Me and Mom in D.C., 1991

Some of my most vivid childhood memories are set against an unusual backdrop- the Mount Washington Post Office. I recall with great clarity the 50s era signage on the brick exterior, the off-white marble steps and brass handrails of the interior, and the back room where volunteers set up cubicles with thick velveteen curtains on Voting Day.

The Post Office was the polling place assigned to my childhood home, and I remember it in such great detail because my mother took me there to watch her vote. In those days before early voting, she signed me out of daycare, preschool, or elementary school on Voting Day. I was given special dispensation to join her in the cubicle. She took care to show me the layout of the ballot, how to use it, and who or what was on it. Afterwards, we’d walk to the playground across the street, and she’d talk while I loped across the wooden plank bridge and barreled back and forth in the tire swing. She summarized the issues of the day in an age-appropriate manner. She explained what mattered to her, and how she’d voted. Most importantly, she told me time and again that lives were lost for our right to vote and that we, especially as women, had a duty to exercise that right.

I don’t always see the issues the same way as my mother- we couldn’t have more disparate opinions on the death penalty, and we chose different candidates in contested primaries this year and in 2008. But as I cast my ballot today, as is always the case when I enter a voting cubicle, I smile at the thought of the Mount Washington Post Office. My mother tells me she brought me to the polls because she wanted me to believe that my vote mattered- “one person, one vote”, she reminds. As a kid, I was just happy to steal a day off from school, to have an entire playground to myself. Sure, I got the vague sense that voting was important, but didn’t realize how the repetition of that message was affecting me. Even my mother never imagined how my watching her cast her vote, year after year, would profoundly shape my world view.

In the ordinary task of speaking to our children about voting, we ask them to do two things of extraordinary consequence: (1) to think critically, and (2) to engage the world outside their immediate family. The lessons that flow from these undertakings are innumerable and invaluable. For me, watching my mother vote sparked my sense of civic duty and responsibility to my community.  Watching my mother vote encouraged me to feel empathy. Watching my mother vote forced me to rationalize my opinions. Watching my mother vote emboldened me to speak truth to power. Watching my mother vote strengthened the political muscle that carried me to rallies and marches. Watching my mother vote was the well-spring of my interest in advocacy and social justice. Watching my mother vote gave me a profession that is a calling, not a job.

Maybe your daughter considers a fracking bill and discovers a passion for environmental science. Maybe your son is called to teach after evaluating a candidate’s position on increased funding for public schools. Maybe, like me, your child’s deliberation of civil rights sparks an interest in law.  Or maybe your child’s investment in the issues of the day pays off with the greatest dividends of all: he or she becomes more confident, more aware, more awake.  Wherever you are on the spectrum of the thousands of issues we face as Americans, please teach your children to vote. Do it the same way you taught them to walk, speak, or hold a fork. Teach by example. Take your children to watch you vote. Champion the message of “one person, one vote” which affirms the political power innate to every one of us. Empower them. Inspire them in ways you could never imagine.

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