I was nearing the front of the five-block queue at my polling place in New York’s Upper West Side neighborhood when I noticed them: an older black couple, their arms locked, waiting a few spots up from me. He was wearing a full suit with an American-flag tie, she was wearing an American-flag silk scarf and was wiping tears from her eyes. Glancing around, clearly embarrassed, she giggled when she looked at me.
“Sorry, I’m a mess!” she said. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just asked her if she was OK and offered her a tissue.
“Baby, how old are you?” she asked.
I told her I was 28. She smiled.
“I’m emotional,” she began, “because when I was just a bit younger than you are now, I couldn’t drink from the same water fountain as you could, because I’m black. I couldn’t sit in the same place as you on the bus, because I’m black. I couldn’t get the education I wanted because it wasn’t a woman’s place to be out of the house. And now?” She trailed off.
“I can’t imagine what that was like,” I said. “You’ve seen a lot.”
She gently touched my hand to hers.
“You think you’re making history today, right?”
I told her I hoped so.
“Baby, let me tell you, I am history,” she said, giggling through tears again. “And if she wins today, my world will come full circle. Hell, I may just take some classes at a university—because I can. It’s a beautiful thing. Anyway, I’m sorry for crying in front of you. But you know, today, it’s like nobody is really a stranger. You’re my brother and I am your sister. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
In a bit of a daze, I accepted my blank ballot and had just begun to look it over when I noticed a single teardrop on the paper.
“Don’t worry,” said the lady behind the desk through a smirk. “You’re not the first one today, and I’ve only been here for half an hour.”
