On a summer afternoon, twenty-two years ago, I joined my mother, a veteran schoolteacher, in a crowd of several thousand people to listen to a campaign speech by a U.S. Presidential candidate. I was 13 years old, about to begin 8th grade and start my tenure as Student Council President at my elementary school. At the time, I didn't have particularly strong political leanings, but I was excited to be part of the political process. After the candidate gave his speech, I left my mom's side to run to the front of the crowd, joining a line of people gathered along a metal barrier, hoping to shake the candidate's hand. I was the first person in the line, and next to me clustered a group of young people, a dozen or so of us, all about the same age. Clearly, none of us were old enough to vote, but how exciting, how affirming, that we had all found our way to the front of the crowd! For a few moments, I felt a valued part of this ritual. Our excitement grew as the candidate descended the stairs from the stage. In front of him, along the length of the metal barricade, stood a line of citizens, all of us eager to meet him. I watched his eyes skim the crowd, beginning with us young people, then darting to my left, toward the adults. My heart sank, as he pivoted to the side and began walking briskly toward the first adult in line, who he greeted with a smile and handshake, before moving on to the other adults. The group of us young people stood utterly ignored. This was a moment I would not soon forget.