As Hillary Clinton’s campaign rolls across the country to town halls and rallies in swing states, the debate about its significance has become as divisive as a two-timing boyfriend in a suburban middle school.

For women of a certain age, Clinton’s nomination is the triumphant outcome of a movement that began with suffragettes, and continued with feminists who advocated for a woman’s right to access contraceptives, go to Harvard or the Air Force Academy, to have equal protection under the law and to get a decent-paying job.

For younger voters, Clinton and her entourage of over-the-hill, pro-choice, family-leave-obsessed groupies are woefully out of touch. Those 20th century issues pale in comparison to the need for achieving LGBTQ rights and social justice, upending the exploitive economic order, and exterminating feckless political hacks.

And, they say, it’s profoundly insulting to suggest that they should be excited about has-been Hillary just because she’s a woman.

I get it. A part of me stands firmly in that revolutionary camp.

I, too, want to see everyone have the same rights to health care as those over 65. I agree that the cost of higher education is a disgrace, the economic system works only for the very rich, that the justice system is patently unjust, and that Congress is dominated by a pathetic collection of vain, petulant frat boys who turn every crisis into a transactional opportunity to raise money.

Still, another part of me has a hard time holding it together when I see a woman standing under the spotlights with the balloons cascading from the ceiling and gathering around her feet. That’s because the historic candidate on that stage — the geeky, uncharismatic, flawed and all-too-human candidate — is the first one I can identify with at all.

And while I risk making eyes roll across a whole generation when I say it, gender matters.

When women got the right to vote, my grandfather gave my grandmother a list of candidates to take into the polls because he didn’t believe women were smart enough to vote.

When my father died in 1971, leaving my mom with three young kids and two in college, the banks canceled my mother’s credit cards.

When I was a reporter and often the only woman in the room, I frequently was asked to get the men coffee or empty their ashtrays.

Then, when my daughter was in middle school, I noticed that all the photos on the wall of the social studies class were of men. I asked the teacher to post at least one picture, maybe of Sandra Day O’Connor, but he refused. Since there were no female presidents, there just weren’t any women in U.S. history who had distinguished themselves sufficiently to qualify for a spot on the hallowed walls of his classroom.

So while I encourage everyone to debate Hillary Clinton’s policies vigorously and to demand that she be a better, more open, transparent and forthright candidate, let’s be sure to acknowledge the importance of this moment.

Revolution doesn’t happen overnight. It takes longer than a campaign or even a lifetime. The fact that rebels persist in their subversive behavior for decades, even when their goals elude them and crises intervene to delay their progress, is not because they have been co-opted, or lack passion or a sense of urgency.

Just the opposite.

With every win, they acquire more power and more enemies. They get older. They work harder. They agree that access to credit cards and birth control pills is not enough. They want more, and they’re damned tired of waiting for it.

So when a battle-scarred revolutionary stands there with confetti in her hair and a resume of astonishing achievement, excuse your mother if she can’t stop the tears from streaming down her sun-damaged face.

It’s historic, yes. And for us, this not just revolutionary, it’s personal.

Diane Carman is a communications consultant a monthly columnist for The Denver Post.

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