Confession: I love voting. I love the empowerment. I love the engagement. And above all, I love that I can enjoy the right with the relative ease that my ancestors probably longed for.
I routinely walk into my polling place before dawn, and am greeted by cheery volunteers. I casually show my driver’s license and voter registration card (I carry multiple forms of ID because, well, you never know) and take my pick of the voting booths. I fill in the bubbles, cast my ballot and leave. In my car. To go to work.
This moment is made possible by struggle and sacrifice. Fifty years ago– if I so dared to vote — I could have been greeted by the barrel of a shotgun instead of a smile. I could have been required to show a poll tax receipt, as my great-grandfather was required to do in Coffee County, Ala. In another time and place, it could have been my bloodstains on the path to equal voting rights.