I remember being a young child, sitting on our old couch in our old home in central Austin, watching on TV with rapt attention as the results came in for the first presidential election that I was even remotely aware of. My mom was on my left and my dad was in the kitchen as the voice of the late Peter Jennings washed over the living room, a smooth running commentary as Bill Clinton was announced as the new President-elect. A blizzard of confetti appeared on screen, showering a roaring coliseum of jubilant Clinton supporters, as our new president, along with Hilary and Chelsea, stood on a vast stage amongst a pile of red, white and blue balloons that appeared to bounce and skip about their ankles like happy terriers. Over the clapping and cheers, across the loudspeaker came a steady beat and then Fleetwood Mac's "Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow" was playing across the stadium, across my living room, across the country and into history.

This moment was surreal to me -- I knew the faces and names but I didn't know the implications. I didn't know the policies or what NATO was or what "The buck stops here" really meant. What I did intuit was the joy that the television displayed, the regal tone of Jennings as he announced a winner that he seemed proud of, the electric air in my household that night which felt like Christmas morning just before the biggest present is opened. I fed off this energy and felt a part of the Clinton victory -- I felt proud and honorable and for the first time, I felt what it meant to be American.

Since I have been a voter, I have never felt proud. My first experience on the brink of voting was the infamous Bush-Gore race in 2000, when I was a senior in high school. I happened to be taking Government and we spent the weeks before the election discussing what this election meant to the United States and the world. We watched The War Room and I was swept up again with emotion for the Clinton campaign -- I momentarily forgot about Monica and Watergate and the embarrassment I had felt as a teenager growing up during a political sex scandal. I felt older and mature enough then to understand what a feat the Clinton administration had accomplished and maintained. My situation in life at the time -- my desire to follow a passion and my dreams -- made me identify with the famous James Carville quote from The War Room:

"There's a simple doctrine. Outside of a person's love the most sacred thing they can give is their labor. Labor is a very precious thing you have and any time you can combine labor and love...you've really made a match."

I felt loved by the administration. Clinton's discrepancies on the side were moments that I wanted to turn away from -- like when you see someone trip and you try to pretend you didn’t notice in order not to embarrass them. The shame I had once felt was a small price to pay for the benefits I had received as an American. Clinton took care of me and created a world in which I felt safe. I mailed him a tape when I was nine during the Winter Olympics of me singing a song and he'd sent me back a letter with a glossy eight-by-ten photo of himself. I watched Chelsea grow up as I grew. Hilary wrote books and spoke out on behalf of women. The world was a happy one for me and I appreciated the labor of love the Clinton administration had put forth.

We were sent home from school in 2000 with little black and white maps of the United States. Our homework for the night was to watch the election results and color in the red states and then color in the blue states. Being that I was only sixteen my senior year, I could not participate in the mock voting that they had set up prior to the election. However, I felt that even though I was unable to vote, I had something at stake. It was the Clinton legacy and some part of that, I felt, was my legacy as an American.

When I arrived at Government the next morning at 8:00 AM, everyone looked tired. We had all stayed up late into the night, coloring the states. All of our maps looked the same -- divided and messy. Our Florida states were colored blue, then red, then blue, then red again. We'd given up. It was a momentous experience, watching the election coverage that morning in a country divided and in a classroom divided.

I voted in the mid-term elections in 2002. My first time to vote was for a candidate whom I had little excitement for, running against our default governor Rick Perry after he took over when Bush was elected in 2000. For as involved as I had been during the 2000 election, I had no interest now that I could finally vote. In 2004, I was inspired by an intelligent alternative in the Kerry-Edwards team. Their run for presidency got me out volunteering with the Lake Travis Democrats in the months leading up to the election.

After every election, since 2000, I have felt let down. Disappointment is one thing, but the feeling of being let down has been worse. The legacy, my legacy as an American -- my government for the people, by the people, of the people -- has failed.

"Don't stop thinking about tomorrow…" There is something about time that I am beginning to understand. It's not a great aspect nor is it bad, but it is a lesson. Time passes. I am still learning that. Time will pass whether we sit and do nothing or whether we fight with every part of our being. Time will pass whether people are unhappy or celebrating. You cannot stop thinking about tomorrow, because it soon will be here, "better than before."

Last night I was inspired. I attended the True Blue Travis County Democrats party at the Stephen F. Austin downtown on 7th and Congress. I met up with my mom, ever the cynic, and my cousin Will and my new favorite person Matt B. We watched as the results rolled in, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with local and state candidates. We milled about the crowd, feeling the buzz and the energy. Several of the candidates gave speeches early in the night -- the shoe-in's like Congressman Lloyd Doggett and Senator Kirk Watson. I was empowered listening to them talk. Change was in the air.

At around 10:30 PM, we had decided to walk out of the main ballroom and into the other room. As we headed for the big open doorway, we suddenly heard the crowd erupt in cheers. I turned around to see the giant screen that had CNN on showing "Democrats Win Control of the House." We started cheering -- no, screaming -- at the screen. Minutes later, Virginia democrat Webb pulled into the lead for the Senate race. People were teary-eyed and hugging, shaking their fists in the air, taking pictures with their camera phones, standing on chairs whistling. Politicians were hugging constituents, kissing babies for the simple fact that they were there, not because of a camera flashing. Strangers smiled at strangers, eyes glinting with happiness. It was Christmas morning and we were about to open the greatest present of all.

In a moment I was transformed from a beaten-down D living in a GOP state to an exhilarated voter, part of the change. Here I was fourteen years later and I could hear the Fleetwood Mac and feel the confetti in my hair and see the balloons bouncing at my feet. Last night, I was reminded that with time brings change. And perhaps the theme, the mantra to not stop thinking about tomorrow, has never rung more loud and clear:

Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone.