Voting has always been a momentous event for me – not because I've always cared about politics, but because when I was little, voting was a special occasion for our family. My parents would get off work early, and then we -- my parents, my little brother and I -- would go to a school in a nearby district, stand in line forever, and then go out to eat. It was a special occasion when we all got to spend more time together than we would on a normal Tuesday night.

Going out to eat was great, but the best part, for me, was that I would always go into the booth with my dad and he would let me pull the lever. The Lever-Pulling was the most important part of voting. It was what made the vote count.

We would wait in line forever, my brother and I moaning and protesting because we wanted to sit down and we were hungry and we wanted to eat. Finally, we would get to the front of the line, and my parents would sign The Book, which always fascinated me. I never had any idea what, exactly, my parents were signing, but I knew it was important – like they were signing away their souls. No one could vote without signing The Book. And The Book was such a technological advancement that the volunteers didn't even have to flip it around for anyone to sign, but voters could sign upside-down. In my head, somehow, I thought the book would flip the signature right-side-up after they had signed it.

Then we would pair up – my brother would vote with my mom, and I would go with my dad. Sometimes my brother didn't go with either of them, but I always went with my dad. He would let me pick which booth I wanted to vote in, as if it mattered, and I would point to the best-looking one and we would go in.

Inside the booth, the frilly turquoise curtain would encase my dad and me in secrecy, and I would ask him who he was voting for – which I wouldn't do in front of my mom, just in case. He would whisper the candidate's name to me, which didn't make a difference either way, because I was too little to really know anything politics, but I just assumed my dad was making the correct decision. Oddly enough, I always somehow knew my parents' votes canceled each other out, and I always assumed that my dad's vote was the right one. (Now I know it is the opposite case!)

When I was really little, too small to even see all the choices and what was really going on inside the booth, my dad would pick me up so I could see everything. Then when he was done, I would pull the lever with all my strength, sometimes so hard that the voting booth itself would shake. The curtain would swing open, and all of a sudden, we weren't veiled in the secrecy of voting anymore, but the vote had disappeared and we were once again part of the long lines and other parents with impatient children waiting to vote.

We would meet my mom back in the parking lot, and I would make faces at my brother, sticking my tongue out and waving my fingers in front of my nose. He would retort in a similar manner. "Mom voted for the wrong candidate," I would think. "Dad was right." I hoped his candidate won, although I never remembered long enough ask the next day, or stayed up late enough to find out who won.

Then we would get in the car and were off to dinner, my brother and I once again united by hunger and the promise of dessert.