After an eighth-grade debate class in November of 2016, my teacher called me in. This teacher and I weren’t particularly fond of one another; having done competitive debate prior to this class, I was often exasperated by her oversimplification of complex issues. I get it — we were twelve and thirteen-year-olds — but we weren’t idiots. So when she called me in that day, I didn’t know where she was going. It was clear what she wanted to say after a few minutes of sidestepping: she was concerned about my increasingly political statements during election month. “I understand you strongly believe what you believe, but you don’t have to impose that on other people,” I vaguely recall her saying. I paused for a second, dumbfounded. What exactly did I say that was seen as an ‘imposition of belief’? Was it that, when asked which candidate I preferred, I responded quickly, “Hillary, because I think she respects people more than Trump”?

I wasn’t one to talk back to teachers. I wasn’t one to stand up for myself, despite my unabashed willingness to stand up for the political causes I believe in. So I said sorry, “It won’t happen again,” and left.

Two weeks later, Donald Trump was elected the 45th President of the United States. I didn’t really follow politics up until the 2016 election for two reasons: One, because the election prior happened in the midst of my fourth-grade year, so I didn’t really have the words to articulate complex political opinions at the age of nine. And two, I didn’t really have a reason to care. I know that sounds awful, but as an American living abroad, I wasn’t seeing the day to day implications of the political decisions made.

At the age of thirteen, I was already alarmed by much of Trump’s rhetoric. I began to understand that you don’t have to be living in a country to have the decisions made in it impact you and those you love. I thought of my brother, an Asian-American like myself, and how he was starting his first year of college. Would he be treated differently under an administration that saw anyone who wasn’t white as other? I thought of my uncle and his boyfriend. Would his right to marry, won just the year before, be taken away? I began to realize just how personal politics truly is. It's not just decisions made on Capitol Hill by powerful people. It’s the glue that holds American society together.

I decided I didn’t want to sit down and be complacent until the next election came. I wanted to do something meaningful. So I fought in any way I could: became the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance, became a “libtard”, a “snowflake” — whatever name ninth-grade boys could hurl at a girl who cared, sometimes too much. Through my underclassmen years of high school, I did all a teenage girl living in Asia could do for American politics: discuss it with my parents, read and watch the news daily, post on my Instagram story about any policy I deemed reprehensible. I’ve learned to loathe the latter of those actions, but something is better than nothing.

2019 eventually came around, when the 2020 campaigns kicked into high gear. At this point in time, in my second semester of sophomore year, I was beginning to lose my passion for social justice. I had rigorous courses, extracurriculars that took up much of my time and began to prioritize spending time with friends over being angry about politics all the time. As a self-proclaimed optimist, I lost hope. I decided maybe it was better for the adults in my life to lobby for change as I put my head down to get good grades.

Then, something magical happened: what I thought I had to care about as a sixteen-year-old and what I actually cared about became inextricably intertwined. One Sunday in early May, cramming for a trigonometry test, I took a study break. I pulled up Youtube and saw a video in my recommended, titled Pete Buttigieg’s Unlikely, Unprecedented 2020 Campaign. At that point in time, I was aware of the big names in the race — Bernie Sanders & Joe Biden — and began doing research into other candidates my lunch table liked to talk about, namely Beto O’Rourke. It was safe to say that I’d never heard of Pete Buttigieg (honestly, I could barely read or pronounce his last name), but I was intrigued.

After that eight-minute introductory video and reading more into Pete and what he stood for (this became quite a long ‘study break’…), I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while, something I thought I’d locked away in a box in favor of math homework — I felt hopeful about politics. I felt inspired by this man I was getting to know and this message that resonated so deeply with me.

By the end of May, I was fully part of #TeamPete. I had read through all his policy proposals, watched every interview I could find, and even printed myself a Pete sticker.

My laptop repping my Pete sticker, circa July 2019 (the sticker is still going strong).

Having a group of politically engaged friends inevitably led to some of our lunch discussions revolving around politics. I recall one of my friends going on a spiel about how “Pete is an opportunist, a centrist who is trying to appeal to Democrats.” I was taken aback. The last word that came to my mind when thinking about Pete was ‘opportunist.’ Here was a mayor of a town of just over 100,000 putting himself on the national stage. Putting himself next to established senators, congressmen & women, and a former vice president. He spoke openly and boldly about his progressive policy proposals, namely Democratic reform. Having been a government wonk, I had always been skeptical of candidates who had sweeping, progressive policy but failed to understand what I was so impressed to hear Pete articulate: we can’t get any policies we want passed unless we fundamentally transform a broken system.

So I ignored the “opportunist, centrist” attack. I ignored pundit’s giving their take on the optics of having an openly gay man run for president. I decided to stick with what I believed, what I saw in Pete’s messaging — Hope.

I carried this hope with me through the entire summer, as Pete’s name recognition grew exponentially. With this growth came a large wave of increased scrutiny. I tried to humble myself with the opinions of African-Americans who found Pete’s relationship with the police problematic. This was a lived experience I would never understand; a feeling of oppression I would never understand. I respected black voters, most on Twitter, who decided they would never vote Pete because of the firing of a black South Bend police chief.

But I also saw a man who tried everything he could to humble himself. A candidate who did everything possible to reach out and listen. I understand I come from a place of privilege giving Pete another chance after this issue came to public attention. But a willingness to listen to critics, the humility to admit when you’re wrong — those are the qualities I want in a president.

I could go on quite extensively explaining why I think Pete’s progressive policies with pragmatic implementation were the best set of policies put out by any candidate this cycle. I could talk for hours about what it personally meant to me as an LGBT teenager watching Pete take the world by storm, with his husband by his side. But I want to talk about hope because at the end of the day that is why I stood by this campaign.

Because Pete restored a sense of hope in me about what politics could be. In a primary season filled with so much ugliness, from homophobic, sexist, and racist comments to the in-fighting of Democrats who ultimately want the same thing, the Rules of the Road Pete’s campaign was shaped by guided me day by day.

Respect. Belonging. Truth. Teamwork. Boldness. Responsibility. Substance. Discipline. Excellence. Joy.

I get that politics isn’t as simple as those ten words. I get that policy matters much more than any feeling I have in my gut about a candidate. But the thing about Pete’s campaign was that he managed to captivate me — and much of America — on all accounts. He had, in my opinion, the most comprehensive policy of all the candidates; Pete understood that much of America longs for progressive ideas delivered in a realistic way. That most Americans don’t want the status quo or a revolution to topple down ‘The Establishment.’ We want policy that can actually pass a red Senate, policy that can create change while simultaneously protecting the most vulnerable Americans.

We want a White House that represents everyone.

One of my favorite quotes from the campaign wasn’t uttered by Pete, but by his husband, Chasten. In a (might I add, very sweet) introduction to Pete’s concession speech, Chasten says:

“It is time for every single person in this country to look to the White House and know that that institution stands for them — that they belong in this country.”

Somehow, on the eve of the campaign’s suspension, Chasten perfectly articulated what I felt for so long. This was the exact same calling I had to Pete’s campaign; I realized the importance of having a president who understood that the presidency isn’t just about enacting policy. That the president’s number one job is yes, protecting Americans, but it’s also setting the tone for the entire country.

I’m still coming to terms with the fact that in 2020 America won’t get Pete in the Oval Office or Chasten in the East Wing. That this message of inclusion I hold so close to my heart won’t be the one echoed in an inaugural address. That this campaign I poured so much of my love & passion into is really over.

But I will never forget or regret the better part of my year spent spreading the hope I still hold in my heart, the fire I still keep in my belly. I’m optimistic about the future for Pete and his message. This hope for a better nation and a sense of belonging aren’t mutually exclusive to a Buttigieg presidency. This is a message he can continue to spread in any Democratic cabinet or, in my hopes, as vice president. I’m hopeful that, whoever the Democratic nominee is, we decisively beat Donald Trump. I’m hopeful that Pete will become president at some point in his very, very bright political future.

I’m not going to let my rekindled love for politics die out. I’m not going to lose contact with the amazing community I’ve found in Team Pete. I’m going to remember that politics, at its very worst, can be ugly. But at its best, politics can be magnificent.

Because it’s not just about policy. It is soulcraft.

Thank you, Pete.