I was woken up early one morning, the night after the presidential candidate was announced. My favorite candidate lost the election and I was furious and sad, even though I was just ten years old. If I could, I would have been decked out in red that day to show my support.

 My school had even held elections, my candidate had won by a landslide. But that was not what mattered to me, I knew that would not make any difference. At the time, I could not understand why I was not allowed to vote. I thought ten year olds should be able to vote. In anything I did, I wanted my voice to be heard and I usually insisted on it. So why should this be different? I thought. 

Sitting at my grandparents’ house, my family is having a heated political decision, and I actively listen, trying to understand what everyone was yelling about. Everyone talking in that house was passionate about what they believed, they were proud, they were patriotic.

Sitting in my chair under the bright lights of my classroom, my pencil  moved on my paper, taking notes about the Suffrage movement and the Civil Rights movement. I thought about the hours of time and energy  women and blacks put into fighting for their rights. Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. were strong and passionate people and I admired them.

Seven years later, I am preparing to vote in the presidential elections in 2020. I’m not just going to vote because I want my voice heard, or for the good of the country, but for the ancestors before me who could not vote. Next year, I will pull out of the parking lot of the city hall  and see the flag flying above me, the red, white and blue stripes will remind me of what voting and America is all about.