My first vote was for a Clinton. 24 years later, we're having the same election.

More than 20 years since my first vote, I am again mired in an election with Clintons and Bushes and the billionaire, Buchananite Reform Party figure of Trump. I still feel that no candidate reaches the level of competence I want from a president. I envy my friends who adore and admire Clinton and Trump, the passion they feel, like when I watch the Phillies. How secure they are in the certainty that theirs is the best candidate.

In “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,” James Joyce describes the joy that his hero Stephen Daedalus feels after his first time going to confession. He writes, “The muddy streets were gay. He strode homeward, conscious of an invisible grace pervading and making his limbs light.” I felt that way after my first time voting. I felt proud and a part of something.

That’s the difference 24 years later. I don’t walk out of my voting place with a hop in my step any more. I don’t relish the feeling of having changed history. I worry about taxes and the rent and keeping the streets safe. Maybe I don’t want to be inspired any more, I don’t want a politician to promise changes in my life that only I can make.