Smile! Snap. Flash.

Almost every slightly significant moment in my short 18-year-old life that I remember has also been accompanied by my parents insisting that they take a picture so the moment can be remembered forever.

Sure, the picture may damper the mood temporarily while my parents attempt to work the complex machine that digital cameras have transformed into, but they still believe the photo is worth the expense of the several minute time investment and my social dignity.

The tradition started from a very early age. I recall one of the most significant moments of my early childhood climbing aboard the big yellow school bus to kindergarten. As I sulked in my anxiety of what was to come, of course, my mom had to hold up the bus so she could get a picture of me on the school bus steps – I should have known high school was going to be a long four years.

Just last week, another one of these photo opportunities came around, my first voting experience. However, this time I felt as if the paparazzi was unwarranted.

As I walked into the polling place my mother insisted that I stop in front of the sign that read “Polling Place” to take a picture. It is hard to say if it was because I was resigned to the fact that I was still taking these pictures after all of these years, or if it was because I really didn’t think it was that significant of an event, I stood by the sign slouched and without a smile to spite her.

After the photo shoot, while the two older women poll workers slowly found my name, one of them praised me for voting while she mumbled some depressing fact about young people today and their lack of motivation to vote.

However, right before I tuned her out, she said something slightly profound -she hasn’t missed an election since the day she was old enough to vote, and from her looks that is a lot of votes she has cast. Her theory was that if people are dying every day for the right to vote, it would be a shame not to if you had the opportunity.

Mulling her thoughts in my mind, I moved on to the voting machine where I voted in the three elections. Two of which were uncontested and the other was for the prestigious position of “County Appraiser.”

I had officially voted.

Regardless of the lackluster feel to this election, I kept the poll worker’s words in mind and tried to realize what a privilege I had partaken in.

I had joined the political society that I have always studied and admired. As the poll worker had noted, without risking my safety, without even imposing on my day except for the fact that I had to wake up a few minutes earlier than usual. I had joined the arms of the government “for the people, by the people and of the people,” something some can only dream of.

As I started on my way to school, I realized that my mom was right.

Today was definitely a day worth bringing out the camera for.