

Those days, I was still living at home. I worked part time as a preschool teacher and went to community college full time. I wasn’t ready to spread my wings and fly on my own just then, but taking this step into adulthood was one that left a lasting impression on me.

* * *

While the lesson was taught and learned in those early years, I haven’t always voted in the time that followed. My political views and thoughts about the world have changed and twisted upside down and inside out over the years. I’ve gotten caught up in trying to simply get by and live my life. Making choices and picking what to care about as an adult has admittedly taken me away from voting at every opportunity.

I haven’t always kept myself informed about local or state candidates running for office, and I haven’t always wanted to for fear of information overload. I’ve picked and chosen when I’ve voted, mostly in presidential elections.

Maybe the choices I’ve made over the years wouldn’t make my dad as proud of me as I would like. Sometimes I haven’t honored what he taught me about speaking out through voting. Without voting with him for the first time, I would likely never have had the guts and know-how to walk into the polling place to make my voice heard.

These days, I sometimes feel like my voice won’t be heard even if I do vote. I have to remind myself that, if I don’t vote, my voice definitely won’t be heard. So I think back to that cool November morning when it was still and quiet, and how I made a noise that echoed with others when I voted for the first time. I carry that forward to show my concern for my future and the future of my kids, my country, and the world.

Leyla is an English as another language tutor, freelance writer, and entrepreneur who loves watching movies and reading cheesy historical fiction. You’ll find her trying to build community among international women in her city and chasing a set of twins and a preteen most of the time.