They didn't know they could vote for Hillary until they got into the voting booth. Re-restrict the franchise!
All over the country on Tuesday, women began weeping at the polls. I know. I was one of them.
At 6:15, the very first voter in my precinct, I teared up behind the thick plastic curtains.
Throughout the day, I heard from my women friends and co-workers a story similar to what I had already experienced: We took 15 minutes out of a busy day to stand in line at our polling places, our minds elsewhere – on the job, on the kids, on the budget, on the dry cleaning – until it was time to slip into the booth and start clicking off names.
Looking at the choices, we began, by rote, to reach up toward the candidate we liked the most, or respected most deeply, or felt was the most competent, or had settled on as the lesser of two evils.
And then, our hands stretched out, we froze. We realized, in a moment of quiet joy – we could vote for a woman.
Someone like us. A woman as equally derided as loved, yes. A woman full of flaws and virtues, yes. A woman who, like so many of her generation, seems to have worked harder than any man to arrive where she is.Yes yes?
A woman who, as we would see in the news later, made a questionable wardrobe choice that day. A woman who probably longed to talk to her husband and daughter as she spent the day with strangers.Oh, please.
Update: With any luck a certain spouse will miss this post.