I ran into the kitchen to grab a snack during a “Grey’s Anatomy” commercial break. I was running so that I wouldn’t miss the start of the show. When I returned to my couch, and realized I still had one minute left until the show came on, I started to watch the commercials. The date was Sept. 8, 2016, exactly two months until the presidential election. Right when I opened my bag of chips, a new commercial I had never seen came on. It was a montage of all the things Donald Trump had said, offending Mexican-Americans, the handicap community, and women. It showed young children half my age watching their TV screens, and at the last second gave the caption Our Children are Watching.

That’s right, our children are watching. Children are like sponges that soak up everything around them, everything that they see adults do and say. We pick up on everything that we observe in the world, and model ourselves after important figures in our lives.

I was born under the Bush administration, and the first memory I ever have of anything having to do with an election was when I was 5 years-old, and Barack Obama was elected president in 2008. It was a school night, and at that age my bedtime was 7:30 p.m.. My dad had stayed up into the late hours of the night, to the bitter end, and watched with pride as the first African-American president was elected. At 2:00 in the morning, while dreaming about ponies and unicorns, I felt a gentle shake on my shoulder. It was my father, and he was beaming from ear to ear. He softly whispered in my ear, “Rachie, we did it. We have our first black president.” My mother then yelled at him for waking up a sleeping toddler, and he walked away and closed my door. Months later, in January 2009, my kindergarten class was interrupted and my teacher wheeled in a giant box TV on a stand with wheels. All the kids were gathered onto the rug, and a man I had never seen before was holding up his right hand and repeating words that I couldn’t understand. This man would be my president.

About eight years later, I am witnessing – with a little bit more understanding – the same process happen all over again. Except this time, I am rooting for a woman. This past summer, I had the honor of going to an anti-Trump demonstration. My father and I went to the Trump rally at Sacred Heart University in Fairfield and stood outside the building with nearly 150 other Democrats holding signs and chanting “Love trumps hate!” continuously to anyone who would listen, and even to those who wouldn’t. I still have my sign that reads “Disarm hate.” And suddenly my heart stopped beating in my chest. I blinked and looked again. Directly across the street from us, were four men. They weren’t yelling, they weren’t making any commotion at all. But they were holding up a banner, a white one with bold red letters that said, “Diversity = White Genocide.” There were simply no words, at least none that any of us could form at the moment. No one knew what the heck to do. The police couldn’t do anything because of freedom of print and speech and all that. Were our eyes deceiving us? Surely a man who has supporters like these could never actually get elected.

Unfortunately, at 3:30 a.m. this morning, my dad had to come in and gently shake my shoulders yet again, and this time I knew that it would not be a happy memory like before. I knew this time, eight years later and myself being eight years older and wiser, that this was not a night that would go down in history with good taste. “Rachie,” he said. “I’m so sorry, but Hillary just conceded. Trump won.” And on this night, try as I might, I was unable to fall back asleep.

So, here I am, three months after my first political demonstration, witnessing my first election where I can remember more than bits of it at a time, and just utterly shocked at what country I have laid out in front of me for the next four years. This is the country that I am going to grow up in. This is the country that I am going to go to high school, learn to drive, take the SATs, and become an adult in. These four years in front of me, from ages 13 to 17, are the years that I have left to grow up and learn from my mistakes. After age 17, I am a formal member of society. I belong to a community, a cause higher than myself. These memories that I have, of my dad whispering in my ear, and attending my first political protest, these are all memories that are going to shape my future. Now, I am the one who stayed up until morning, and I am the one who recognized the face smiling at me on the screen. I come to you now not as a bitter Hillary fan, after all she did win the popular vote, and not as a person who didn’t get their way in the election, when I ask, “What does the future hold?” Because yes, our children, myself included, are watching.

Adviser’s note:  The newspaper staff welcomes letters and columns from students holding a variety of opinions.  If you would like to write a piece on this topic that shares with or differs from Rachel’s piece, please email the paper at [email protected] and the staff and adviser will consider publishing it.