As a child, my father and I went go to St. Pius Church every Election Day, and I helped fill out his ballot. My dad took out his driver’s license, and I informed the woman in charge of the polling station that he was “Michael Becker on Galloping Hill Road.”
With that hurdle cleared, we proceeded to the voting booth, where he closed the curtain, held me up, and told me which handle to pull on the old dimple ballot machines, which made a satisfying click-clack noise. After turning in the ballot, I proudly affixed his “I voted” sticker on my forehead.
As I grew older, I became more of an... Read More