For the past couple of weeks I’ve been working with a group of local people on creating a grassroots campaign in favor of a question on our local ballot that we believe should pass.

Some of us are Democrats. Some of us are Independents. Some of us are Republicans. Some of us are liberal and some conservative. Some go to church on Sundays. Others are atheists. Some are parents. Some are grandparents. Some are childless. Some are younger. Some are older. Some of us are voting for the first time. Some of us have voted in every election for decades.

Here’s the most important thing: our differences do not matter.

What matters is what brings us together: our firm belief that the passing of this question on our ballot represents something that is not just good for us individually, but something that is good for us as a community. And larger still: it is even good for the communities that surround us.

As such, our coming together represents something larger to me in these last days leading up to the election. I believe that in overlooking our differences to achieve a common goal we are living as our forefathers hoped we would live in this beautiful country. Instead of being divided and voting for or against something, we are overlooking our differences and we are voting together for a common good.

My birthday is not only the anniversary of my birth, it is also the anniversary of my first day of school in the United States. My mother brought my sisters and me to this country 34 years ago. Our journey here was not a physically difficult one. We did not cross shark-infested waters in a rickety boat. We did not climb a fence and wade through a murky river. We did not cross an ocean in a ship. We did not come by plane. Instead, we drove across a border we had crossed hundreds of times before as visitors.

We came as immigrants from the beautiful country to the north. We came because my father died and my mother married a new man, an American. I came because I was a child and my mother chose to bring me here.

I stayed because I love it here. I stayed because this is my home and the people I love are here.

Still, I lived for many years as a resident alien, paying taxes, paying social security, but having no right to vote. I ached to vote and yet was scared to make the decision to go through the process of naturalization. As with so many other things, fear and what ifs kept me from making one of the most important decisions of my life.

My impetus for change was born five years ago. When my son was born, I filed the paperwork and started on my path to naturalization.

Unfortunately, I missed the last presidential election by a few months. I became a citizen in early 2009 on the coldest day of the year. What I recall was the glorious feeling of belonging as soon as I pledged my allegiance.

Since that day I have voted in elections, but this will be my first presidential election. I cannot fully express with how much joy I approach my opportunity to vote in this election. It is something I have wanted to do, dreamed of even, for a very long time. Those of you who were born with this right might take it for granted, but I sincerely hope you do not. I hope you are informed and I hope you are as excited as I am to vote for your candidates and causes. Most importantly, I hope you will vote.

My son and I were in the grocery store yesterday. He was helping me push the cart and as we entered the very tight dairy aisle, a woman stopped in the middle and blocked the way with her cart. My son knows how this irritates me and so he said, “Beep! Beep! Hello?” Well, the woman heard him and I was embarrassed that he had been so rude and so I immediately apologized.

My son was completely humiliated and nearly in tears. He hadn’t meant to be rude. Instead, as he told me on the ride home, he was just doing what he’d seen me do in the past (of course, when I’d done it the person hadn’t been right there with the cart, but that’s not the point). I said, “You’re right. I have done that and I won’t do it anymore.  I’m sorry. I’m being a bad example. I will do better.”

And I was being a bad example. I guess it’s hard to remember to be a good example every second of the day and sometimes frustration takes over and we say and do things we shouldn’t and, often, we do this in front of our children.

One thing we’re trying to teach our son is that his actions speak louder than his words. A hard lesson for an articulate kid who is usually quick to apologize the second he realizes he’s done something wrong or hurt someone’s feelings.  The apologies are great, we tell him, but you have to work on your body and your mind to not do these things.

Actions speaking louder than words is a process we are all learning in this house.

Here I am a few weeks away from turning 45 and I am still learning this lesson. Actions speaking louder than words becomes especially tricky in this social media world we live in. Sometimes we post things online that we regret, if not immediately, then at some point. Sure, we can always delete those things but that doesn’t mean that they have not been seen by others before we do.

Yesterday, I did something I had promised myself I would not do again: I posted about politics on Facebook. This is not to say that I posted something political, I did not; instead, I stated that I did not want people posting political propaganda (no matter how well meaning) on non-political threads I started. Regrettably, some people misunderstood me and suggested that I block political posters if I didn’t like it. Some assumed that the person had posted something against my beliefs (he hadn’t) and that maybe I should unfriend all of the people who don’t share my same views.

I understand the confusion. I had not been clear in what I posted. Here is what happened: I posted a link to The Hobbit trailer and, oddly, someone in the comments section posted some propaganda about the economy. It wasn’t that I didn’t like what he posted, it’s that he chose to post it at all in this undeniably unpolitical thread. I felt like this person was making a lot of assumptions about me and had I let the comment stay, I would have been letting him speak for me.

As long as I have words, nobody speaks for me.

So that was what prompted me. Not the constant spew on the general Facebook wall. Not someone not sharing my same views. Not people posting their own views on their own profiles. None of that.

It was someone assuming something about me and then using my forum as his own. That is all.

Even so, the whole episode has added on to something I’ve been thinking about and worrying about for a while.

I am a political person. I am a tree-hugging, same-sex-marriage supporting, obamacare-loving, global-warming fearing, pacifist, left-wing liberal who is even to the left of left. To put it in perspective: President Obama is much more conservative than I am. Still, I will vote for him and I do appreciate that he is a moderate as I don’t believe that anyone on either extreme can truly speak for the whole country and what I care about IS the whole country, the whole world, and not just myself.

I don’t expect everyone to be just like me (as much as that would make life so much easier). In fact, I do have close family members and friends who are (often much) more conservative than I am. There is much that we do not agree upon. As for my family members who do not agree with me, we have quietly agreed to simply not talk about politics (the last presidential election taught us as much). Just as I come to my beliefs from a lifetime of learning and choices and decisions, they come to theirs in the same way. And so long as they are not bigoted in their beliefs, then we are usually able to find common ground. Just as they love this country, so do I. Just as they want the best for their loved ones, so do I. Just as they want food and shelter and clean air, so do I.

It is in our differences that we are divided and in our ability to overlook those difference and love each other still, that we connect.

When we talk about the election at home, my husband and I are careful to tell our son that our choices are not his choices and that when he is eligible to vote, we hope he will make up his own mind based on his beliefs. Soon, I will be an example for him in my own voting choices. Even though I have lived in this country for 34 years, as a citizen naturalized since this last election, this year will be the first time I can vote in a presidential election. I have been waiting for this day for a long time. I am proud that I will be joining my fellow citizens at the voting booth and lending my voice to their voices. Yes, we do not all agree, but we are going to use our own actions to speak for us on that day. I hope my son will be watching and taking note and that when he steps into the booth to vote he will remember the day that his mother voted in a presidential election for the first time and that he will let his actions speak louder than his words.

I think of my mother still in the process of surviving breast cancer, still in the process of surviving abuse, still in the process of surviving her tragic and beautiful life. I think of her holding my hand and walking me, her youngest child, to my kindergarten classroom. I think of her walking me to that classroom and letting me go.

I remember that first day. Standing outside with other mothers and children, waiting for our teacher. My sisters had all had the same kindergarten teacher but she had retired and now I was to have someone new. I believed that we did not know what to expect.

My mother was friends with the school secretary as she volunteered in the school library. I’m sure she must have known who the new teacher was. Known something about her. And I was her fourth child, fourth girl. The last. She must have been ready for some time to breathe, my mother. Still, her childhood had been traumatic and she liked to keep us close by when we were small to make sure we were okay. Within her there must have been a small tumor of worry.

Soon, the door swung open and we were allowed in. We found our cubby holes and put away our sweaters and jackets. The room which had not so long ago belonged to other children, soon became our room.

The new teacher was tall and young and interesting and just back from teaching Inuit children in the Northwest Territories. She had short hair, like a nun. She liked to laugh. She and my mother became friends over time and she visited with us at the cottage we rented at the lake. I have a photo of her sitting in a lawn chair, drinking a beer, laughing.

What I remember was her kindness. Her gentle manner. I remember the photos she showed us of the children she had taught. We began to see how their lives might differ from ours in our comfortable suburb.

I remember a red-haired girl named Berget. I remember when the boy I had a crush on shat himself in French class because the French teacher would not let him be excused. I remember playing dress up and taking rest time. I remember tracing our bodies on long sheets of paper and then coloring them in. I remember painting with fat brushes and listening to stories. I remember the young priest coming to our classroom with his guitar and singing songs with us. I remember when my big sister won a blue, spherical transistor radio at assembly for selling the most chocolate bars. I wanted to stand up and shout, “That’s my sister!” To be known and connected to her, the winner.

Sometimes there were movies and book fairs. But I had no best friend then and I cried when we went on our first field trip via bus. My mother was not coming with us and I was scared. I felt myself ripping away from her as I sat on the bus waiting to leave. She came up on the bus to give me a hug and then, again, she let me go. Soon I stopped crying. And when I came home, my mother was there and I was still her child. Nothing had changed even though everything had.