In 2016, I knew two things about Donald Trump:

1. He was orange.
2. He had a bleach-crisped wave of hair.

I was 10 at the time. Forgive my unknowing.

I remember staying up in my parents’ bed to watch the states change between red and blue. One was the donkey, the other was the elephant. I remember being so engrossed by flip-flopping states and symbolistic animals that I forgot to do my math homework and had to use my one homework pass of the trimester on it the next morning.

The election was a fun TV program to watch.

At school the next day, my friends informed me they were moving to Canada, perhaps even England, to escape the reign of Donald Trump.

No one actually moved.

We finished high school in California together last year.

In 2020, I received a blessing called COVID-19.

I know it comes from a place of privilege that I didn’t have to care about the effects of the pandemic. But, I wasn’t ready to face that weight of responsibility. I was still a kid, and I wanted to stay a kid for as long as possible.

Staying in my home 24/7 meant that I didn’t have to pretend that I cared about the state of the world. It may have been burning down, but I was safe within the walls of my bedroom, surrounded by the quiet hum of my online classes and the confidence that my family was healthy.

I didn’t have to confront the constant panic on the news or the daily statistics of cases and deaths. In fact, I intentionally didn’t look. Everything out there was distant, a story happening to everyone else.

It was a strange intermission. Donald Trump was back on the TV, arguably less orange than back in 2016, and I was now in the liminal space between childhood and adulthood. I knew more than I had in years prior, but still not enough to consider myself an informed citizen. Sure, I was capable of nodding along whenever we talked about politics, but my mind was elsewhere.

The world may have been on fire, but I didn’t have to feel the heat.

I remember going back to school that year and listening to people chant “BUILD A WALL” in the center of the quad. At that moment, it was like that orange man from my TV screen had teleported into the center of my high school.

I watched the events of Jan. 6 unfold during an English class, and then eventually, I never saw Mr. Orange Man again.

In 2024, I had to take a U.S. government class to graduate.

Now, the song “How a Bill Becomes a Law” by Schoolhouse Rock plays rent free in my head more often than I care to admit. But that class also meant I had to follow the Republican primaries, tuning into the debates and scrolling through candidates’ websites to make my biweekly discussion posts.

We were strongly recommended to register to vote during that class. And so I did.

I’m 18 now, an actual legal adult who doesn’t have to forge my parents’ signatures on permission slips. I should vote in this election. But I don’t want to.

Sometimes I feel guilty because it was a fight to get a vote as a woman. Yet here I am one century later, not wanting mine. Elizabeth Caddy Stanton and Susan B. Anthony devoted their lives to giving me this. But, I can’t accept it.

I’m not ready to face the weight of what my vote represents: I am not a kid anymore.

I watched Mr. Orange Man on the TV in my parent’s bed the night before I left for college. I think it’s the last time I will ever do that.

Voting feels like the true goodbye to my childhood. It’s coming to the realization that I live in this big, scary world where I can no longer stay on the sidelines. The longer I refuse to vote, the more complacent I become to everything happening in the world.

But perhaps the best part of embracing adulthood is that I am empowered. I can choose to disagree with the values I grew up with, and I can vote for causes I believe in. My childlike wonder is unfortunately gone, but a more informed perspective is beginning to fill that gap.

It’s time to step into the fire. It’s time to feel the heat.

I dropped off my mail-in ballot last week at a very sketchy post box on campus.

In 2024, I know a lot more about Donald Trump.

1. He’s significantly less orange.
2. He still has a bleach-crisped wave of hair.
3. He has a lot of feuds on X (formerly Twitter).