Recently, I heard someone say that if a certain scenario came to be in the upcoming presidential election, they were not going to vote.
Not vote? The images instantly came to mind in vivid color of the first free election following the Pinochet regime I witnessed in Santiago, Chile, in December 1999. Our daughter, who had been there for a year interviewing and photographing family members of the "disappeared," advised us to stay in our hotel room. We hung out the third-floor window watching extended families, friends and motley groups piled into the backs of trucks driving by those marching in the streets, honking their horns, cheering, singing the national anthem, and waving the red, white and blue Chilean flag. The candidates themselves were in the square giving impassioned last-minute speeches. It was electric. Eventually, we went down to the sidewalk, which was patrolled by soldiers wielding automatic weapons, as we witnessed and felt the energy of the greatest patriotic display I had ever seen.
Not vote? Dismiss and dishonor those who made great sacrifices and took great risks to give us the privilege? Be petulant — as our freedom is the envy of those around the world who don't have it? Forget the purple fingers held high in the air in Iraq, where Iraqis stood outside all night in the rain to vote in the first national elections since the downfall of Saddam Hussein? As a woman, forget what suffragettes went through to get the vote for us? That it took 41 years for Congress to approve it?
Not vote? Forget taking my 95-year-old mother, born before the 19th Amendment was ratified, keenly aware of its value, who could neither see nor walk very well, in a wheelchair on the assisted-living bus after announcing she had not gotten an absentee ballot? Saying it would be the first time in her life that she had not voted in a presidential election? I told her we were going. She smiled. The bus pulled into the parking circle at the polling place in a senior apartment building. I watched as, with great effort, the passengers rose from their seats one by one, moved slowly down the aisle and carefully navigated the single step to exit the bus. It was poignantly clear it would have been easier for them to stay at home. I told my mom I would go in and scout it out. The room was crowded. There was a wait. I wasn't sure she could do it. I explained the situation to an election official, and then something very unusual happened. The official came out to the bus with a ballot for my mother, and I watched as, with deliberate care, she cast her vote.
At that moment, I knew I would never have the same take-it-for-granted view of my voter privilege. On Election Day, even if I am disgruntled with the choices, I will be voting, and I will be grateful to those who made it possible.
Susan Kaercher Meyers lives in Hudson, Wis.
