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I have a confession to make.

I am really, really excited to vote.

I know it sounds delusional and insane, but I’m not kidding. I’ve checked my registration about five times. I keep up with election news. I have responded to a text poll. My RA asked what we were excited to do during fall break — I wrote “vote!” when no one else was in the hallway. When my roommate asked me which comment was mine, I was thoroughly embarrassed.

Notre Dame is all about democracy, at least in theory. We watch the presidential debates (and even the vice presidential debates) like a spectator sport. We make fun of both candidates in equal measure. We agree from different sides of the political spectrum about important issues and basic principles — caring for the poor, respecting the Earth, seeking the common good. Despite the stereotype of our age group being indifferent and uneducated about politics, I would bet that a solid majority of Notre Dame students are considered high-information voters. We know what's going on. We care.

So why do I feel so weird admitting that out loud?

I wanted to find out. Was I really so alone in being unironically excited about electing the president — and if so, what’s causing my peers to check out or feel discouraged?

I asked some friends for their perspective on the issue.

Firstly, America really needs to fix the mail-in-ballot situation, because there are masses of intelligent and motivated young people who cannot seem to access or produce a ballot that is up to code. People have had them sent back and rejected, applications have gone unanswered and quite a few people have said their sole reason for not voting is to avoid that mess. Pundits write entire books about how to increase youth voter turnout, but maybe the real answer is just to give us out-of-state students an easier way to just go to a poll and get a sticker.

I was surprised by the amount of people who were still deciding who to vote for, or whether to vote at all. Many are nervous about the pressure of their first election being this one. I’ve heard from blue-staters and red-staters alike that the electoral college essentially voids their vote entirely; there’s no point in going through all that trouble when it’s already obvious what the outcome will be. My hometown is in a swing district in suburban Ohio, so I can’t imagine a world where several million dollars were not being spent on political advertisements hyperfocused to my region and demographic group — perhaps my enthusiasm for voting is a product of my environment. One of my friends was undecided going into election season and is now no closer to making up her mind. She told me that she sees significant holes within the arguments of both parties and that she can’t align herself with either candidate despite doing her research on both.

“It’s unfortunate, and dulls my enthusiasm for voting in my first presidential election,” she explained. My Canadian friend is glad to be exempt from the pressure.

However, there was one common denominator to all of these conversations and subtle soundbites.

I have a good idea of who all of my friends voted for, are voting for, or would want to vote for, and I understand that Notre Dame’s uniquely diverse political climate ensures that opinions are mixed. Yet it was a pattern that hung in the room no matter who I was talking to.

No one said who they were actually voting for.

It’s a frequent political dynamic at Notre Dame. We coexist as red, blue and purple, but we would rather not talk about it or reveal which group we belong to. We might make fun of both candidates, but we avoid stating our own personal political beliefs in plain language while in mixed company.

I’m as guilty of this as anyone. I might jokingly call myself a “lib,” but I don’t share my opinion on abortion out loud unless asked directly. I had no problem telling people that I was pro-choice before college — the opinionated and generally irreligious population of my public high school contained everything from professed anarcho-communists to proud 2020 election deniers. Upon coming to Notre Dame, however, I found myself gradually adopting an apolitical front. I repeated the same lines as everyone else who doesn’t want to start an argument: “They all suck, I’m not really a politics person.” The truth wasn’t worth the subtle stare or the shame of being seen as another bad Catholic ruining ND’s traditional character. When I cast my real first electoral votes last year in Ohio’s statewide referendums, I posted a picture of my “I Voted” sticker with no mention of what exactly I voted for. The legalization of marijuana wouldn’t be too controversial, but the end of Ohio’s heartbeat bill certainly would be.

I know from the stories of conservatives on campus that it’s not uncommon for them to also feel uncomfortable sharing their opinions. One of my best friends is my political polar opposite; while I was voting to legalize abortion in Ohio last year, she was attending the DC March for Life to advocate for the lives of the unborn. Although she’s open about her faith, she still refers to herself as a closeted Republican — partially because she’s too embarrassed by the antics of Donald Trump to publicly say she’s voting for him, but also because she’s worried that students like me will see her as an extremist or a racist for doing so. I’ve noticed that ND’s women, regardless of affiliation, are considerably more self-policing and withholding of political opinion than ND’s men. Liberals are acutely aware that our male peers lean towards the right and fear that we’ll alienate them with our stances. Conservative girls experience an opposite effect, as they know that young women and campuses in general trend towards the left and worry about what their professors and female friends think about their differing views as a result. The end result is the same. We play it cool, stay quiet, feign ignorance or carelessness. This is undesirable at the best of times. During an election where the primary issue pertains exclusively to women, it’s unacceptable.

When I go home for fall break and drive downtown with my mother to the Cuyahoga County Board of Elections, I will be voting for Kamala Harris. I’m not undyingly loyal towards her or the Democratic Party, I don’t agree with all of her policies and I don’t think she’ll single-handedly fix the issues of the nation or the world. However, I think that her platform aligns with what I believe in much more than Trump’s platform does, and I am proud to say that I am voting for her — much more proud than I would be to say that I was voting Joe Biden in for a second term.

The generalizers are right about one thing; we want change in this country. Sometimes we want to see the same changes as the other half does — everyone likes lower prices! Most of the time, though, we want to see very different ones. That is okay. Our generation has genuine reasons to have lost faith in electoral politics, but I believe that a culture of indifference and cynicism helps no one — throwing in the towel and writing it all off as meaningless is a voluntary defeat, not an act of noble depolarization. Opinions are necessary. “Taking a side” is the engine of democracy. Growing up in such a tumultuous political climate has undeniably disillusioned us, but it should also force us to recognize that our parents’ strategy of shoving politics into the closet of topics that we shouldn’t bring up at a dinner table is dead and doomed to failure. This election is the first time that most of us have a voice on the national stage. If we don’t use it, it just might be stolen from us entirely.

So yes, I am excited to vote, and I think that you should be too. Vote in protest, in disgust, in hope. Vote for Harris. Vote for Trump. Hell, vote for Jill Stein. If you’re feeling up to it, tell your girlfriend, your boyfriend, your friends or your USEM class who you’re voting for — and tell them why you made that choice. Tell them to vote too.