Mrs. Simms And The Girl With The Blue Eyes

     I stood in the open learning center of the elementary school with several others as we awaited our turn to vote.  There was a man who either had just gotten off work or was headed there; two well-dressed women in power suits; an elderly couple; a mother with a fussy child; and me, taking time out from a week of vacation to do my simple duty of standing in public amongst my peers to record my choice of how this experiment in democracy should be run.  It was in no way a sacrifice for any of us to do this act; on the contrary, it was a great honor and a greater privilege for which many men and women have have given their lives to protect and promote.  
     The polling station was so busy that the poor station worker who was explaining "how" the ballot worked was doubling and tripling us up to cut down on the number of times she had to explain the darkening of ovals, the perils of "over voting," and the popular adage of "If you make a mistake, don't 'X' it out but bring it back and get a new ballot."  This speech was the same one they give every year and I suppose it's necessary, but I sort of tuned it out after a few words.

     I glanced over at the far wall and saw a tall, dark-haired woman leading a group of what were probably third graders.  The well-formed line hugged the wall as they made their way across my field of view from right to left.  The woman stopped at the door of a classroom with the name "Mrs. Simms" on the entrance, spun on her heel and faced the children.  After a slight pause, the children filed into the classroom one by one.  
     At the very back of the line, I noticed a slightly built girl with piercing blue eyes.  She was fascinated with the group of strangers who were milling around in her school, never taking her eyes off of us and running her small hand along the wall to guide her while she looked elsewhere.  As her part of the line reached the classroom door and Mrs. Simms, the little girl stopped, seemingly pointed right at me, and whispered something to her teacher.  The woman leaned down, spoke gently to the girl and placing a hand on the back of her head, guided her into the room.  The woman stepped inside and the door closed.
     The poll worker finished her instructions and handed us the ballots.  As I stood blackening ovals and reading over the proposed constitutional amendments. I wondered about what the teacher said to the little girl.  To be quiet?  To move along?  No.  There was something more in the glance, the words, the touch.
     I imagined the scene that was taking place inside the classroom.  In my mind's eye I saw the teacher in front of the group, taking time to tell of little "Anne's" question.  Anne had simply wondered what I -this stranger - was doing there, and she asked her teacher to explain.  After a second's thought, Mrs. Simms pulled up a stool, sat and explained.
     "Class?  Anne has asked a very good question.  Did you see all those people out in the learning area?  You did?  Good.  Do you remember how the other day we talked a little about Election Day and what citizens do on that day?  Well, today is that day.  People that live close by have come here today to decide who they want their president to be.  It's a great honor and privilege that grown-ups are able to do."
     A small boy in the front row raised his hand.  "Will we be able to do that someday?"
     "Yes, Jason.  When you get older, though.  It's important that we all do our part to decide things."  Throughout the room, small heads nodded.  Mrs. Simms smiled.  
     I inserted my ballot back in the cardboard sleeve, turned and walked towards the poll worker.  She took it from me and I watched as the marked white sheet slipped into the locked box.  I took my "I Voted" sticker and walked towards the door and exited into the crisp afternoon.  
     I had accomplished much this day.  I had exercised the most precious right given to a citizen of this great democracy:  The ones that would lead me had heard my voice.  They would know - if even in an small way - that I exist and that they cannot entirely discount me.  And, most of all, I had given hope and set an example to a young child, and, by extension, to a group of children, that great and responsible things lay ahead for them.  They had seen adults doing adult things, great and important things.  And they had seen them in person, up and close, which made it real to them.  Their teacher had not waved a mailed-in ballot in front of them in an effort to explain voting, or moved a cursor on a screen to point to a place where a choice could be made in the most sterile of ways.  No.  They had seen people making an effort.  They had seen people taking time out of their day to purposely gather in person to determine their own fate.  They had found the time to set an example for the future, up close and in person.  They had made it so the Anne's and Jason's would remember.  Always remember.
     I've been able to cast many votes in my time, but the one in the clean-smelling school filled with innocence, resolve, purpose, and impressionable wide-eyed children is without doubt the most important one ever.  Because I not only helped shape the present, but the future as well.