Low voter turnout in Florida primary betrays the hard work of those who fought for our rights

BY

As I walked out of the polling place in Miami Gardens where I had taken my blind godson, Greg, to vote (I’d already voted by mail), I got a little teary-eyed. The polling place was nearly empty. The tears welled up in my eyes because I was remembering the sacrifices that had been made by so many, so that I could partake of this wonderful American privilege of voting. I thanked God for them.

I don’t take voting lightly. Election time almost always makes me think of the precious lives that were lost, just so people who look like me would be able to vote in freedom. It is not merely a passing thought. Unlike many in the two or three generations behind me (I am 84), I know the bloody history; the price that was paid for me to be able to not only vote but vote for the candidate of my choice.

Today (Aug. 28) marks the 59th anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington, a movement that gave a new burst of energy to the Civil Rights Movement. As with many notable events in my life, I can remember how old I was, where I was, what I was doing and how I felt as I watched the event on the bedroom television of the home where I worked as a maid at the time.

I believe that it is no coincidence that the anniversary of the iconic 1963 March on Washington happens on the tail of our primary election. Some of us need to remember how it was back then.

I was only 25 when thousands of folks from all walks of life convened in Washington, D.C. to hear speakers like a young John Lewis, who would later become a U.S. Congressman, A. Phillip Randolph and the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who gave his famous “I Have a Dream” speech.

Even at 25, I was already a widow with two small children. I wanted so much to be among my people, standing shoulder to shoulder for justice and equality and singing the freedom songs loud enough to be heard all over the world. But I couldn’t afford to take off from my job to travel to Washington that day. Even so, my heart was there.

So, on that hot and humid August day, when the lady of the house had gone out for her usual lunch with her girlfriends, I was left to do the housework and laundry. Watching the Washington event on her bedroom television was not supposed to be part of the deal.

Yet, somehow, I managed to change the bed linens, fluff the pillows, dust the furniture and vacuum the carpet while staring in awe at the events on television. I was nearly bursting with pride as I listened to the speakers, and finally to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s keynote speech. Hope was in the air. A change was on the way. I could just feel it.

Yet, while Dr. King was being praised for his speech, the battle for voting rights and economic rights were still being waged. I worked hard for the $8 a day I was being paid, without benefits or even a paid one-day vacation. I can’t remember how many days I dragged myself into work, so sick I could hardly hold my head up, because I couldn’t afford to take an unpaid sick day.

I saw my babies off to daycare and got to work in time to feed and shower love on the children (who one day would call me the “N” word); do the washing and ironing and cleaning before my ride picked me up at 4 p.m. (I carpooled with some other maids, paying the driver what I would have paid for public transportation.)

I was blessed to live with my mother in those early years; she shared expenses like food, rent and utilities with me. I remember the ride home on that August day. The conversation was all about the March on Washington. We felt invigorated and hopeful.

While we Blacks basked in the aftermath of King’s speech, we were very much aware that the battle for equal rights was just beginning. Rosa Parks had already been arrested for refusing to give up her seat on a Montgomery, Ala., public bus to a White man. Parks’ deed ignited the smoldering civil rights flames and thrust the young Dr. King into the world’s spotlight. By the early 1960s there were lunch counter sit-ins and voter registration drives throughout the South.

So, while we were encouraged by the March on Washington, we were also wary. We knew the battle would get even hotter. Even so, we were not quite prepared for what was to be some of the worst racial acts in the history of our country. Namely, the brutal murders of James Chaney of Mississippi and his two White colleagues, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner, both of New York City. They would be killed by a mob of Ku Klux Klansmen on June 21, 1964, less than a year after the iconic March on Washington. Their crime? They simply were registering blacks in Mississippi to vote.

Last Tuesday, I thought of Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner, and others who died so that Black people would have the right to vote. They paid the ultimate sacrifice for us to have this freedom. That is why when I took note of the voter turnout last Tuesday, I felt ashamed. Ashamed for those Blacks who didn’t think it important enough to take an hour out of their day to exercise their right to vote.

According to one article I read on the day after the primary election, Miami-Dade had only about an 18.98 percent turnout. While mail-in voting was fairly robust – with about 142,000 citizens mailing in their ballots, early in-person voting brought out only about 50,000 voters, with just over 53,000 showing up at the polls on Election Day.

This is a message to freedom -loving people, especially Black people, in Miami-Dade and across the country where voter turnout was less than great. We need to take a moment to reflect on how much this seemingly simple freedom of voting means to us. There is power in the vote. We can voice our opinions through the vote.

Think about what life in America would be like without this wonderful freedom. When we do, I don’t believe that we will take it, or any other freedom for granted.