Get Out and Vote

A treasure tucked into my grandmother’s 1944 purse made voting extra special this year.

Photo by Julie Miley Schlegel, of my grandparents’ 1945 poll tax receipts

I have a clutch purse that belonged to my maternal grandmother. I don’t remember when or why I have this purse from the 1940s, but it is special to me. I can still picture her hands, nails always painted, and imagine her holding this sparkly black purse. 

It was only in the past few years that I found in this purse, tucked into a pocket, a poll tax receipt. And (embarrassingly), it is only recently that I learned about poll taxes. How they were used as a tool to keep people from being able to vote and were ruled unconstitutional by the 24th Amendment to the Constitution in 1964.

My grandparents, according to this poll tax receipt, paid $1.70 to vote in January of 1945. My grandmother’s name listed as “Mrs. L.D. Ball,” instead of her own name. “Colored” scratched out on both. “Female” scratched out on my grandfather’s, “Male” on my grandmothers. Their occupations: Minister, and Wife. 

According to Wikipedia, $1.70 would be the equivalent of $62 today. My grandparents were not wealthy — I can imagine that paying this poll tax in Nolan County, Texas, in 1945 wouldn’t have been easy for them. 

I am proud that they voted, and I am sorry for those who were not able to vote in 1945 because they needed their $1.70 to feed their family or pay their rent instead of paying the poll tax. 

To make it even more special, this poll tax was paid in January of 1945, and my mother was born in February of 1945. So when this poll tax was paid, my mother was there, tucked safely inside her mother’s womb. 

There is an election coming up, and it’s one that is causing a lot of side-eye in the voting lines. Last week I waited in line for an hour with my parents to cast our votes. We got our “I voted!” stickers and went out to lunch. Every election season, my mom says, “I love to vote! I love to vote!”

Born in 1974, I was a child of the ‘80s. I graduated high school in 1992. A preacher’s kid, I knew a lot of people and even more knew me. I knew people as mothers and fathers, teachers and coaches. I noticed how we all treated each other. 

I have always noticed people’s microexpressions, sensing anxiety, or sadness, or loneliness, or even arrogance and meanness. It is a blessing and a curse. But until the last several years, I’ve never known people’s politics. 

I wonder if it was easier that way. 

I’m a bit embarrassed to say that I didn’t vote in the first several years of elections in which I could vote. This, as I now text-bomb my 20-year-old daughter about her absentee ballot this week: Did you get it? Did you send it? Did you mail it? 

This, as I hear my husband, who seems to know all things historical and geopolitical, teaching my sons. “I don’t care who you vote for. But when you come to me talking about politics, you’d better be armed with facts, not talking points and propaganda provided by dishonest politicians.”

As we had dinner with friends Saturday night and they talked about who they voted for in the ‘80s and ‘90s, it struck me that I didn’t use my voice back then to vote. It’s like it never dawned on me to vote. It wasn’t on my radar. 

Now that many of us are online, I’m surprised by some of the political posts and comments I see, from people I’ve always known. Sometimes the vitriol clouds the way I feel about people I thought I knew. 

As a pediatrician, I notice kids’ reactions when I’m talking to their parents (not about politics - about everything). They absorb what their parents say, even when they’re staring at their screens or out the window. And I think it’s important to be mindful of what we’re saying around the election, too. 

I would love to go back to my early life, when I had my head in the sand and didn’t understand how important democracy is, how important my vote and voice are. But I don’t think head-in-the-sand is very healthy. 

Our neighborhood is filled with political signs. Like many, I find myself rolling my eyes as I pass some, enraged by some and muttering “damn right!” when I pass others. We seem divided, but when Hurricane Harvey decimated our Houston neighborhood, we all came together to help each other. 

We are all human. I want to remember people are people first, before their politics. The same hopes and dreams. The same struggles.

I want my kids to learn that when there is a difference of opinion, it should be Harry and Sally against the issue, not Harry and Sally against each other. 

I also want them to know that sometimes you have to stand up and fight for what you believe. 

They will also learn that sometimes, knowing you’re too far apart and will never agree on an issue, you have to say, “If you’re looking for an argument, I’m not available today,” and walk away for the sake of your sanity. 

We all have different issues we are voting and fighting for. I believe this is an extremely important election, and I acknowledge that others think it’s important for opposite reasons to mine. 

But the bottom line is, kids: Your voice and vote matter. You matter. 

This treasure of a poll tax receipt is a reminder of how far we’ve come, and also how far we have to go. And, as a side note, my grandmother — Baba, to us — was named Zadie “Helen” Smith Ball. 

I don’t know how my grandparents voted in the 1945 election. But they left a legacy for me, tucked deeply into the black purse pocket. And they also left a legacy through my mom, who was tucked inside her mother’s womb, like the poll tax receipt in the purse, on the day the tax was paid. “I love to vote.”

Photo by Julie Miley Schlegel, of my maternal grandmother’s 1945 purse

The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.