I say that because in July 1965, when I was 11 years old and annoyed that regular programming on TV was interrupted for Stevenson’s funeral, I asked my mother, “Who is this guy, anyway?” She described him as a great man who had once run for president. When I asked, “Did we vote for him?” she said, “We’re Democrats.”

Earlier that year I had been campaign manager for Mary Armstrong in her bid for fifth-grade class treasurer. I was a good and dedicated campaign manager. I made posters, gave a speech and worked with great determination to make it more than just a popularity contest. It didn’t help much that Mary’s opponent, besides being more popular, could run rings around her in math. That was a point I worked hard to downplay, but to no avail. In the end, she got only five votes. Mary told me on the bus on the way home that she had voted for her opponent.

I turned 18 in 1972, the first year that 18-year-olds had the right to vote. I stood in line in the gymnasium of James A. Garfield Elementary School, scene of the crushing defeat of Armstrong for Treasurer, signed my name and cast my ballot for George McGovern for president.

For the next 28 years I registered and voted in each of the three states I lived in. I did it all in blissful ignorance until the presidential election of November 2000, when the unbelievable happened. In Florida, punch cards weren’t fully punched and were therefore discounted, the notorious butterfly ballot was so poorly designed that many voters mistakenly chose more than one candidate, and late-arriving absentee ballots from overseas military personnel were accepted, and rejected, at the discretion of county canvassing boards. I watched in shock as news footage showed officials holding ballots up to the light and squinting.

How could this happen here? This is the United States, where every few months everything from soap to computers to toothbrushes gets a once-over and comes out new and improved. What were we doing using 1960s-era punch cards to determine the outcome of a presidential election? I know there are bugs in every system, but this thing hit me hard.

Last fall, during the weeks leading up to California’s infamous gubernatorial recall election, the American Civil Liberties Union argued in court that more than 40,000 votes might not get counted due to the antiquated systems that were still in place. Forty thousand! If that held true across all 50 states during a presidential election, well, even a fifth-grade class treasurer could figure out that 2 million Americans wouldn’t be heard.

There has been plenty of commentary on the 2000 voting debacle, and plenty of ideas on how to fix it. Some critics have proposed using computers, but how will we keep out the inevitable hackers? And should the computers print a receipt or just let the vote float in cyberspace? At the March 8 primary in Orange County, I voted on what looked like a notebook computer instead of the usual punch card, paid for with $26 million in funds from California’s Proposition 41 (which set aside money for upgrading voting systems) and the federal Help America Vote Act that President Bush signed into law two years ago. I simply turned a dial until the candidate of my choice was highlighted, then hit vote. As impressive as it was, I couldn’t help but wonder if my vote had actually registered somewhere.

I have never been one of those people who say they don’t vote because one person’s choice won’t make a difference. I have never even understood those people. Since the last presidential election, there can be no doubt that votes not cast or counted do matter. In my opinion, there’s a difference between the two: a vote not cast is neglect; a vote not counted is criminal.

“Mommy’s going to vote.” It sounded so important. I have only one vote, and unless I am convicted of a crime, no one should be able to take it away from me. No friend, no foe, no politician. No cop, no lawyer and, most certainly, no election official. I worry that perhaps some of the outrage we all felt in 2000 has dissipated over the last four years, and perhaps our commitment to improving the system has wavered. Even so, I’d rather be worried than apathetic. Next November, I’ll cast my ballot with the usual sense of pride and responsibility–and I’ll cross my fingers that it counts.