Slowly expanding the pattern of choice

Election day was always exciting for me when I was little. Not only did school close for the day, but my mother always brought me with her to vote. As we waited in line, I'd watch people stride confidently into the booth. As the ragged blue curtain swung closed behind them, I'd watch their feet beneath and wonder what switches they were pulling. When it was finally my mother's turn, I would hurry beside her, pull the curtain closed and, standing on tiptoe, strain to see the bewildering array of switches. I would watch as she pushed down some and ignored others. After she had created an incomprehensible pattern on the board, she'd smile and I'd push the lever that opened the curtain.

I always felt proud as I strode past the line of people--proud I had taken part in an act so distinguished and important. Yet it was never quite enough; I wanted to pull those switches myself and decide what pattern to create on that board. I anxiously awaited the day I could stand on that line without my mother's hand around mine, step into that booth and pull the curtain shut behind only me. Then, without hesitation, I could create my own pattern of choice.

The 1996 presidential election was the one for which I had waited so long. Yet, as election day neared, I began to lose the excitement and eagerness I had harbored since age five. For the first time, there was nobody I wanted to vote for. I didn't like either candidate for president, and I didn't want to vote for one just because he seemed "the lesser of two evils." Whereas I had always argued angrily with people who shrugged off voting, now I was considering avoiding the polling booths. But I knew I didn't want to give up the right I had waited so long to exercise. So in order to create some of that enthusiasm I needed but so lacked, I decided to use my imagination to fill in the gap between what I saw out in the political arena and what I knew had existed in the past.

I imagined a candidate who stands firm in his beliefs and goals, who does not hesitate when opponents criticize him, or shuffle his opinions with the shifting of the polls. Someone who recognizes the problems and does not ignore the hard statistics of poverty and suffering but rather, without promising to solve them all, offers well-thought, innovative plans for reform. Someone who, most importantly, is human and real. Someone who talks without the pat phrases of speech writers or the well-rehearsed serious looks and grins. Someone who debates with passion because his words come from his heart. Someone who gets angry at injustice and cries at suffering, because he empathizes with the people he leads. Someone who never forgets the trust conferred in him, because it becomes a part of him.

After such spirited imagining, it was a disappointment to walk into the voting booth. There was no switch that said "honest, human, compassionate leader." None of the switches evoked any of those qualities. But I did it anyway. I created my pattern. And I felt proud to have been a part of a process so integral to American society. I don't expect my imaginary candidate to be on the ballot anytime soon. Perhaps next time just one of his qualities will find its way onto one of the switches. Then, with a little of that childhood excitement, I will know which one to pull.