When I was younger, I often steered clear of political conversations. My hesitance was rooted in a lack of understanding of the political landscape and a fear of being outmatched in debates. I hadn’t taken the time to reflect on my own beliefs; while I could name key figures in my political party, I struggled to articulate why I felt aligned with them. As a result, I let election cycles pass me by, casting my vote every four years without much thought about what Congress really did or who was representing me.
That all shifted for me after the tragic events at Virginia Tech. In April 2007, a deeply troubled student took the lives of 32 young adults on campus. I, like many, watched in disbelief as discussions around gun control, campus security, and mental health services unfolded. I cried as I saw the faces of the victims, and my heart ached for the families affected. As a mother of a son about to enter kindergarten, I was filled with dread. Who would ensure his safety at school? What mental health resources were available in my community? I realized I knew little about where my tax dollars were going, but I was determined to change that.
Fortuitously, a local politician organized a pancake breakfast to engage with constituents shortly after the tragedy. Nervous but resolute, I arranged for childcare and headed to the event. Walking into the fire hall, I felt apprehensive. Who was I to question a government official? But I reminded myself that I was a concerned mother, seeking answers for my child’s safety. I was a citizen who had the right to speak up, a right that countless others fought for.
As I settled down with my pancakes, I listened attentively and waited for my opportunity. When my turn came, I stood up, twisting my wedding ring for comfort, and looked around at the other attendees—ordinary people just like me. I found my voice and asked the politician what measures he would take to protect my son in light of the Virginia Tech tragedy. It felt empowering.
To his credit, he responded earnestly, discussing budget constraints and bureaucratic challenges. While he didn’t have all the solutions, I felt heard, and that was enough for me. Later, I met the local fire chief, who shared detailed plans for school safety and assured me he would do everything in his power to protect my child. I left that breakfast filled with a sense of empowerment, not from the pancakes, but from participating in democracy. That fall, I proudly cast my first vote in a local election for that very politician.
That experience solidified my reason for voting. I don’t participate to argue or belittle opposing views; I vote because it gives me a sense of control in a chaotic political environment. When political rhetoric makes me uneasy, I remind myself that I have a voice, and I can make it heard. I vote because the individuals representing me live in my community, shop at the same grocery stores, and ultimately are just people like me.
I vote because I’m no longer that uncertain woman I used to be. I vote because not long ago, women fought hard for the right to voice their opinions at the polls. I vote because I believe in my values, and I refuse to shy away from political discussions. I feel like a superhero when I cast my vote, and I encourage everyone to do the same—whatever it takes, whether you need to arrange childcare, take your kids with you, or squeeze it into your lunch break, make sure you VOTE in November.
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In summary, voting is not just a civic duty; it’s a powerful expression of our beliefs and an opportunity to influence the future.