What I told my son on his first trip to vote at the polls

When I was a kid, my dad took me with him to the polls on Election Day, though I suspect he later came to regret it.

Because by the time I turned 18, my political views were far different from those of my dad.

I voted, and my dad voted, and we canceled out each other’s votes.

Later, we’d meet for dinner at the T-Bone Steakhouse in south Phoenix, sporting “I Voted Today” stickers. We’d click our frosty beer mugs together and say, “God bless America.”

It was our tradition.

My dad died in 1999 — the same year my son was born. I took Sawyer to the polls, in a stroller, a Little League uniform and after middle-school band practice and high-school play rehearsal.

On Tuesday, we went to the Tempe Elks Lodge No. 2251 before his 7:30 a.m. college physics class, and Sawyer voted for the first time.

We could register to vote by mail like practically everyone else I know. But when I fed my ballot into the machine and saw the digital number tick up by one to 10, I felt counted.

Sawyer wasn’t sentimental about it and frankly annoyed by my enthusiasm. “It has to be done,” he said. I don’t care why he went, only that he did.

To me, it felt even more important because our country seems impossibly divided, with neither side listening to the other. Drawing black lines to connect the arrows by the candidates whose ideas and values most align with mine, I feel heard.

At a time when we argue about what it means to be American, who is most patriotic, those who kneel or those who stand, this is how I show how much I care about my country.

I stuck my “I Voted” sticker to my dress. Sawyer put his in his pocket.

“You’ll be home for dinner?” I asked. He would.

“Steak sound good?”