“Rick Santorum wins Alabama’s Republican primary.” I slightly cringed as Andrea Lindenberg of Alabama’s 13 News informed me that the ‘true conservative’ had won my state’s support. Oddly enough, four years ago this same report would have made me smile rather than cringe. Four years ago I was twenty-one years old. Four years ago I lived in Mobile, Alabama. Four years ago I also was a conservative, but perhaps not as ‘true’ as Mr. Santorum.
It was November 4, 2008: Election Day. I stepped out of my 1940s, historic Mobile apartment, locked my door and walked across the seafoam green painted deck. My assigned voting poll was less than half a mile away so I had chosen to walk.
The air was crisp as I turned south down Carlen Street toward Clearmont Street. The centuries-old live oak trees draped overhead, Mardi Gras beads from years past still tangled in their branches. They sparkled purple, green and gold in the early morning sun.
I slowly strolled down the sidewalk that had become quite familiar to my feet in a city I had called my home for seventeen years. One must be careful walking down these sidewalks whose once flat cement structure has been broken and lifted by the roots of trees. Trees which were there long before the sidewalks and would be there long after.
I instinctively looked to my right at the Joe Jefferson Playhouse (JJP), a place saturated with fondest childhood memories. The JJP as I knew it stood with its aging bricks and crimson wrought-iron detail.
It stood as the place where I learned not only the lines and songs of the plays I performed in, but the place where I first learned about people who were quite different from me ― people from all different backgrounds and walks of life, many of whom I would not have affiliated with outside of the JJP.
Directly across from the theater stood Murphy High School ― my voting poll. The oldest school in Alabama, originally named Mobile High School, is an impressive building both to the tourist and native. Its tan, Spanish-revival stucco and ceramic tile architecture resemble the historical Alamo. I thought of the Alamo project my father had help me build from cardboard and Styrofoam in fifth grade.
I thought about my last conversation with my father. It was our usual dialogue, him bantering about Barack Obama wanting to turn his beloved country into a “socialist, Islamic mess.” He reminded me that McCain represented our family’s values and beliefs and was the best choice in this election. I recounted this conversation as I entered the arched doorway of my voting poll, signed my name and took my place in line.
I voted Republican straight ticket. I voted as my father would have wanted. I voted the way I had been raised to think.
I walked north up Carlen Street. I did not look at the JJP that represented a time when I had learned to think outside of my family’s views. I looked down at the cracks in the sidewalk, the centuries-old oaks that would be there long after me.
I looked down at my cell phone at a text from my father that read, “Did you vote today?” I text my father back. “Yes. Republican ― straight ticket.” His response ― “I am proud of you.”
As the 2012 Election Day nears, I find myself thinking of this first voting experience. I think how my political views, like those of so many of my peers, were and may still be formed and directed by those of our parents.
Four years later I am twenty-five years old. Four years later, I live in Birmingham, Alabama. Four years later I will be ‘true’ to myself.
It was November 4, 2008: Election Day. I stepped out of my 1940s, historic Mobile apartment, locked my door and walked across the seafoam green painted deck. My assigned voting poll was less than half a mile away so I had chosen to walk.
The air was crisp as I turned south down Carlen Street toward Clearmont Street. The centuries-old live oak trees draped overhead, Mardi Gras beads from years past still tangled in their branches. They sparkled purple, green and gold in the early morning sun.
I slowly strolled down the sidewalk that had become quite familiar to my feet in a city I had called my home for seventeen years. One must be careful walking down these sidewalks whose once flat cement structure has been broken and lifted by the roots of trees. Trees which were there long before the sidewalks and would be there long after.
I instinctively looked to my right at the Joe Jefferson Playhouse (JJP), a place saturated with fondest childhood memories. The JJP as I knew it stood with its aging bricks and crimson wrought-iron detail.
It stood as the place where I learned not only the lines and songs of the plays I performed in, but the place where I first learned about people who were quite different from me ― people from all different backgrounds and walks of life, many of whom I would not have affiliated with outside of the JJP.
Directly across from the theater stood Murphy High School ― my voting poll. The oldest school in Alabama, originally named Mobile High School, is an impressive building both to the tourist and native. Its tan, Spanish-revival stucco and ceramic tile architecture resemble the historical Alamo. I thought of the Alamo project my father had help me build from cardboard and Styrofoam in fifth grade.
I thought about my last conversation with my father. It was our usual dialogue, him bantering about Barack Obama wanting to turn his beloved country into a “socialist, Islamic mess.” He reminded me that McCain represented our family’s values and beliefs and was the best choice in this election. I recounted this conversation as I entered the arched doorway of my voting poll, signed my name and took my place in line.
I voted Republican straight ticket. I voted as my father would have wanted. I voted the way I had been raised to think.
I walked north up Carlen Street. I did not look at the JJP that represented a time when I had learned to think outside of my family’s views. I looked down at the cracks in the sidewalk, the centuries-old oaks that would be there long after me.
I looked down at my cell phone at a text from my father that read, “Did you vote today?” I text my father back. “Yes. Republican ― straight ticket.” His response ― “I am proud of you.”
As the 2012 Election Day nears, I find myself thinking of this first voting experience. I think how my political views, like those of so many of my peers, were and may still be formed and directed by those of our parents.
Four years later I am twenty-five years old. Four years later, I live in Birmingham, Alabama. Four years later I will be ‘true’ to myself.