A white man collapses outside against the brick walls of the polling station in 1776.  For he had no land, he had no rights. He wants to voice his opinion, but he would not be heard.  He must wait for years to come, broken and bruised by society. He had no place in elections, he did not matter to the country. 

A parade of women gather in the streets in 1913.  A maiden raises atop a pale, robust steed beckoning for others to join in a march to the capital. Hooves impact the concrete in unison as thousands of women accompany her on the journey.  Sacrifices for the greater good, for the population. 

Tears roll down ebony cheeks as a black man is met with violence. Officers surround the mass with aggression and the intent to kill. The tears flow intensely for his brothers and sisters. He weeps for the country as his kin marches from Selma to Washington.  There would be no prevail. 

It is 1960. The white men no longer collapse against the wall; women chant with freedom, and the sorrowful tears of the black man stop falling. There is a liberation from the shackles of oppression.  The feeling is sweet, victorious, empowering. The fate of the country is in their hands.

I am at the polling station. There is a low murmur of discussion. It is peaceful, tranquil.  There are no protests, no brutality, no grieving. The people of the past made sacrifices to better the United States, to provide equality and nonviolence. The thoughts guide my pencil.  The fate of the country is in my hands.