In 2008, I strapped my infant son to my chest and we both cast my ballot for Barack Obama. It was my first time voting since becoming a mother and the significance of that vote was magnified by the fact that I was able to vote for a candidate who, like my son, was biracial. That night, I watched the election returns come in with tears streaming down my face, some of them landing on the top of my son’s curly hair. I’d never felt more proud of my country. Not only did we choose someone smart and passionate about our country, we choose someone who looked like my family. I went to bed that night with a heart full, knowing that my son’s first memories of a president would be of a man who looked like him.
In 2016, I voted with my 4-year-old daughter by my side.
I was so certain that Hillary Clinton was going to win, so optimistic that I’d get to celebrate with her that a woman had won and that we FINALLY had our first woman in the White House. My son had eight years of the gift of representation, of being able to see the presidency and think “yes, that’s a place for me” and I wanted so badly for my daughter to be able to do the same.
Well, we all know how that turned out.
My smart, funny, fierce, and curious daughter is 8 years old now.
No matter what the result of the election is this year, she will be at least a teenager before she gets to see her first female president. If the election of 2024 ends the way that this one has, with two old white guys getting the nomination, she’ll transition from childhood to adulthood with the biggest and most prominent glass ceiling in our country still intact.
I can’t let myself think too much about that today.
Today I still have hope and my hope looks like Kamala Harris. Like my daughter, Harris is smart, fierce, and biracial. Like my daughter, she’s lived her whole life without seeing someone like herself in the White House. There is still hope that we could finally have our first female Vice-President and that matters. It matters to me and, even though she may not know it yet, it will matter to my daughter.
No matter who wins, the country feels less safe for families like mine, which is made up of white, Black, and LGBT+ people.
But the thought of getting to tell my daughter that Harris is going to be the next vice president and maybe president one day gives me a tiny flicker of hope.
I'm hopeful for what the next week could hold.
Perhaps today or tomorrow will be the day I can finally say to my girl “Hey, look at her. She’s just like you, and she was made to lead and so are you.”
Until then, I hope they count every ballot, for families like mine and for all the 8-year-old girls out there.
