In kindergarten, I was oblivious. I think I knew what a president was, and, well, that was it. I asked my parents who they'd voted for, and they told me Barack Obama – a name that signaled nothing in my five-year-old mind as I announced, "Then I vote for him, too!" I imagine my parents laughed at me, or maybe just smiled – perhaps with amusement at my declaration, but perhaps with knowing that for another four years, America would be okay.
In fourth grade, I knew more. I listened when my parents told me about Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, and I stuck nine-year-old labels of "good" and "bad" on them just like the I voted sticker my mom let me wear after I went with her to fill out bubbles on a piece of paper. That Wednesday morning, she entered my room and, when I eagerly asked from my bed, she told me, It looks like Donald Trump won. Why I remember the exact words she used to tell me the news, I don't know, but ... I think I do.
Then there is now. Thirteen is older, but it's young enough to give me a bar of naivete to hang onto, just enough not to fall down an abyss of justice nominations and deaths and mail-in ballots and the magic number of 270. Maybe I didn't understand, but I still cared, more than ever, and I watched people in suits debate through plexiglass and Googled election results 2020 on my school computer. On November 4, when my mother woke me up, I was groggy and tired and I forgot until far later and when I asked – on the year that seemed to matter most – there was no answer.
Not yet.
November 7. I was in my father's car. He was driving me home from building play sets and I wasn't thinking and I was telling him all about painting a table when he politely made me shut up and listen for a minute. The car radio was playing – not our usual classical music, but the news.
Joe Biden has officially been elected president of the United States...
I smiled. Or, somehow I can't remember whether I did, but I know I was smiling inside. Because for another four years, I thought, I hoped, America would be okay.
Thank you, voters.
In fourth grade, I knew more. I listened when my parents told me about Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, and I stuck nine-year-old labels of "good" and "bad" on them just like the I voted sticker my mom let me wear after I went with her to fill out bubbles on a piece of paper. That Wednesday morning, she entered my room and, when I eagerly asked from my bed, she told me, It looks like Donald Trump won. Why I remember the exact words she used to tell me the news, I don't know, but ... I think I do.
Then there is now. Thirteen is older, but it's young enough to give me a bar of naivete to hang onto, just enough not to fall down an abyss of justice nominations and deaths and mail-in ballots and the magic number of 270. Maybe I didn't understand, but I still cared, more than ever, and I watched people in suits debate through plexiglass and Googled election results 2020 on my school computer. On November 4, when my mother woke me up, I was groggy and tired and I forgot until far later and when I asked – on the year that seemed to matter most – there was no answer.
Not yet.
November 7. I was in my father's car. He was driving me home from building play sets and I wasn't thinking and I was telling him all about painting a table when he politely made me shut up and listen for a minute. The car radio was playing – not our usual classical music, but the news.
Joe Biden has officially been elected president of the United States...
I smiled. Or, somehow I can't remember whether I did, but I know I was smiling inside. Because for another four years, I thought, I hoped, America would be okay.
Thank you, voters.
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