I love studying history. I don’t know why. I just always have. It’s one of the few things that I find interesting enough to keep my attention.
I am so glad that I got to take my children with me yesterday to vote. They aren’t nearly old enough to vote themselves, but I still feel like, by taking them with me, they were able to be part of it too. The little old man even gave them “I Voted” stickers too.
My daughter really wasn’t that interested in the whole thing. She said she would just be glad when “all those president commercials was gone”. Here, here to that one sistah. I’m sick of seeing them myself. The first thing my son asked me after he woke up was, “When are we gonna go vote, Mom?” That made me proud. He is only 9 years old, but he was paying attention. He told me that if he could vote he would vote for Obama. I asked him, “Why Obama?” He said it was because he would change things and make it so we wouldn’t have to pay as many taxes as the people who make more money than Dad. Smart boy, that one.
So, after breakfast, off to the polls we went. I expected that I would have to wait in some sort of line. But I didn’t. I was able to get in and back out in just a few minutes. With my son looking over my shoulder and paying close attention to make sure that I did vote for Obama and my daughter fiddling with her dress, I cast my vote. It felt good. This is only my second time voting for a President. But this time if felt like it mattered. This time was important. This time is was exciting.
I spoke to my friend, Cam, later in the day. She mentioned feeling like she wanted to cry all day. EXACTLY, I said!! I felt that way too. Not because of sorrow or sadness… but because deep down, we both knew that we just made history.
I tried to explain to my son the significance of having a black President. I asked him if he knew why this was election was special. He said it was because either we were going to have a black President or a women Vice-President. I told him he was right, but I asked if he understood why that was special. He shrugged his shoulders.
I told him that when his grandmother (born in 1949) was his age, she did not attend school with any black children. She didn’t ride a bus with them. She didn’t eat with them. It wasn’t allowed. He could not comprehend what I was saying. “Why not?”, he asked, shocked. I tried to explain to him what segregation was, but it just didn’t compute for him. In a way, this makes me feel good. In another way, it makes me feel sad. I’m glad that I’ve raised my kids to know there is no difference in our skin color, but I think it’s important that they understand that there was a time when it was a big deal.
There was a time…. but this is not that time anymore….
I’m so proud that I was able to be a part of this.