A girl gazes at the waves of Boston harbor, glimmering with optimism and determination. She watches the waves hit the shore, creating a soft, peaceful sound. Her feet prance Massachusetts, leaving tracks of independence and outspokenness. Raised with a will to study, live, and work, she prospers and with those little hands create and craft a movement that would allow her voice to be heard. She continued to fight for the vote until she died. This woman is Susan B. Anthony. 

Little toes wiggle into the leather shoes his father crafted. He puts on his monochrome colored button-up and pulls up his trousers. Skipping over pavement cracks, he giggles when he misses a hop. He’s on his way to his favorite place: church. A place where he is not judged for genetics, or the clothes on his back. The boy sprouts and his limbs stretch far and long like that of a redwood. In 1870, that same boy, now a man, marches to Perth Amboy as the first black man to cast his vote. This driven man is Thomas Mundy Petersen. 

A teenage girl wakes to the smell of syrup and pancakes. She scurries downstairs, greeted by her parents with a kiss and a hug. She notices the USMC hat on her father. She remembers his time in the Marine Corps, the protection he offers. The family feasts, laughs, and giggles. There is a freshness in the air, a whimsical peace, and joy. The girl watches her parents get into the car as they make their way to the town hall. She waves and blows kisses, even though she’s furious. She is thirteen-years-old, small but mighty, and wants to be seen and heard. She counts the weeks, months, years, and the days until she can vote. She’s now eighteen. She dreams of carrying the pride and celebration in voting her parents taught her. She waits for the primary election day eagerly and insists on making the celebratory breakfast that morning. This is my story.