I envision walking up to the ballot box, my name practically carved in it. There are no protesters, not a person to stop me from dropping my values into the sea of flooding white paper, alongside those of my peers. May they be considered thoughtfully, because my box will not be checked arbitrarily.

There is a long red carpet guiding me to the place that has the power to change the world around me. There are no hands to pull me away—no walls to break down because someone else before me has stood her ground. 

As the paper falls a mirage of images will flash, filled with picket signs, on them scribbled with words of pride and anger—each letter representing a woman who was forced to helplessly watch. Women adorned in white stand alongside me, they smile and gaze admirably at me. 

I am determined to be a part of this beautiful country. I overhear my father talking on the phone, he claims that politics are ripping this country apart. I will be part of the generation that changes this. 

It will be Generation Z that comes together—because we grew up during a time when Mom wasn’t paid for 35 days because compromise could never crash over congress. 

Fueled by money, greed, and laziness; this country is swollen with individual interests. These interests stand straight against each other like a creature of a checkerboard. 

We have become the sole thing that the founding fathers had feared— a country divided by factions and pride. Although it is true, not one man stands tall and tyrannical over the states, but rather 500 men and women— dancing to the rhythm of their party’s drum. 

Change is nearing, there are many others like myself who need it. We will not cheer or boo from the sidelines— but we will dash up and down the field, and tumble if we must. 

I am unlike those who faded into the background— my voice will thunder through your town hall, that I can say with certainty. Together, we will stand at the ballot box.