Dumb But Honest - Part I

my campaign slogan '1999

Junior year of high school was probably my hardest. I was at the pinnacle of my dance with bulimia. I was simultaneously trapped in a vicious cycle of on-again, off-again toxic triangulation with a guy whose anger frankly scared the weight off my hips. You know those people you just can’t quit? Plus, he looked like Jared Leto, when Jared Leto was the season's heartthrob.

I was chronically anxious. There was drama on the soccer field (someone else was also after JL - *see reference above). I’d just discovered yellow jackets at the convenience store. Hello, budding stimulant beast in my belly. I felt like a walking adrenaline pump. Everywhere I looked, some hot girl was throwing daggers at my equipment, threatening to take down the whole flimsy operation.

I was chain smoking at that point, too, when I could (mainly in the car with my friend who had a car, Master P, and Dixie Chicks on rePeat). Bath and Body Works had just landed in the Lake Charles, Louisiana mall right across from JC Pennies. We all thought that a last-minute spritz of passionflower and vanilla masked the nicotine fur stuck to our skin, hanging on our breath like stalactites, was enough to throw our parents off our scent. Or at least choke.

Anybody who says they loved high school, I’m not sure I trust.

For some godforsaken reason, in the midst of all this chaos, I decided it would be a good idea to run for Senior student council representative. I have no recollection of what I was trying to prove to myself (more likely to my parents), but I signed on the dotted line when the blank sheet came around.

Apporopo, I waited until the night before (As was my custom with science fair projects, book reports, etc.) to announce to my parents that they’d need to help me come up with a killer campaign slogan, decorate 25 posters, and print and laminate two hundred and thirty-five promotional badges by 6am the following day. The collective thrill was palpable.

When my dad got home from his longest day of work, my mom assigned the task to him, the designated creative of our small tribe. So he sat in his quiet chair, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed and body deathly still, as he plugged into some divine, comedic source from on high, acclaimed atheist that he was. We waited in pained silence for the imminent download.

I grew tired of observing this inexplicable ritual that made me uncomfortable and returned to the kitchen. Seven minutes later, he emerged with the answer:

I’ve got it, he said:

“Dumb but Honest.”

My mom’s jaw unhinged itself from the sheer weight of mortification. She lost it somewhere on the kitchen floor. The thought of her friends finding out her daughter willingly executed something so humiliating was. Well. Too much.

But my right eyebrow ascended in a riotous arc. One part of me recognized his plan was so insane it just might work. A medial part of me pooled with terror. The last slice of self felt the hot breath of the final quarter against the back of her neck.

It was game. And this was our Hail Mary.

Mom mini-vanned to Office Depot for neon printer paper, poster board, Sharpie markers, and laminating paper. Glitter maybe. Glue sticks. Dad kept vigil over myself and the other two children. One of whom had recently run away from home after receiving a prolonged sentence of grounding for some civil disobedience. This consisted of taking off on his bike and ending up across town. Having to use a pay phone to call my parents to collect when it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was.

Yes. The Normans were in good shape.

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(Stay tuned for Part II coming soon)