First Vote
I clearly remember the first time I stepped into a voting booth with my mother. Harry S. Truman was running against Thomas Dewey. The year was 1948. The precinct was stationed in a neighborhood garage. It was dimly lit. A space heater, brought in for the day, beat off the cold November weather but was not enough to keep the poll workers warm. They had to wear bulky jackets and coats. In spite of the temperature, the poll workers were friendly and welcoming, like old friends.
The brightest lighting was focused over the actual voting machine. Mother guided me to the machine, first pulling a lever that closed a brown curtain around us, insuring privacy. We faced a large metal board where the candidates’ names were listed. She selected her candidates by pulling down a metal lever next to each name. After completing her selections, she pushed the handle back, the curtain opened, and the vote was officially recorded.
I was nine years old when I stood in that voting booth with my mother. But it marked the beginning of a life I can trace by Presidential elections.
Politics, always politics. My strongest and lasting memories of our family’s nightly supper always included discussions about current events and politics stimulated by the news they followed in the Louisville Courier Journal and The Louisville Times. My parents had lived through the hardships of the Great Depression and the 1937 Ohio River flood. Roosevelt’s New Deal made it possible for them to purchase their only home. They were and remained dedicated Democrats throughout their lives. They called it the party of “the little man.”
President Truman’s victory was a victory for my parents.
I was in high school when Adalai Stevenson ran against General Dwight Eisenhower. Stevenson was liberally educated and presented himself with sophistication and poise. But he was divorced. For many citizens this was socially unacceptable. Especially true among my Catholic high school classmates. My persuasive arguments day after day during lunch had little effect because of this “impediment.” I was so disappointed when he lost.
But at the dawn of 1960, a new Democrat senator was stealing the headlines, John F. Kennedy, the Senator from Massachusetts.
In truth, he was very handsome. His family so glamorous, his pregnant wife, his daughter adorable. I am sure he won the vote of many citizens based on those qualities. I was as smitten as anyone, almost giddy, by his charm. But for me there was something more. I liked the way he expressed his ideals, his goals for the country. He called on the better nature of all Americans. He captured and inspired my 21 year-old self. My Democrat candidate! AND this would be my first election to vote.
When the Democratic convention began, I sat up nightly, listening to the speeches, soaking up the latest scuttlebutt from the commentators, Huntley and Brinkley, until that National Anthem closed the day’s activities. As the week progressed, Kennedy was gaining strength over Texan Lyndon Baines Johnson, his chief opponent in the primary.
Kennedy was a Catholic and no Catholic had ever been nominated for president. Could this happen? Could a Catholic win the popular vote of the country? I was Catholic and this possibility was exciting. His religion was a chief concern and hesitancy among the states’ delegates. I was holding my breath waiting for the vote.
But as the 1960 convention neared the end, JFK had the votes to ensure his nomination. And for the first time in history, the presidential candidate appeared on the convention stage to thank his supporters. He would officially accept the nomination the following night but he told the delegates, “I think you know what my decision will be.”
His Republican opponent would be, Richard Milhous Nixon, the current Vice President.
For the first time in history, the candidates debated on national television. Kennedy appeared self-confident, relaxed. He had prepared, recognizing the importance of this opportunity. Nixon was tense and intense. As the debate progressed, Nixon began to perspire, heavily perspire, great beads of perspiration covering his face and readily evident to the TV audience. Kennedy’s popularity was increasing. The unknown was the doubt voters had concerning his religious affiliation. There was a rising tension throughout the country as Election Day drew near.
I turned 21 in September, 1960. It would be my first time to vote. I was a senior in college, interning in a hospital laboratory. I talked about Senator Kennedy and the upcoming election to everyone, my fellow students, my lab teachers, the nurses I knew. I followed his activities daily on TV broadcasts and newspapers. I had been inspired by his book, Profiles in Courage.
It was my turn to enter the polling place, which was the same happy atmosphere I experienced with my mother. This time I entered the voting cubicle alone. I didn’t want to make a mistake. So I stood there for a moment and studied the machine, pulled the levers and waited once more to recheck my actions. I pushed back the bar. The curtain opened. I had voted.
The democrat I voted for became the President of the United States. I voted for a man whose ideals captured my imagination, who challenged me “Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.”
I have remained a Democrat throughout the years, never wavering. My husband and I met on the same intellectual plain. He served as a Democratic Group captain. And for several years, our garage served as the polling station.
My reverence for democracy and the freedom to choose is something I shall never take for granted.
