Unlocking Our Potential

No matter who wins

I’ve been a little on edge lately. I’m not too proud to admit this. I don’t think I’m alone, especially this election day, two days after we’ve set the clocks back and our bodies are adjusting to more darkness.

I’m nervous about this election, but I am also eager to cast my ballot. As I drive to my voting precinct, I picture my grandmother as a newborn swaddled in a lightweight pink blanket in July of 1919, a month shy from the passing of the amendment that gave women the right to vote. She was the fifth child of nine total. Seven boys, two girls. I imagine her mother (my great-grandmother), looking down at her daughter with love, and perhaps a little worry. Maybe I’m imposing that worry upon her because of all the pictures I’ve seen of my grandmother and her siblings without shoes on, hair rumpled, clothes wrinkled and dirty. Maybe she was more carefree than I imagine. Maybe. But, not likely. I am a mother too, and worry is something that just comes along with motherhood, even if the clothes aren’t wrinkled.

I picture my great-grandmother nursing her newborn daughter with one hand and comforting one of the toddlers vying for her attention with the other. I imagine all the skill it required to raise a family back then, feed and clothe them and nurture them into becoming the woman my grandmother became. Strong and resilient. I never knew my paternal great-grandmother, so she doesn’t cross my mind often. I have faint memories of my maternal great-grandmother, but I was too young to really know her. Today, however, I want to know what they were both feeling in 1919. I wonder what they would be feeling now.

I’ve been nervous for the last couple of months – about this election, about a lot of things. I have three daughters of my own, and a granddaughter. I’ve been consumed with thinking about their future. Today, it seems, I’m consumed with my family’s history too. My mind is somewhere in the past and the future when I pull into the parking lot of the school where I’m supposed to vote. I am distracted. I reach into my purse and find my wallet. For a split second I’m worried I didn’t bring my license, even though I know it’s there.

I gather my purse, I.D., glasses and phone. The automatic lock on my Highlander sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. Today it doesn’t. I lean over the console and manually lock all the doors, stretching into the back seat to reach the far passenger side. As I close the driver’s door, I reach for my keys in my purse. They aren’t there. I cup my hand to look inside the window and spot them shimmering in the middle of the console.

I have one set of keys. And they are inside the locked car. I check all the doors and realize that I’m locked out. This is the first time I’ve ever done this.

Add one more worry to my list.  

I push forward through the parking lot, a little more weighed down. “Vote,” I tell myself, shuffling toward the front door of the school. “Deal with it later.”

I approach the entrance and find that someone is holding the door open for me. She is wearing a sticker that reads, “I voted” and she seems energetic. Everyone does. I am surprised to discover there isn’t a long line. A mother and her younger daughter are ahead of me. I hand over my license and say hello to one of the poll workers I recognize from my neighborhood. Everyone seems pleasant and friendly. Apparently, no one else has locked their keys in their car.

I fill out my ballot and take it to the machine. As I slide it in, I notice the man monitoring the whole process has “Sheriff’s Office” written on his name tag. That prompts me to ask if there’s any chance he has connections to someone who can help unlock my car. He laughs and tells me he’s not that kind of sheriff. An older gentleman with a walker who is accompanied by a caregiver, perhaps his daughter, acknowledges my dilemma and suggests I call AAA. I tell him that’s my plan and I am a little encouraged to remember I pay dues for myself and my daughters for situations like this. I start to relax a little.

I am grateful for the unseasonably warm weather and I begin the process of calling AAA. While speaking to “Laura,” the agent who is recording my information, I look up to see a twenty-something fireman walking toward me with a long red case.

“I hear you might need some help unlocking your door,” he says.

“What? How did you know?” I ask.

“An older gentleman gave us a heads up,” he responds.

“Wow. Yes, I do,” I acknowledge, bidding farewell to Laura who confirms she will cancel the request. Another fireman walks up and the two begin the task of opening the driver door.

My dad, whom I called for a ride earlier, appears by my side, almost as surprised to see the team of guys working on my car as I am. He and I talk about how the older gentleman must have alerted them to my cause, while the two firemen work together on fishing for the unlock button on the interior of my shimmied door. Within a few minutes it’s open and my worry list had one less item on it.

“Can I give you guys a hug? Is that legal,” I ask.

“Sure,” they say, a little reluctantly, probably more from the reference to legality than the hug itself.

“Thank you so much! On a day when our country is so divided, it’s reassuring that this level of kindness exists,” I exclaim, a little too energetically. They acknowledge me and walk back toward the fire station that’s less than 100 yards away.

I am relieved a little. I am relieved that there can be peace in the midst of division … that people will come to your aid no matter how you vote. I am relieved in the potential that humanity can trump political parties.

THIS. This voting experience today has delivered more than just our votes. For me, it has delivered a brief reprieve from worry. We can do this. Our country can do this. We can hold doors open for each other. We can take the initiative and seek help for each other. We can come to another person’s aid and receive gratitude with humility. We can do this, despite who wins.

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It’s 5:30 p.m. as I write this and the polls close soon in my state. I haven’t turned on the TV yet or looked at social media to see who is ahead since I voted. I did chores and worked while the huge maple tree in my back yard wrestled with the wind. I released a few of the worries I was wrestling with.

I still want my candidate to win.

I want my daughters to thrive. And I want my great-grandmothers to be proud.

I want peace in our country.

I want us to unlock the potential in each other.  

And I want kindness to win.

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EPILOGUE --

It's 6:15 a.m. on Wednesday morning, November 6, 2024. The day after the election. The woman who locked her keys inside her car is heavy with grief. Her candidate didn't win. In the darkness of early morning she hears the garbage truck pick up the trash at the end of her driveway. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, it sounds. She has just finished reading about how the president-elect and his running mate referred to her candidate as garbage on the day of the election. She realizes this has been a back-and-forth insult, but she is overcome with disbelief that the man the country just elected president for a second term has publicly referenced her candidate as a piece of trash. He had a choice to show respect, or just talk trash. He chose the former. She is furious. She thinks about this with each beep that sounds from the garbage truck as it goes down the street. She thinks about her daughters, and her granddaughter. She is afraid for them. She was hopeful that peace could overshadow division, but she is uncertain of that now. She feels like she has been punched in the gut.

If you see her today, tomorrow, or anytime in the next four years … or if you see women who share her grief, I hope you will make space for compassion and respect. She's hurting. She's human. She is "NOT" something you can use and then throw away. She is an American woman who wants the best for her country and her family.

Don't dismiss her concerns for her daughters.

And don't underestimate her resilience.

It will "be" the "key" to her rising "above" all of this.