In two months, my brother, Roger, would turn 21 years old. Roger was looking forward to his birthday because my father had promised him more responsibility at the haberdashery. I was envious of this milestone, but not because of the added duties my brother would take on in terms of the family business. It was because he would be allowed to cast his very first vote in a federal election in November. This struck me as the ultimate injustice. Roger did not know the first thing about politics or the people involved at the federal level, or the state level for that matter.

As far back as I can remember, I have been watching my mother and her friends propel the movement for equal voting rights in New York. They achieved a lofty goal three years ago when women were granted the right to vote in state elections in 1917. When I was disappointed upon realizing that the decision applied only to state and local elections, my mother encouraged me to trust that change was coming. “Many states across the country are already allowing women to vote in all elections,” she pointed out. “It’s only a matter of time until it happens here in New York.” My mother told me to be patient, and I knew that she had certainly been patient. Her mother had also campaigned for voting equality, as the marches, protests, rallies, and fundraising had been going on for 50 years. I couldn’t understand how the whole group was not completely exhausted by the effort.

My mother and her friends would meet at one of their houses almost every night, after taking care of their families all day, to plan another rally or meeting. They did it all in the face of strong opposition from anti-suffragists who were threatened by the idea of a woman casting a vote. Somehow the failures and rejection never seemed to wear them down, and, in fact, failure seemed to encourage them. I watched the late-night meetings that were held in our home, and I would see the women start to fade and become mentally drained as the evening wore on. Then one of them would bring up a much-discussed topic such as entrenched political interests or government regulation and they all would quickly get a second wind, offering their opinions about how things should be. They didn’t always agree on politics, but they agreed that their voices should be heard. The thought of being so close to the voting booth for federal elections carried them through their fatigue. These women had become a part of a tightly woven fabric of suffragette clubs that covered the state and it was a true team effort—no one wanted to let anyone else down.

One morning last week, all of their efforts came to fruition. I was just finishing up my chores when my mother burst through the front door with news that the Nineteenth Amendment had been ratified by Congress. Never usually at a loss for words, my mother told me the news in stilted fragments and then stood there, speechless. I stared at her for a moment, incredulous. “Betty’s house … we’ll celebrate!” As we hastily ran down the steps of our building, I began to hear the wave of celebration already taking over the city. Anyone who had heard the news break over the radio moments before was outside spreading the word in the streets.

At Betty’s house, the suffragettes toasted their hard-fought victory. I watched in amazement as they quickly tempered their joy with the new, self-imposed responsibilities they would bear now that women had the vote. That very afternoon, they set about organizing a club for women voters that would disseminate information about politics and the people campaigning in federal elections. Everything had changed that day. I knew that in just three years, I would be allowed to enter a voting booth and my opinion about who would lead the country would be counted.