When I step onto the grounds of the little elementary school where I vote, something washes over me. I feel as if I am not alone, but walking with an army of my ancestors.
I feel so honored to have the freedom to vote because I know there were people who looked like me and who were my gender, who wished to God that they could.
They were locked out, threatened, intimidated and even killed.
How can I not honor them by exercising my right to vote? Every time I go, I do it for them, in honor of their legacy. I know that my freedom is an answer to their prayers.