We wrapped an empty Kleenex box in brown paper and wrote The Osterhout 2016 Presidential Election! on the sides. My oldest daughter would turn five in a week. She was a kid who took her time speaking, but once she spoke, she never stopped. Our house was a wall of words.
That’s still true.
She had a little sister who would turn three on Christmas that year, who didn’t totally understand what was happening. But my oldest knew a woman was about to be President, and she chattered about it every waking second. It was our fault. We read books about it. We read books about democracy, and about the presidency, and about suffrage and civil rights and about Obama.
I asked her who she wanted to vote for, but told her to whisper it to me so her vote could be her own business. She whispered, Hillary, and I made the dots on her ballot — a strip of notebook paper — so she could trace the name. She said her sister would want the same thing, and so would Bea, our dog, so I dotted two more ballots, and she traced the word and slipped the ballots into the wrapped-up tissue box.
We tucked her in, and so began the night. Our girls woke up on another planet.
Did she win?
No.
Why?
Well …
Gloria Steinem Didn’t Live to See a Female President. I’m Starting to Wonder If I Will.
About 30 years ago, I saw Gloria Steinem speak to a standing-only crowd at the University of Iowa. Afterward, she stayed to talk with a long line of students.
My girls became aware of the world in the Trump era. It’s all they’ve known. In 2024, I told my oldest that these were historic times. You’re living through history! I said. I said It wasn’t like this when I was a kid.
She said, I wish I grew up when you grew up. I’m sick of living through history.
The week before she turned 13, that year, we held The Osterhout 2024 Presidential Election! Same box but with the year scratched out and revised. Similar ballots. Same hopes, same trauma.