(Photos courtesy of Michael Holzman)

The cloth mask is what sticks with me from my first time voting.

My parents were elated, and I was irritated by my COVID-19 mask, which had become a sweaty, wet towel on my face. I was annoyed by their energy and glad that I would soon be heading home. Looking back, I wish I could have stayed in that moment, just outside the polling place, for a little while longer. It was undeniably cool and undeniably American.

Up until the 2020 election, I was not sure if I had experienced a purely American moment.  Maybe it was the first time I went to a baseball game or my first bite of apple pie. Realistically, the closest I had come was probably walking into a corner store in Manhattan late at night and buying a slice. 

Defining the American identity is a hot political topic and something that people who are a lot smarter than me have written about extensively. Though I was born here and have spent my entire life in this country, I never understood exactly what it feels like to be an American. The Fourth of July and Memorial Day always came off to me as excuses to throw parties and have fun, as opposed to being moments of reflection on our collective past. Even though Thanksgiving is only celebrated in the United States, it feels more about my family than about our country. 

Despite my inability to conceptualize this aspect of my identity, I had explored other facets of it. Years earlier, I had spent time learning about my Jewish identity. Through ritual and habit, I had a much stronger grasp on what being a Jew meant to me. 

I grew up in a Jewish household and went to synagogue consistently. For me, my Bar Mitzvah was, and remains, the thing that “made” me Jewish. It was a years-long process that involved learning new things about Judaism and asking questions, culminating with me reading from the Torah for the first time in front of my community. Hunched over, I read the same words that my ancestors did and theirs before them. After my Bar Mitzvah, I was viewed as a more serious figure in my synagogue, someone who “got it,” who understood what being part of the community really meant. I was a little bit, just a tiny bit, more adult. 

Five years later, I was living like a kid. Sleeping in, eating food in bed, and never cleaning my room. I was floating through my online senior year, barely leaving the house, and not really hanging out with friends. 

Most days were monotonous and repetitive. But my family dinner table conversations kept returning to the election, and as the day got closer, our collective familial anxiety only grew. In between classes, I started to read articles and pretended like I was a very informed voter.

The first Tuesday in November, I went with my parents to our polling place. In line, I thought about how this process seemed like a weird power imbalance. The same guy who had spent the last four weeks doing nothing but binging “Game of Thrones” was getting a say in how the United States of America would operate. My small voice was going to decide how this massive thing was going to operate going forward and who would be in charge.

While waiting in line, my parents grabbed a mock ballot for me to look at. I’ll admit I was surprised at just how big the ballot actually was. My dad pointed out each of the amendments and reminded me, thrice, that there is a front and back to the ballot (which is still the best voting advice I have ever received) and had me fill it out like it was a real thing. My mom kept reminding me about how important it was that I was doing this in person and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to get me hyped. 

When I got to the front of the line, the poll worker asked for my ID. I naively hoped she wouldn’t notice the birthdate, and I could just do this thing and leave without making a scene. It only took her a couple of seconds before her eyes got big and eyebrows raised, and then she shouted, “WE GOT A FIRST TIMER!” All the poll workers and other voters started to cheer!!!

My face got red, and I sheepishly waved in acknowledgment. Then I grabbed the real ballot and hunched over it, triple-checking that I voted in every race and on each amendment. I placed the big paper in the machine, waited for it to scan, and walked out, actually feeling like I contributed something. 

I got back in the car and realized my first time voting was my civic Bar Mitzvah. It was the first step in joining a new group, one that included the citizens of an entire nation. The poll workers, career public servants, and service members who make America tick were like those congregants. Before, I was nothing; now I was one iota more than that. 

I thought my civic adulthood began on Election Day 2020. But it never really begins; it just exists. Every time you protest, or write a letter to a newspaper, or call your representative, or attend a local government meeting, that is making your voice heard. Voting is one explicit, socially celebrated way of doing so, but it is by no means the end of that process. Still, it’s a great place to start.