It was a chilly fall afternoon in 2008 and my hand was tightly held by my father’s as we rushed into the city hall to escape the bitter cold. Tall people dressed in warm coats flooded my senses as I was pulled along through a sea of chatter. Men and women of different generations stood in line with my father and I as we slowly made our way towards the booth. As many six-year-olds do, I had plenty of curiosity. Why were we standing in line? What is “voting”? Why are there so many people? My eyes met an old woman’s stare which turned into a smile; she looked as if she had the answers I’d been searching for. My father stood in silence as he continued to hold my hand. 

As the black velvet curtain of the booth closed, my father finally spoke. “The right to vote is protected by the American democracy and should not be taken for granted.'' 

I nodded my head, ignorant to the historical significance and responsibility the slip of paper contained. 

As we walked out of the booth, a man handed me a oval-shaped white sticker pasted with the words, “I voted.”

I smiled as I proudly put the sticker onto my grey cardigan. Pride and excitement made my heart pound as I skipped down the sidewalk, still holding my father’s hand. 

The 2020 presidential election will be the first time I can step into the booth alone, without the guiding hand of my father. I will have the ability to represent myself and my beliefs through the candidate of my choice. While years have passed and my education has grown, the pounding of my heart and continuous pride remains.