Reasons why I vote

With six weeks left until the presidential election and me being not quite a Bush fan, I thought it would be fitting for me to write an “anti-him” editorial detailing his horribly flawed term in the White House and reasons why I don’t think he deserves another four-year occupation there. But then it occurred to me that I had nothing new to say that hadn’t already been said by every “Bush-hating” leftist over the past four years that would further convince anyone that he doesn’t need their vote in November.
Out-of-work citizens know this already. Parents of children who have been “left behind” in the school system know this already. Families of fallen soldiers know this already. His work (or lack thereof) speaks for itself. Why waste words?
Then I considered writing an editorial that focused more on the importance of voting that would encourage my black peers to make every effort to get to the polls and exercise their right.
As my mantra for that opinion piece, I thought about using the slogan “Vote or Die.” But then it occurred to me that that slogan makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. It doesn’t endorse either candidate. It doesn’t say “Vote for Kerry or Die,” or the other way around. It just simply reads “Vote or Die” which, in my opinion, is meaningless.
I mean, you have two candidates running for office and both have made promises for the next four years. With or without my vote, one of the promise-makers will win the election. Regardless of whether or not those promises get fulfilled, either Candidate “A” or Candidate “B” will be president. How am I guaranteed certain death by not voting, as the slogan suggests?
I personally think that it does more harm than good because it doesn’t encourage people to think about whom they are voting for or why they need to vote. It just says “Vote for somebody, ANYBODY.”
Maybe I’m the only one that sees the lack of logic in this political rally cry because I see a lot of people walking around with “Vote or Die” T-shirts. After analyzing the slogan and realizing how silly it sounds, I decided to leave it alone before I wound up insulting someone’s intelligence (or lack thereof).
Lastly, I decided I wouldn’t use the apocalyptic “Doomsday” approach to try to encourage my people to vote and scare them to the polls by saying things like “You have got to vote because this is the most important election of our lifetime,” as if the fate of prosperity in the “free” world hinges on a vote. I decided to simply talk about what makes me want to vote.
When I vote, I think about the people who believed a dog had more of a right to vote than my ancestors and considered my people inferior in intellect and less than human. It wasn’t because they had done anything wrong not to deserve this right.
It was denied to them simply because they were black. My vote is a shout-out to people whose thinking is twisted like that, past and present. My vote is a dedication to those who suffered through the infamous grandfather clause and had to pay poll taxes and take literacy tests just so they could do what I now can do on any given election day with ease. When I vote, I’m their dream come true.
My vote is a personal “thank you” note to women like Fannie Lou Hamer for taking the risks she took to get black people registered and men like Michael Schwerner who paid the ultimate price to see to it that we secured that right. Because of people like them, I can say what I feel without fear of my head being bashed in or go to the poll without fear of being shot by racist cops.
When I vote, I think of a classroom discussion I had in my all-white seventh grade class where my classmates openly declared that if a “nigger ever became president, our economy would go down the drain and America would be messed up.”(If that’s the case, I guess we’ve got a “nigger” in office now).
I think of their white faces talking like that as if I wasn’t in the room, and I think of that white teacher who sat there and listened, and I punch that button.
When I go to the polls, I may not walk in clad in a black leather jacket with a matching beret and a shotgun in hand like my name is Bobby or Huey, but that’s how I feel when I step in the room and catch glimpses of the cold stares of people I’m sure don’t want me there. When that curtain closes, the voice of Fred Hampton resonates in my brain screaming “I AM A REVOLUTIONARY,” and suddenly I feel a sense of proud assurance in knowing that no matter who wins the election, because I’m voting, my people have won.
See, there’s more than one way to raise the black fist. My vote is my fist.