I love working the polls. All of it!
And I owe it all to my maternal grandmother, Nana Herminia, who sent me bus money from Tucson to Nogales, Arizona for the 1972 Nixon and McGovern Presidential election. My father, a political hound, had died seven years before and my mother, who had a green card, didn’t vote, so the task fell to my grandmother.
She picked me up in her immaculate 1955 Chevy at the Greyhound Bus station and instructed me that our family voted straight ticket.
I remember the sound of her husky cigarette voice announcing to the early birds at the polls that her granddaughter, a university student, was here to vote for the very first time. I choked up as folks patted me on the back and shook my hand. I wished I’d thanked her, but at nineteen, it hadn’t cross my mind.