I want a sticker

Like Alyssa, this was the first presidential election I was eligible to vote in. As such, I became eligible after Washington state switched all elections to mail-in voting only. So last week as I filled out my double-sided, unusually sized piece of paper they call a ballot, I kept saying "all I want is the sticker." The brightly colored sticker that I would've received after voting at a local elementary school or such designated precinct. I remember going with my mom to Tapteal Elementary and sitting for what seemed like hours in cold metal chairs as she disappeared behind a thick blue curtain. She and my dad would always give my sister and I their stickers, which we promptly stuck to our bed frames and competed to see who's would stick the longest (she usually won, because I could never decide where I wanted mine to go, so I kept taking it on and off.)

Last night, I didn't find out about the call for the Presidential race until about 20 minutes after it happened, because at the time I was focused on state supreme court races in Virginia or referendums in Nevada. And as I dubiously entered the votes in individual numeric order (you read 123 as "one, two three," not "one hundred twenty three",) I just kept thinking about all those people who were getting stickers for standing in long lines and, in more than one case, delaying childbirth, in order to vote.

I got no such tangible stamp of democracy. I couldn't walk into Starbucks and take my free cup of coffee without getting a second glance (or my free scoop of ice cream, or slurpee, or any of the other numerous corporate celebrations of election day). I have to tell people that my vote contributed to our first black president, rather than them being able to see me pump my "yes we can" fist walking out of the voting booth. I guess I'll have to settle with a Facebook application.