¡Ya voté!

I don't much care for politics, or most politicians, or endless campaigns, policies that hurt more people than they help, and debates that don't delve deeper than sound bites. And I really hate campaign ads, especially when they try to be funny.

But I love voting. I do, I do.

This morning, I went to the polling station half a block away. Tiny local polling stations are the best. There were four people working—a Hispanic woman in her 30s, a black teenage guy, a white man in his 50s, and a black man in his 40s—all irrepressibly cheerful. They thanked me for arriving, they thanked me for turning in a friend's ballot, they thanked me for telling them my address, they thanked me for spelling my name, they thanked me when they handed me the ballot, and they thanked me when I left.

On the way to work, I passed two other polling stations. One was in a fire station and another in what looked like someone's garage (is that allowed?). A row of happy multiethnic people manned each table. Everyone on their way out sported a red lapel sticker and a Cheshire grin.

At the entrance to 24th Street BART, a smiling guy in a fuzzy hat holding a giant Obama sign said, "Thanks for voting!" I thanked him back.

Except for certain homesick moments during long journeys abroad, voting might be the only time I feel patriotic. This country inarguably has enormous problems, and the next president will have a steaming mess to sort out. Our leaders make mistakes. We as voters make mistakes.

But in that booth with a ballot in my hand, filling in the black arrows that point to what I'd like to see happen in my city, state, and country, I get butterflies in my belly and think, "This matters."

One vote won't tip the scales, but one + one + one + one + one will, and the fact that we're given the age-old opportunity to cast our opinions to the skies and have them heard—actually counted, piece of paper by piece of paper—that's a sign our country has at least figured out the first step.