Student Council

Since I was a child, I’ve been civic-minded and understood the importance of making my voice heard at the polls, thanks in large part to my outspoken, politically active parents. They taught me well, and I always believed them to be on the best side of the often-jagged party fence. Anyone who knows me, knows where I stand…even my handedness aligns. They instilled in my brother and me the importance of community, human rights, giving back, and appreciating and acknowledging the good things you have, no matter what they may be. All this to say, even though we were very comfortable, material things were never as important as service to others was, and to this day, I appreciate those values. While I may never get past my good, old-fashioned, well-earned Irish-Catholic guilt, I’ve got the giving going for me. Which is nice. I hope I’ve instilled the same in my kids (not the guilt part!), because it makes this life a much more enjoyable ride.

We were also taught to treat others the way we would like to be treated, even when others don’t treat you the same in return. Well…have I got a story about that! But first, student council.

The elementary school I attended was split into two sides: the “Big Side” and the “Little Side.” The Little Side consisted of grades 1-3, and the Big Side made up grades 4-6, and the sides were separated by a cage-covered bridge (so, on two separate properties, with a street in between). When we were on the Little Side, we often wondered of the untold magic that was on the ‘Other Side,’ as if the bridge somehow would transport us into some grown-up world of secret knowledge and sophistication. The truth is, given the size of the state and city we lived in, it was simply a necessity to split the two buildings for crowd efficiency.

But it wasn’t until you got to the Big Side that you could run for student council. When I got to fourth grade, I hit the ground running. In fourth grade, you could run for Secretary of Treasury, in fifth grade, Vice President, and sixth grade, President. And, in order to garner votes and get your name out there, the school put on an assembly where the candidates performed skits they wrote for votes. Well…needless to say, this was my WHEELHOUSE! Write? Cast? Direct? PERFORM? Sign me up!

As a candidate, we were able to pick between 4-6 people we wanted to be in our skit. I forever chose my BFF’s, plus two (I had such an amazing group of girlfriends for whom I will always be grateful). I remember feeling like The Godfather, as friends in my class came to me bearing gifts, requests, and reasons why they deserved to be part of my skit. If I haven’t mentioned it before (but will mention forever more until therapy finally releases me from the burden), I was what, at the time, was considered “gifted.”

As young kids, we were subjected to an IQ test (which I took the first time with a 103-degree fever, likely explaining how my goofy ass got in), that determined whether we would be part of the GATE program (Gifted and Talented Education) or the regular, normal, well-adjusted ‘others.’ Needless to say, the ‘others’ (they weren’t. We were.) were not very fond of us, and us ‘gifted’ kids were stuck together for seven years in the same group; same kindergarten class, first grade class, second grade class, etc. etc. etc., until junior high. We KNEW each other because we’d all been together since we were five.

For my skits, it generally ended up being the same six people every time, and every time, WE DELIVERED! (Huge shoutout to Melissa’s dad, Dave, who remains one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He helped out, wrote hilarious material, and always turned our funny into hilarious.) It was the skits that got you votes.

And I got the votes.

Much as I hate to admit, part of my devotion to said civil service was the fact we got out of class to go to meetings. As good as I was at school, I wasn’t that interested in it. I was bored, tired, and would have rather discussed the theater rehearsal I’d been to the night before. I LOVE to learn, and I continue to pursue it to this day, but the traditional method of it has endlessly frustrated me. I’m that person who loved exam days in college, because it meant I could go in, take the test, then leave. Give me the info, let me take it in, then leave me be.

Now, this is where I’ll mention that I am a natural redhead. When I was born, it looked like someone had dipped a paintbrush in a bucket of red and painted the top of my head with it. It has gotten less intense over the years, but is still very much red and, to brag, I have never had to dye it or seen a gray hair in my 50-some years (look…I’m an otherwise walking recessive gene, so the fact my hair has stayed itself is a major win in my book).

While I’ve heard told of my fellow gingers being taunted and teased over the color of their hair, I never was. I loved (and still do) being a redhead and with my bounty of youthful insecurities, my hair was never one of them. There were times I cursed how thick it was because I couldn’t wear a cute ponytail or side braids like my friends (bless the trend of the messy bun), but the color was what made me…me.

When I say I was never taunted or teased over my hair, I meant before that dreaded day in sixth grade when on my way to perform my job as president of the student council.

Fresh off my win, I was feeling great and ready to replace the water fountains with Coca-Cola and have hour-long recesses implemented like I’d promised during my campaign. Mostly, I just couldn’t wait to get out of class, where my teacher was often exasperated by me, repeatedly telling me, “I don’t know HOW you’re going to make it in junior high.” She also told me girls are bad at math so it didn’t surprise her that I had trouble with my 12s times tables, which stuck with me, so she can get bent.

It’s funny how some things just stay with us. Just a friendly reminder here to not be a dick and be kind to others. It’s not hard!

Giddy to know my meeting was about to start, I dropped my multiplication chart and gathered my things, ready to saunter off to the auditorium. The Big Side was entirely outside. There were no halls, no cafeteria, and every door to every classroom lead to the always sunny outdoors. This meant that when kids from other classes got in trouble, some of the teachers would sit them outside the door against the hot, stucco-adorned wall as punishment. Like a time-out for big kids. I say “other classes” because I can’t recall any of us getting banished to the outside. We probably just got more homework, or a stern, “you’re never going to amount to anything, and it will be your fault” instead.

Again, the other students were not very fond of us (and very aware of where our lone classrom was), and had no problem making it known. Most of them just ignored us, but every now and then there would be a comment made or a book bag thrown. That never bothered me because I got it. We could barely stand ourselves. But I never went out of my way to make anyone feel bad, and I never would because that’s mean, and I don’t like mean.

Dressed in my super cute blue jumper with a white tee underneath and very big, black rope, Mickey Mouse statement necklace I thought set me apart from the rest, I exited the classroom door, which was at the corner; the first of the following sixth grade classrooms. With a pep in my step, I took in the sunshine with a smile on my face, excited about all the change I was going to make for our school and my peers (which was none. I made none.)

Two doors down, I noticed a boy sitting outside his classroom door and I knew he must have done something to earn his big kid time-out. I wanted to offer solidarity because screw authority, amirite? I didn’t know his crime, but I was sympathetic to his time. As I gleefully approached, I just knew a smile and a nod would help make his already crappy day just a little better. I felt so good about myself for even thinking of this gesture, and was ready for his appreciation of such a kind deed.

I strolled up, nodded, and gave my best close-lipped smile (I didn’t want him to think I was relishing in his punishment with a big ol’ toothy grin. I read the room, and this was the way to go). I was ready for his nod and smile back, but that’s not at all what I got. Instead? I got:

“Hey yo, FUCK YOU, ANNIE!”

Did he….did he just refer to me as Little Orphan Annie? Did he mistake my kindness for gingerness? Did he just insult MY HAIR??? When I tell you how the pep immediately left my step.

What did I do to him? I nodded! I close-lipped smiled! I was on.his.side! And he’s going to come at me with THIS? Needless to say, I wasn’t quite as exuberant the rest of the way. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I did to make him so mad. The only thing I could come up with is that he definitely did the crime and ABSOLUTELY deserved the time!

There was only one other time, at the same elementary school, that someone insulted me over my hair. My best friend and I were sitting on the lawn waiting for my mom to pick us up, and at random, two boys came over to bug us. We weren’t having it and we made it known, so one said to me, “I’d rather be dead, than red on the head” and the other said to my best friend, “Your mom lives in a two-story Doritos bag.” And, well….I can’t stop laughing about it to this day. My brother often reminds me that he, too, would rather be dead than red on the head, and the giggle I get from it immediately puts the pep back in my step.