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Freedom’s power: The story of an American voter

By BENITA M. DODD

It was the day after the presidential elections, just before John Kerry conceded, that the woman behind the cash register asked, “Are the elections over yet?”

She groaned unhappily when I told her that Kerry’s concession speech was imminent. “Where are you from?” I asked, detecting an accent. She was from Cameroon. I’m from South Africa, I responded.

An article in the Financial Times of London just that day had described Cameroon as “the repressive but U.S.-friendly and apparently stable hegemony” of 22-year President Paul Biya, re-elected [in October] with more than 70 percent of the vote amid charges of widespread ballot fraud. Transparency International ranks Cameroon 129th out of 146 countries in its annual survey of perceptions of corruption.

“Isn’t it great that we’re in America, where we can disagree?” I said with a smile. Her smile was slow in coming.

In South Africa, my friends were killed, jailed and tortured, all because they demanded and campaigned for the right to vote in their own country.

My black friend Ben’s execution on his doorstep was engineered by the Security Police (South Africa’s version of the KGB), it was revealed to the post-apartheid Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

My white “friend” Gordon turned out to be a police spy planted at the university I attended to gain the trust of black students.

My white college buddy Peter turned out to be one of the most committed opponents of apartheid I ever met; he’s my hero to this day and the reason I vowed skin color would never impact my judgment.

But Peter’s a liberal journalist and, bless his heart, fails to see why I’m a black conservative.

Of all people, he should. After years of having both identity and aspirations restricted because of a nebulous “racial” grouping by government, the promise in individual responsibility espoused by the conservative philosophy is a dream come true.

I never did get to vote in my homeland; I left for Atlanta in 1986, determined that my children would never cite skin color as restricting their opportunities.

[Last month], my 18-year-old-son was able to vote for the first time. Fewer than one in 10 voters were ages 18 to 24, but this is America, where you have the right to vote and a choice in whether to exercise that vote.

This is America, where my good friend chooses not to register to vote because that could get you jury duty. She never had to endure the experience of hungrily watching election night coverage from the sidelines as the white voters’ count was tabulated, of hoping for some crumbs at the foot of the table, some miraculous concession that would empower the more progressive white party and ease the oppression of the black majority. Of course, that never happened while I lived in South Africa.

When an estimated 120 million Americans cast ballots in [the Nov. 2] election, less than 60 percent of the electorate, it was trumpeted as the highest turnout since 1968.

Georgia did better than the nation, with an estimated 77 percent voter turnout. What’s saddening is that four in 10 voters around the nation couldn’t find the time or the inclination to participate in the process for which their ancestors fought and sacrificed and died.

But what swells me with pride is that the opportunity to vote goes far beyond what this nation provided me.

Sharing the promise of a free and fair election process, thanks to America, are the Iraqis, who began registering [last] month to vote for national assembly elections scheduled for Jan. 31.

Showing how it can be done, thanks to America, is Afghanistan, where Hamid Karzai [last month] was declared the first democratically elected president. More than 8 million Afghans voted despite threats of violence.

To me, the most amazing thing of all is that all that this country asks of me before I can participate in this decision-making process is that I am an American; an upstanding citizen.

So when my best friend, an immigrant from Mexico, came up to me in the line at the polling station and remarked, “I don’t see any Mexicans in the line,” I replied with a smile:

“Of course not. We’re all Americans.”

[Benita M. Dodd is a journalism graduate of Rhodes University in Grahamstown , South Africa, who immigrated to the United States in 1986. The Cobb County resident was an editorial writer and columnist for The Atlanta Journal Editorial Board and an editorial writer for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution Editorial Board before joining the Georgia Public Policy Foundation as vice president in 2003. Georgia Public Policy Foundation is an independent think tank that proposes practical, market-oriented approaches to public policy to improve the lives of Georgians.]