Election day is an amazing event. In a world where status is equated with importance, election day in the one chance to wipe all that away. When we vote, we are all equal. Working in a 5-star hotel, I am constantly fed the idea that a person’s “importance” is determined by money or fame. Having an American Express Black card earns you exemption from rules of “common” society. But it does not earn you any more votes. It does not add more value to your ballot. On election day, the playing field is leveled. My vote is worth just as much as Donald Trump’s, or Mayor Daley’s, or Bill Gates. My age, my gender, my race, my bank account; they don’t matter. When I vote, I matter. My voice is heard.
This election, my voice helped make history.
History.
That’s what we saw on November 4th, 2008 when Barack Obama was elected the first African-American president of the United States. I joined 70,000 of my closest friends at Grant Park on Tuesday night to witness it first hand. We were hearded together like cattle, standing for upwards of seven hours, shoulder to shoulder, (or in my case, shoulder to elbow); yet it didn’t deter supporters from trying to get a glimpse of the next President of our country. I don’t think the true reality of what was transpiring around me had fully set in yet. As I join Chicago in the jubilation of the last 48 hours, it has really started to hit me what November 4th, 2008 will mean to history. And I was there. I flash forward 50 or 60 years and picture telling my grandchildren about how I was there when the first black president of the United States gave his acceptance speech. I watched with the thousands that packed Hutchinson Field as the results rolled in on the jumbo-tron. I voted for history. I was there.
