60 Years of Voting, 60 Years of the American Way

First came the sample ballots. Then the Official Voter’s Guide. Then the avalanche of glossy, four-color ads, and the barrage of TV ads, and pleas and warnings through social media, emails, texts, and irritating robocalls. Finally, I received the mail-in ballot. A thick envelope with detailed instructions for how to fill it out and return it. There were so many options: Return by mail — no stamp required; Take to an official ballot drop box; Wait until the voting centers open and leave your ballot there; Drop your ballot off at any voting center on election day; Vote in person.

This year marks the 16^th presidential election in which my vote will be counted. The first was the year of Kennedy versus Nixon — 1960. It was a big year for me. I became a wife. I began my career as an educator. I turned 21. And I voted. My vote was an official confirmation that I transitioned into adulthood. And I remember it all.

For the first time in my life, I went to the neighborhood polling place on my own. I entered the canvas-enclosed cubicle and marked my ballot. I emerged with pride and wore my “I Voted” sticker for the remainder of the day. I remembered the messages of my history and civics classes: “We may support different candidates, but the beauty of our democracy is that the majority rules. Whichever candidate gets the most votes wins and, on that day, we accept the results as a single nation with a peaceful transition of power. This is the American way.”

Fast forward to the 2020 election. As I filled out the sample ballot one candidate and one issue at a time, I consulted piles of accumulated recommendations and endorsements collected over the preceding weeks. So many individuals and institutions are seeking my one single vote! And I felt the urgency. The choices are not subtle. Each vote points in the direction of a distinctly different future for my children, for my grandchildren, for every one of us. Each vote is nuanced, with complex meaning and critical potential. But lines have to be drawn and selections have to be made.

Each vote points in the direction of a distinctly different future for my children, for my grandchildren, for every one of us.

So I decided on candidates and issues one by one. I finalized my decisions as I transferred the pencil markings on the Sample Ballot to the little circles on the Official Ballot with black ink. Finally, folding the heavy sheets into the mailing envelope, I sealed the flap and carefully signed my name, entered the date and my address as instructed, checked it over numerous times to make sure that I hadn’t omitted anything or made any errors, and made my way to an official ballot drop box.

I got out of the car and walked the few steps to the box. I stood in front of it for a few minutes as I held the ballot between my thumb and my index finger and then finally let it slide into the small dark slot. As it left my hand and disappeared, my heart literally turned a little emotional somersault. I slowly got back into the car and, as I turned the ignition key, I thought back to the election of 1960. Light-hearted then, my heart felt heavy on this day, its chambers pulsing with the echoes of vitriol and fear that have invaded our collective spirits throughout these past months.

This year, three of my four grandchildren are first-time voters. I think that they are feeling the gravity of this election as I do. I wish that I could gift them the exaltation of that day in 1960, when I first voted with pride, with complete faith in our system and in the future. But I know in my heart that the exaltation of casting my first vote is a gift that is not mine to give. In my heart, that is still capable of turning somersaults, is a prayer that they, as was I, will also be granted faith in an America to which they proudly pledge their allegiance … as one nation, under God. This is the American way.

Rochelle Ginsburg, educator, facilitates book group discussions for adult readers.