Why, as the son of a Navy pilot, I couldn't bring myself to choose a candidate until today.

I entered my Brooklyn voting booth this morning uncertain who would get my vote.

Let me explain. My father was a Navy pilot who attended the Naval Academy not long after John McCain. I grew up in Navy towns where you did not see your dad for six months at a time, you went to sleep wondering if he was safe, and you comforted your buddies when their fathers did not come back at all. When I was 13, my father did not come back; he was killed in a plane crash off the USS Kitty Hawk.

There are few things I know with certainty that my father would have done if he had lived. One would have been to vote for John McCain. As his only son, that seemed the least I could do for him.

But it wasn't that simple. I spent almost a decade living in Chicago, working in politics. I labored for black candidates in lost causes, not far from Barack Obama's district. I shed tears when they lost. I then worked on Capitol Hill for a Democratic predecessor of Obama's in the Senate, and, inexplicably, helped draft the first Senate prayer given by a Muslim, Wallace Mohammed.

I have friends who work on Obama's staff and swear by him. But I was never a fan of a 2008 Obama candidacy; the Navy brat in me not able to see pass him as a line-jumper, vaulting from lieutenant to admiral. I was supposed to profile Obama in 2004 for another magazine, but it fell through. I always regretted it--some out of egotism, but also out of a wonder if I'd met him maybe I would see what others see.

For months, I watched the campaign develop with a sense of dread. McCain seemed like a lost, tragic hero more than a plausible president. Watching him give his St. Paul acceptance speech, I was struck with a sadness that his moment had been 2000 and that seemed long ago. I watched the rest of the GOP circus with the visceral feeling that "these are not my people" and fully aware how badly Bush has fucked up this country.

Still, John McCain was my kin, in a sort of way. I mentioned to a few friends that I was considering voting for him, and it was met with stony silence or the kind of condescending New York chuckle that greeted the revelation that I really liked the film Love, Actually.

I bit my lip all fall. I watched the markets fall and McCain's botched response remove the last doubt that he was going to lose, perhaps badly. I avoided political conversations for the most part, but found myself at a friend's house on the Upper West Side watching the last debate with a group of Ivy Leaguers and policy wonks. The derision of McCain began early. After the 17th joke about his strange facial expressions, I left, telling my host that I didn't have a problem with folks not supporting him, but the vilification of a man who spent longer in a prison camp than Obama spent in the Senate wasn't how I wanted to spend my evening.

After that, I became more open about my McCain empathy. I argued how he had a proven record of working across the aisle and despises Bush and why his administration would be nothing like Bush's, particularly with heavy Democratic majorities in both houses. But I knew it was window dressing. I would not be voting for McCain if he were not a Navy pilot, if he had not suffered, as my mom put it, like my family suffered.

I just went to vote. The line snaked so long that I was able to concentrate on the excitement on the faces of African-Americans as they entered the voting booths with their children. I was more than a little envious of their joy. I wondered if the past was really past. Finally, I entered the booth, closed the curtain, and stared at the names. I stared so long that I could hear folks behind me begin to grumble. I delayed by individually pulling the Democratic levers for all the local offices. My finger went to McCain/Palin, but I didn't pull. I moved my hand over and grasped the Obama/Biden lever. I pulled it hard and departed. There were tears in my eyes.

Stephen Rodrick, a former New Republic reporter-researcher, is a contributing editor at New York magazine

By Stephen Rodrick