In fall 1992, I was in sixth grade. Then-Gov. Bill Clinton (whom I had favored in the Democratic primaries because he was incredibly charismatic and seemed like he cared about people like me) was trying to end 12 consecutive years (and 20 out of the previous 24) of Republican presidential rule.
I watched at least one of the debates -- the one where a black woman asked the nominees how the economic downturn had affected them.
Then-President George H. W. Bush talked about how he wondered if it would make life harder for his grandkids down the road.
The woman interrupted him, saying she was interested in how it was affecting him THEN, not in the future.
He was taken aback, and he said something like, "I don't know that it's appropriate to make that kind of distinction." It was weak, but it was also clear to her (and to me) that he wasn't suffering and didn't know much of how other people were.
Clinton talked about the poor constituents he talked to every day who were struggling to get by. He bloody shined. This was his turf.
Not long after that, my sixth-grade English/history teacher was talking to us about the election (she'd been a Tsongas supporter, if memory serves, but certainly wasn't unhappy with Clinton).
And Mrs. Cruz (not her real name) asked one student whom she would vote for given the chance.
The answer was something like, "I wouldn't vote."
Boy-o. Wrong thing, of the many wrong things, to say to your history teacher. This woman is still the only teacher I have ever had one of whose weekly homework assignments was for us to watch the news.
The night after the Rodney King beating was on the news, it was all we talked about. I felt so left out because I hadn't watched the news the night before.
And not only did we have to watch the news, we had to understand it. Every Monday, we had to do something called Current Events, wherein we took a news story (not entertainment, not sports, not Metro, news) and presented the abridged version.
This woman was pretty interested in raising a crop of students whose knowledge base extended beyond Tyson's Corner, the cast of Saved By The Bell and the insides of our books. Sure, important to know who Crispus Attucks was, but also important to know that centuries after he died for our freedom, a black man in Los Angeles was getting the shit beat out of him by the police.
So for her to hear that one of her students wouldn't vote, given the chance, was more than a slap in the face. It was a refusal to accept that part of growing up and learning is taking responsibility for your increased role in your society.
And part of that role is voting.
"You can't not vote," she said, because however you vote -- by voting for someone or by not voting -- you are telling this country how you feel.
Vote for a candidate (or against the other guy)? You're saying you want that person.
Don't vote? You're saying you don't want either person in the White House.
Either way, you've registered your opinion.
But beyond that, you can't not vote because this decision affects you and so much more around you. It's like deliberately not getting a job, not paying taxes -- at least, to hear her talk about it. (And she was bloody stern. I'm very glad I didn't make the mistake of saying I wouldn't vote.)
The civic responsibility of this decision so many Americans will register tomorrow (and more than a few will face one last time, if you believe the polls) is, I know, not lost on many here. We have been waiting for this for months, years -- most of us, for much longer than we'd like to have waited.
It can't come soon enough for voters in states without early voting. And even for those states that have assured somewhat less ridiculous lines and waits to vote, we are still looking at the potential of the largest turnout ever, and the largest proportional turnout in quite some time.
More than ever, people can't not vote. For whatever reason(s), they've decided on a candidate and have been itching to be lone voices in a sea of lone voices, gathered and counted all day tomorrow until two people -- two men or a man and a woman -- pass their months-long job interview process.
If my father votes, I have no idea which candidate he'll go for.
He hates all politicians (long story). And while he likes that my brother and I are politically active, he's tired of it all for himself.
But that's not the biggest reason I will be kind of surprised if he votes.
My father, as I've written before, has various unhappy medical conditions, one of which is fibromyalgia. For him, life is literally pain. At my sister's wedding, we came dangerously close to having him in so much pain that not only would he not have been able to dance with her, he wouldn't have been able to do anything. He would have been lying on the ground in writhing pain, feeling like he was on fire.
So standing in line in a crowd of people (he doesn't like meeting new people in person) for hours (we live near a college) waiting to possibly grip a pencil with a hand that hasn't seen a good day in years, and all of that so he can help someone he doesn't really want to see in the White House ... I'm not sure that's happening. And even if that won't be how it goes down, he probably won't even want to get in the car with my mother to go down to their polling place to find out. Heads he loses, tails he loses.
(My mother, on the other hand, is going to vote very reluctantly for McCain. Yes, I know. I've tried. My brother's tried. I think she wants to be pleasantly surprised by Obama, and I also think she figures she'll get less crap from her Obama-supporting people than her McCain-supporting people.)
So when the line gets long tomorrow, don't go anywhere.
Pack yourself a lunch. Bring a book (The Audacity of Hope comes to mind). Take your knitting. Take your iPod.
But take your resolve. Take your determination to be heard, whatever the redness or blueness of the state.
And when your feet get tired of standing, and when you run out of water to drink or something to keep your hands warm, think of my father, who will be overcoming a hell of a lot if he votes.
And think of his half brother, who was born around 1937 and is black, and whose mother was probably turned away from her polling place at least once.
Think of my 87-year-old grandmother, who saw the Army turn her husband into a heavy smoker, a heavy drinker and a man who could not do enough for the troops (his troops particularly) -- and now, if McCain bothered running ads in Maryland, has seen a man talking the talk about supporting the troops while doing a piss-poor job of walking that walk.
My 87-year-old grandmother is voting for Barack Obama. Maryland will go Dem without her, but it will also -- and this is the important part -- go Dem with her.
And think of the people who have come before us: your people, my people -- our people. Americans who did not live to see a black president, and Americans we hope will see one two days from now and smile.
Sure, think of the people subjected to poll taxes and literacy tests. Think of all those who suffered and died so the asterisk by civil rights wouldn't be so glaring.
But my wife's cousins live in a conservative part of Pennsylvania. (I was their first out atheist. I opted out of mentioning that I was also probably their first out bisexual.) And they're good people, though I can't take more than about 30 seconds of politics with them.
And all they need is someone nice and patient to take them out of the ideological tree-covered wilderness of conservatism into the glorious sunshine of ... well, us.
If anything can uproot them from that horrible place where facts go to die, Barack Obama and the progressive movement can.
But he, and they, and we, and you, need you to help do that.
So go vote.
You can't not vote.
If you don't vote, you don't get complain if things don't go your way.
But more importantly, if you do vote, you get to take credit when things do go your way.
The war in Iraq. Torture of prisoners. Drinking and deregulating. People without health care. An energy policy that is one of many concubines of the oil companies.
You have just one voice, but you have as many voices as the most powerful people on Earth.
George W. Bush got but one vote. So did I.
I voted straight Democratic (there were no openly gay candidates, alas) here. I imagine Bush voted straight Republican. So I canceled out his voice in this state, and my wife made it 2-1, us.
Then Laura Bush tied the score, but that's OK. We all get a voice.
Tomorrow, you get to vote for president. Maybe senator and governor, too. And representative, state senator, district judge, school board, all of that.
And it's all yours. The future of our country, your state, your county, your city and your schools -- dozens of representatives, hundreds of millions of lives, billions of tax dollars and world citizens -- rests in your hands.
So tomorrow, add something to your morning routine. Drink your coffee, read the DK front page, check your tires' air pressure.
And vote.
You can't not vote.
Brave the lines sometimes meant to discourage people from voting. Be happy when you reject the politics that says it's OK to make people wait two hours, five hours to vote. Reject the politics of division and the politics of voter subtraction ("I can't stand this wait any longer").
Five hours is a hell of a long time when you're sick, tired, cramping in your legs, hungry, bored, whatever.
A hell of a long time.
But that's five hours for the next four years. 12.328 seconds per day over the next four years, just lumped into one giant "Can you take the pain of standing?" test of mental fortitude. A minute every work week.
Think of the number of minutes you waste every day doing random shit that doesn't help anybody. Lump four years' wasted minutes together and do something useful with them.
You're strong enough. You've done tougher things before. You graduated from college, which is a hell of a lot harder than standing in line. Or you saw a loved one through a painful illness. Or you gave up something fun so your child could have something necessary. Or you volunteered where the people had no future without you, but they needed to be sure you were there for the long haul before they got invested in you.
You've done harder things, taken more time on projects, gone up against nastier opponents (hard to believe of late, I know) than these.
Reject the politics of fear by voting on the issues. Reject the politics of fatigue by bringing a chair. Reject the politics of boredom by bringing a book, the politics of hunger by bringing a cooler, the politics of one-vote meaninglessness ("I'm only one person") by bringing a friend.
Cold? Bring a blanket and a coat. Hot? Vote naked! Flood? Borrow a canoe. (What, you've never voted naked in someone else's canoe? What kind of boring people are you?) Worried about voter suppression? Take your neighborhood with you -- so when Hans von Spakovsky comes around, you'll overwhelm him.
But vote.
You can't not vote. Not after the last eight years and the many before those.