The Cost of Silence
Every election, a quiet protest emerges—those who abstain from voting, believing silence sends a message to a system they feel has failed them. While the disillusionment is understandable, abstaining is not just a surrender of influence—it is a denial of the sacrifices made by those who fought to secure this right.
Few figures better embody this fight than Ida B. Wells and John Lewis. Their lives are reminders of the stakes involved and the enduring obligation to engage in the democratic process—a reflection as much about history as it is about personal responsibility.
I am a product of the Great Migration—a generational journey shaped by resilience and hope. One side of my family moved north to escape the horrors of a pre-Loving v. Virginia South, where love across racial lines was criminalized. The other side followed the promise of the car trade, traveling from the Gulf to the Bay, to Chicago and Detroit, seeking stability in the factories that fueled their version of the American Dream.
These migrations were more than physical; they were acts of defiance, rooted in the belief that the future held something better. Their sacrifices shifted our family’s trajectory out of poverty and created opportunities my ancestors could only imagine.
Voting was essential to this progress. It gave Black families a tool to demand better schools, safer neighborhoods, and opportunities long denied. For us, voting is not abstract—it is deeply personal, woven into the story of how we moved from survival to stability and how my children now stand to inherit a world of greater possibility.
But I know I am not the guarantor of this privilege.
I am reminded of Ida.
Ida B. Wells, a fearless journalist and suffragist, dedicated her life to exposing racial violence and demanding accountability. In an era of lynching and disenfranchisement, she understood that the vote was a vital tool for justice—a way to challenge the structural racism that sought to silence and oppress.
Her work paved the way for families like mine to believe in progress, even against staggering odds. Her legacy reminds us that political power must be claimed and wielded, not taken for granted.
We have to make “Good Trouble.”
John Lewis carried the weight of generations denied their rights. His leadership, from sit-ins to “Bloody Sunday” on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, was a testament to the belief in ordinary people’s power to change the world.
For Lewis, voting was not just a right but a moral imperative. He called it “good trouble”—bold action in the face of imperfection and inadequacy. That same courage and participation propelled my family from striving to thriving. Democracy only works when we engage, even when it feels flawed.
For my children, the stakes are higher than ever. They will inherit a world shaped by today’s decisions—a world where voter suppression, climate change, and systemic inequities threaten hard-won progress.
When I think of their future, I am reminded that voting is not just a personal choice; it is a collective responsibility. Silence is a false choice. Knowing the battles our ancestors fought for our voices makes participation nonnegotiable.
To preserve the legacies of Ida B. Wells, John Lewis, and my own family, we must ensure democracy remains a tool for justice, not an artifact of the past.
To those who chose not to vote as a form of protest, reflect on the weight of that decision—not just for today, but for the history it dismisses and the future it shapes.
. . . And now that you can’t take that back, I hope you find another way to contribute.
Onward.
