I have so many memories of the presidential elections of my childhood. I remember piling into my parents’ bed on the night of the first Tuesday of the first full week in November in 2008. We let the news channel run all night long. I remember waking up in the morning and seeing the reality that America had elected its first African-American president. I remember watching the inauguration during my 5th grade English class. I remember my sugary-sweet teacher tearing up, imagining how Michelle must have felt to watch her husband make history — one hand on the Bible, one hand in the cold air of a January in D.C.

One memory of the election stands out in my mind. It was the day after election day in 2008, I told a friend that my parents voted for John McCain, and I asked her if her parents had voted for him, too. The look on her face would make you think that I had just asked her something really inappropriate for a 5th grader, like whether her parents have ever kissed (EW) or if she’s ever had to wash her brother’s boxers in the same load as her training bras (EWWWW).

“Asking who someone voted for is like asking what color underwear they’re wearing!” she said, horrified. (She was probably horrified because her parents wore blue underwear and my parents wore red.) I’m sure her mom told her that.

Until I got to college, I operated under the assumption that we were not to talk about politics in public. It’s a classic southern custom to ignore differences, as if pretending that people aren’t different will make them the same. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. My great-grandmother is cheering from her grave as I say it. Translation: If people aren’t going to like what you say, then what you’re going to say is not worth saying.

About a month ago, at a wedding, a very southern and very tipsy woman said to a friend, “[something something something]… but she’s voting for HILLARY.” To which I gave a sarcastic thumbs up. “You’re not voting for HILLARY, are you?!”

“I don’t know who to vote for,” I said, reverting back to my great grandmother’s desire to keep peace, even at the expense of personal values. I had already decided I would cast my vote for Hillary. But I said I didn’t know. She made me embarrassed, like my vote meant nothing if it wasn’t the same as her vote.

I should have said, “Yes, I am voting for Hillary. I am sure you are voting for Trump. Let’s be friends.”

I am not afraid of a conversation about politics. Someone will definitely disagree with me, and that is okay. Because my political values are not who I am. And because my vote is not who I am.

I am afraid of a conversation about me. I am afraid to feel personally attacked because of my vote, like my vote is who I am. I am a lot more than the two seconds it will take to bubble in the circle next to Hillary Clinton’s name on Tuesday. Give me a chance. We can be friends and disagree. We can have conversations about our disagreements. We can feel uneasy and even disturb the peace a little bit (sorry, Mama Tan). We can have different values and beliefs and political agendas and still choose to work together. We’re all American. We all deserve to have our voices heard.

Tomorrow, we will elect the next president of the United States. Today, I encourage you to have a conversation about it. Pretending that differences don’t exist does not make them go away. Embrace them today. See what comes of it.