“So Obama advocates cutting school?” a tall slender man spat, refusing to face my direction. His tall red signs bounced in the air like ?booies? in a sea of political turmoil. My movement to face him was slow, on account of the four 8 foot high blue signs precariously balanced on my arms. Behind my thick fighter pilot aviators, my deep green eyes burned with pride.
“No, actually, I am here today because this election is more important to me than a day of classes, which my teachers are letting me miss”
He stood like a rock, continuing to stare vacantly forward– silence was my answer–condescendence was my answer. I rebuttaled with my omnipresent smile, and turned back to the piles of people pressing into my high school. I was living history, and I wasn’t about to let anybody bring my day down. Even as the hours passed, and the sun boiled away the fog that clung to my me and fellow stick holders, I stood my ground. Occasionally, one of my fellow Red’s would approach me and attempt to chip away my determination with political banter. One of the liveliest of my newfound Republican neighbors was a pompous stubby man, drenched in his own sweat, and looking painstakingly like Michael Moore. While chewing his large wooden march, which simply befuddled me, I was met with yellow teeth and the stench of barbeque chicken infused with a point about Barack’s view on abortion. His rant was soon sprayed across my face, and I became quickly grateful for wearing my sunglasses. My voiced faded under his booming cackle, and I turned away.
Hours later, I found myself pressed into a standing cubicle, sheltering my Voice with a thin cotton sheet. Sweat dripped down my fingers as I filled in those little oval boxes for the first time in my life. I handed in my ballot to a short old man, who murmured “thank you”. I said the same back. As I walked out of my tiny town office, I choose to abandoned the sea of sign holders, and aid my father in his futile attempts at last minute canvassing. I felt I should humor him, on account of the serendipitous parallel between his birthday and Election Day. We drove about our trailer park packed New Hampshire settlement, following a tiny map, which seemingly lead us directly into the woods. As the sun left us, we were met with the lights that outlind the silhouettes of a plethora of characters answering their doors. I had been canvassing for weeks, and was ready for the harshest, most unruly bunch of people. But tonight we were only knocking on the doors of known liberals, a position that eliminated the chance of getting a gun pulled on us. It was practically seven when I persuaded my father that it was too late to “Get out the vote!” any longer. We drove home through the shadows and turns of a bumpy back road in the middle of nowhere.
The rest of the night was spent with our eyes glued to influx of polls illustrated via my father’s computer screen. Our cheers we met with millions across the world, when the monumentous decision was made. On the converse, I felt an equal number of people sigh in sadness and defeat. I quickly released that the next dinner at my girlfriends republican household would be expodeitnally tense. But the smile widened on our faces, and I knew nothing could bring me down from my moment of bliss. For the first time in my life, I felt so important, and I felt so involved. The taunts of the sign holders faded into the background of my pride. For the last few months, while my friends were out to find the next girl, or the next party, I was out for the country. To me, I could have just as well supported McCain, and the importance of my involvement would have still sufficed. I discovered, as I dropped my ballot into an oddly too electric scanner, that I was at last completely in control of my actions; and in some small way, my country. I cried myself to sleep November 4th, not because my country had just made a huge step for African Americans, or because all my canvassing and sign holding had paid off; but because I knew that this was the day I truly became a citizen, the day I became a man.
