Is it one specific day in November that I remember or is it all the years together that inform my association of voting? Could it be 1980? I sit between my mother’s never ending legs, my left arm wrapped around her brown wool calf, receiving and supplying her warmth, in this open shower stall box. Long stringy dirty-blonde hair turning brown for lack-of-summer-sun, sweet cold thumb in mouth, middle finger resting lazily yet happily on the bridge of my nose. She stands so tall in her beige puffy jacket, carrying a collection of stories, histories, and old-world obligations. Icy wind blows through the auditorium door, straight into our voting booth, daylight savings in full effect, making the day seem sadly like night. Hoping she would finish soon, soon, soon.

I sit and I look at her pretty face, the face that will forever define everything good and beautiful and serious in my life. My immigrant mother points to the future, making her mark on her daughter’s world, hoping she made the right decision.

As the first-born American in my family, I was brought up with the gift of freedom and a serious sense of pride and responsibility regarding my birthright. Citizenship, the power to vote, and democracy are irreplaceable, precious necessities that were elevated beyond any material possession.

My parents were born in communist countries where they were taught in school to tell on their parents if they overheard anti-government speak. In my schooling, my parents were invited by my teachers to share firsthand accounts of fleeing communism and encountering freedom.

Voting has always been the right of passage; at 18 you are finally able to change the destiny of your country. Too lofty or too naive, I still hold this to be true. But this year things are different. Voting in the 2004 presidential election is less symbolic of my coming of age than it is a concrete life decision. Is it because we are a nation at war? Is it because the stakes are so high this year? Or is it because I am no longer as young as I used to be?

Through heated discussions at cocktail parties, family dinners, bridal showers, I have learned that asking someone for whom they are voting is far from innocuous. But I cannot always resist. I recently ran into an ex-boyfriend, and as we stood in my lobby saying goodnight, I killed the mood with, “Who are you voting for?”

My best friend and I didn’t talk for two days because we mistakenly confused each other’s positions. But more significantly we keep asking the question, of ourselves and of others, because we are aware that there is insufficient information to make us truly informed.

We are reading, listening, watching, and paying attention but we are denied a definitive source for clarity. There are no absolutes.

Fear is punctuating the air and telegraphing to undecided voters insidious ways to make their decision. Vote for President Bush because we are at war with terror and he will protect us. Vote for Senator Kerry because he will undo the constant feeling of insecurity perpetuated by the Bush administration’s almost exclusive emphasis on terror. What fascinates me is how can we be so outraged by differing opinions when one out of two people disagree with each other.

Although I am a native New Yorker, this is the first time I will be voting in New York City (West Philadelphia 1996; Los Angeles 2000). And I am anxiously awaiting the day. I remember years past, clutching my voter’s booklet standing in side the voting stall.

A severe sense of nervousness washes over me and I read the directions as to how to properly fill out the ballot. My throat is dry and my left knee shakes. A wave of nausea passes over me and I am convinced that I will misuse the ballot, tip the scales, and be responsible for having the wrong man elected because I bungled the voting procedure.

I collect my nerves, I focus, and I vote. I close my ballot, walk back to the lunch table, and slip it inside the brown plastic makeshift ballot box. I think to myself “I just voted for the president of the United States of America.”

I wonder if I am a little weird for taking this all so seriously. But I know that if I took this less seriously, I wouldn’t be the product of this great society. If we don’t vote because we fear change, fear terrorism, or fear responsibility, we don’t deserve the power to effect change.

Each year my parents’ votes cancel each other out because my mother votes Democrat and my father votes Republican. But every year they each go out to vote. As if we needed more proof, since Florida 2000, every vote counts. I have no interest in telling you whom to vote for. My point is only to remind you to vote.

Ms. Klein is a writer living in New York.