Much to the disappointment of zestful campaigners across the nation, I didn't vote this year. And I promise it has nothing to do with one particularly frazzled McCain supporter who addressed me as "sir" last month. In all seriousness though, I've never voted. It's a logistically-oriented deprivation: the direct result of incessantly shuttling around. (Does India even do absentee ballots?) If there ever was a year I wished I scored the privilege though, it would undoubtedly be this one.
The foreigner in me will admit that the US elections have only been a part of my life since 2000, when my quirky US History teacher, Mr. Powers, decided to trade our week-long section on the Cold War for bewildered analysts on CNN. As Hanging Chads overshadowed the Cuban Missile Crisis, a classroom of international students reluctantly tuned in to political perplexities, unfolding oceans and time zones away. We didn't question why it mattered to us, a group of bright-eyed 15-year-olds in Japan. We watched the chaos like we would a highly-charged courtroom drama, biting our nails, dramatically exclaiming,"I can't watch anymore!" Ultimately, America decided, we returned the long-overdue TV to our slightly ticked-off tech department and got back to taking practice AP exams. Most of us would pack our bags in a couple of years, jetting off to Europe, Australia but most likely, the United States.
2004 found me in a dorm room at Syracuse University. My roommates and I treated the elections as background noise, not especially attached to any of the presidential hopefuls, continuing with our [insert Tuesday night college activity of choice here]. The next day, a quiet disappointment accompanied the morning fog, slowly making its way through campus. I shrugged it off, with an airy claim that really, it was none of my business.
Exactly four years later, the mood was different still. No longer able to cower under the defense of a temporary connection, I watched my husband leave home extra early on election day. As he planned to beat the crowds at our neighborhood voting station (or so he thought), I resisted the urge to go with him, even if it was just to stand in line. I spent the day scouring the web, flipping channels, composing the beginnings of this blog and attending class, where dozens of students shared my giddy excitement. This year was different, they claimed. The lines were far longer. I did my part by doing what any politically engaged resident alien would. I shopped. Purchasing Barack Obama's autobiography a month before D-day, I dove in head first, smitten by his lyrical prose, unabashed insecurities and ever-present optimism.
Scores have blogged about his grandiose political visions and the breakthrough implications of electing him. At the risk of sounding gushy and redundant, I will refrain. What I do respect, among a plethora of things, is his ability to speak, loudly and compassionately, for those of us who exist amidst the fault lines of definition: nationality, ethnicity and race. We reside in the fissures, however jagged, unable to neatly gift-wrap our histories and hometowns when asked where we're "really" from. Never did I think I'd see a day when my mottled background would find common ground with that of the American president. The last guy and I definitely didn't share much, unless, of course, you count the tendency to choke on pretzels.
Ushering in Obama's victory at a neighborhood bar a few nights ago, it was evident that those surrounding us were especially proud to be American that evening. For me, the emphatic sentiment seemed premature. I could certainly claim, however, that he made me proud to want to become one.
*For more on this, see here
