I sit in my first-grade classroom, criss-cross applesauce on the red, yellow, blue and green puzzle mat. My teacher, Mrs. Gantner, addresses her restless students. “Today, we vote for President. Take your piece of paper I gave you and drop it in the box with the picture of the man you want to win.”
I consider my paper, stunning white, crisp, too perfect. I crumple it. That’s better.
My classmates get up and place their votes into the boxes.
“I want the young one to win,” one says.
“The other one is too old, he’ll die soon.”
“Why are there no girls?” another asks.
Most place their votes in the box with the white, old man.
Where should I put mine? I decide the young, colored man. He looks different. I want him, not thinking I would be proud of that decision years later.
Waiting in line, I grasp my father’s calloused, working hand. Time for the real vote.
We walk up to the counter and tell the lady my father’s name. Paul Ewert. I walk with him to a more private box than the one in class. My father writes his opinion. He votes for the old white man. When he’s done, he gets a sticker! The elderly lady behind the tall counter sees my excitement and hands me one too. I stick it to my forehead.
Sitting on green plush chairs in my living room, my father and I watch the election results. The young colored man is winning! I can’t understand why my father is so upset. I hide my excitement, pretending to be angry. I want to please him.
High school. Senior year. I’m eighteen and ready to vote in the next election. I can finally stand with what I believe in. Who I believe in. Get what my community needs and deserves. LGBTQ+ equality and representation is my first priority. Now that I’m able to stand up for myself and others like me, I feel validated and reassured. Voting means that I can be me.