I got in line at around 1pm. The wait wasn’t as bad as I thought. I heard that it was going to be over an hour. A man had set up his two kids on the steps of a brownstone, selling water and cookies to support the school where the voting was being held.
Folks in line were a cross section. Mothers with strollers, retirees, some men who looked like they had taken the day off. Poll workers were walking up and down, calling out, “District 56, District 67. If you live there, you can go ahead in.”
I got to the doorway. People were in a single file, so those who had voted could exit and leave. I gave my district and was ushered to the appropriate table. I started to feel myself getting excited. It was the realization that eight years of disaster had yielded this moment of possibility.
I filled out my voter registration card. It was crazy, but I felt like I was going to cry. I kept thinking, “I wish my Mother could be here.” I thought about Barack Obama’s grandmother…and Paul Newman, too.
I got into the booth and voted. My heart was pounding. It was one of those classic moments you never forget. I realized, “It doesn’t get better than this.”