Dumb But Honest (Part Deux)
An honest account of running for student council in High School
By some unprecedented act of god, the house was not burned down, nor did any errant brother escape on his mountain bike to the Netherlands in Mom’s absence.
On her return, I unloaded the bags into the study, knelt down, and emptied out a mountain of legally blinding orange card stock and neon pink poster board. I uncapped a thick Sharpie marker, proposed a deep, teenagery sigh, and surrendered to the long haul.
In the meantime, my mom somehow managed to ninja my younger brothers into bed (or at least situate them in front of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air reruns), help them with their homework, AND feed us all by 8:00 pm. Only then did she wedge herself in front of our beige IBM computer and start laying out campaign material for print.
Our temperamental, iconic, dial-up beast sat 6 feet deep in the study closet. Her ear-piercing siren song is known to reach deafening decibels, especially on high-stress nights such as these.
This was the 90s. Back before the lay person had the slightest notion of nervous system dysregulation. Feelings were generally buttoned behind pale yellow catholic school uniform blouses, where they belonged. “You gotta feel it to heal it” and other such nonsensical axioms were decades away yet.
I should add that the most convincing detail of my father’s enterprise was to leave a space where “dumb” should be and have me write it in by hand in my sloppiest attempt at illiteration. While this appliqué would undoubtedly strengthen my case for humanity, it also meant I had to handwrite “dumb” two hundred and fifty times. Like a mantra. At risk of being hammered in permanently. As if it needed any help.
Around 12:30 am, I slipped the last hand-cut slice of orange inside its plastic containment. My quivering thumb, having been poked mercilessly for the last 90 minutes by the open safety pin swords backing each rectangle. Mom had stuck with me to the bitter end. Although her anxiety over what this would mean for my reputation clung to her forehead and shoulders like the ankle weights Dad ran with on Sundays.
At 6:30 am, my digital alarm blew its ambulancary horn, which shot me straight up out of bed. Audactiy-cortisol, paired with an ancestral adrenaline pump leftover from being chased by wild coyotes for leaving the pack some thousand years ago, roiled through my gut and palpated my heart rabid.
Today was the day. I would either prevail or be burned at the stake for treason. I steadied myself to the bathroom and applied the necessary war paint: thick white eyeshadow, the wrong shade of blush, hair straightener, my shortest legal uniform skirt, knee-high socks, knock-off Doc Martens, and puka shell necklace.
I was ready as I’d ever be.
Junior year circa graduation festivities. Featured: pukka shell necklace, over-tweezed eyebrows; it wasn’t all as bad as I make it out to be on paper. We had some good times.
(Stay tuned for the final installment: Part Trois)
If you missed the prequel to this story, you can ketchup here!
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