Election
Day works as a sort of tab in a binder full of papers (not women) representing
your life like a presentation tended to be handed in to God or Buddha or
whoever or whomever the binder will be thumbed through nodding their head and
looking over the work you’ve done.
Every
four years, the climate of political action begins to stir and the media buzzes
with the constant newsfeed their viewers are now suddenly engaged in – it’s a
whole connectivity that occurs on that fateful day when we all take a moment
and step outside of our daily lives to make a decision for a much grander,
broken picture that we want to hope we can fix.
Or
at least that’s what I think.
But
that’s the point of being American, no? That I can toss in a metaphor about a
life binder and make an opinion about how voting awakens people and unites them
in remembrance that they live in the United States of America.
Four
years ago I could give a crap about everything I just stated.
For
reals.
I’m
not proud about being frank here, but regardless, I really didn’t care. I had
other concerns at that time like graduating and figuring out what the next step
was in my life. What did my next goal entail and where would I direct my
ambitions and drive? Where would I focus my personal power (I know, dramatic,
but that’s what was crossing my mind: personal
power)?
I
was plagued by the weight of my decisions in 2008. But so was Obama. And
McCain. Hell, maybe even Palin took a moment to consider a few things…or maybe
not. I’m not sure. That woman makes me nervous – and not in the exciting
whoknowswhatshe’lldonext kind of way. No – she made me nervous in a
I’mgoingtoclosemyeyestillit’sover way. But I digress.
The
way I voted back in 2008 was that of typical ignorant young voter. Again, I’m
not proud. I looked at my ballot like I would look at my Scantron in my
oceanography class: bewildered and slightly panicked. My eyes grew big as I
realized I only knew one answer: the President. That’s it. That’s as far I went
when I allowed myself to get caught up in propaganda and the immediate coolness
of Barack Obama and his “Yes We Can” magic. It was the first time I was charmed
by a politician and the first time I welled up with tears during speeches given
in several middle, square states watched closely in the small frame of my
laptop screen.
I
let myself walk right up to that cardboard voting booth, and pass casting my
vote for Obama, stand idle as I wished I could copy off my neighbor.
It
was a democratic low – a personal low – that I did not inform myself because I
was busy with “other things.”
2012,
I registered myself (not a kind volunteer doing all the work for me on campus),
I looked up my polling location (not
merely walking to school and following the rest of the crowd), I studied
(versus not), and I confided in close friends who knew more than I in certain
propositions. During my last vote I didn’t realized that they even existed,
furthermore, whether I was suppose to mark “yes” or “no.”
It’s
a surreal and humbling thing to realize you’re never you’re best. There’s
always need for improvement, even if you don’t see it at the time. I sure
thought I was the best thing ever having conquered four years of college on
track and with an above average GPA back in 2008. I was the shit.
It’s
embarrassing.
Settling
comfortably at 26 years old (in three days to be exact), I am accepting my own
endless lists of improvements and making daily mental notes on what I should do
versus what I want to do. I’m trying to cope with my current status as yet another
writer lost in the white noise – figuring out how can break through because it
will matter. I matter. It’s even hard to write that – that I matter – as a
writer. When you both accepted your infinite state of progression and passion
to lead – be it literary or political - it can be daunting. Just a little.
Who
knows what I’ll record on the next tab,
2016, and who knows who’ll be reading. I can only hope to be better.
So
I voted.
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