This Thanksgiving, I’m especially thankful to our troops and veterans — and their families — for their service. I’m in awe of all they do and what they’ve done, and I pray God blesses each and every one of them, from the lowliest private all the way up to the Commander in Chief.
I’m voting tomorrow anyway.
I’m proud to say, as an 11th-generation American (it’s true — I had an ancestor born in the Jamestown Colony), that I have exercised my right and privilege to vote in every election since I was 18. That one, I voted absentee, as I was away at college, but ever since, I have walked into a booth on Election Day and cast my ballot.
Primary AND general.
But this is the first time in all those years I’ve been even a little bit tempted not to. And that’s because of the feeling I’ve had these past few weeks that, cliche as it sounds, my vote won’t count. In all likelihood, it probably won’t.
But I don’t care. [Fighting the temptation to use stronger language here] Even though the polls close out here in the middle of the Pacific 2, 3, 4, or 5 hours later than on the Mainland — by which time all the news outlets will probably have called the election. Even though I already know where all four of my state’s electoral votes will be going. And even though the odds of my vote making a difference are astronomical.
I just can’t not vote. The alternative — sitting this one out — well, I just can’t imagine it. No matter how many times I hear about the foregone conclusion-ness of it all — local races as well as national — I still don’t care. I can’t. Not. Vote.
That doesn’t mean I’ll happily accept the outcome. Really, how much is there to be happy about after all this nonsense has been dragged out, lo these many months? But I know this: I’ll be able to live with myself.