I voted today. Early voted.  When I walked in the little eight-booth voting place, the air was tinged with a quiet excitement.  The elderly poll worker in a sweater vest looked pleased, and was helpful.  There was a line, but it was short, and it moved quickly.  The energy was palatable – a sense of purpose mixed with respect.

I was excited to be there, puffed up a bit, I admit, with a hushed pride. After 46 years, you’d think I’d be used to it.  But, as I inked up the ovals, I felt it once again – goose-bumps that come with doing something important.  It never fails. Each time, no matter how unsettled I feel about the nastiness of an election, I feel this way. Here’s why. 

I grew up outside of the U.S., sometimes in countries that were not democracies.  While living in one as an impressionable 14 year-old, the reigning dictator was overthrown in a bloodless coup.  There were tanks as well as jubilation in the streets as a democracy was born.  

During the first election, the turn-out was huge. Stamped in my memory is that each party was identified by a color: red for the communist party; yellow for the socialist party; white or green for the more moderate parties, the choices of my friends’ parents.  In this fledgling democracy, a vote was cast for a party slate, and because the majority of the population was illiterate, the ballots proudly placed in slotted boxes were color-coded.  

I also remember my older sister’s boyfriend, a young man who spent time in prison for protesting the dictatorship, something I only learned when he was released.  I admired him – a lot.  I was young, but I understood what was sacrificed for an ideal.

Although we lived abroad, we kept up with American politics during dinner table conversations. I learned that opinions differ and opinions matter. I became passionate about politics. My parents always voted – at the U.S. Embassy. When I came to the States to live, as soon as I was eligible to vote, I did.  It never occurred to me not to.  To this day I can’t comprehend people who don’t. 

When my children were little, I took them to vote with me.  It was always an exciting ritual to walk into the booth, close the short little curtain around us with great flair, and begin to choose. They particularly liked being allowed to punch my choices with the punch tool. It felt special.               

The other night, my granddaughter, age 4 ½, called me to proudly announce she had voted.  Mommy took her.  She told me she was wearing her sticker.  I asked for whom she voted.  Resolutely, she told me.  I cheered; she laughed. 

I am grateful to my daughter-in-law for making the act of voting – of choosing – important, and for passing on to yet another impressionable child that our opinion matters.  Each of us has a choice in the direction of America, and we have the right – and the duty – to express it through our vote.  Many people around the world don’t have a choice.      

As the scanner grabs my ballot to be counted, I feel for an instant that the only vote that counts is mine.  Mine will make the difference.

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