As long as I can remember, my father never missed casting his vote on Election Day. It was Dad’s habit to sit in his armchair reading the daily newspaper after he came home from work. On Election Day, however, my Dad would first walk to the elementary school that was the polling place, before he settled comfortably into his chair.

It was the same elementary school that I attended for six years as a child. For me, the school basement was the place where we went when the air raid siren blasted the warning signal during the Cold War years of the 1950’s. We didn’t have to practice for World War III on Election Day. The basement rooms were filled with voting machines.

My mother couldn’t vote. She wanted to vote, but she was a resident alien, a citizen of Canada. She had married my father just a few years before the United States entered World War II. When Mom applied for citizenship, she was told that she would have to swear allegiance to only the United States of America. She could not bring herself to sign the form. It seemed ridiculous. But, still she could not bring herself to sign the oath that she would take up arms against Canada.

Mom, however, felt as much of a personal obligation to be informed about politics and government as my father. She was a woman with strong opinions. While politics was a subject avoided by other mothers, my Mom would introduce the topic with gusto. Our kitchen table was frequently a place for lively debates. In hindsight, I wonder if she tried to counter her frustration at not being able to cast her own vote by persuading as many people as possible to vote the way that she would if only she could.

Each of my parents taught me about the responsibility that comes with a democracy. Voting was not some thing to be done without being informed and knowledgeable. It is something that requires time and commitment.