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.

An angry teacher holding a composition book and pointing a ruler.

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.

The Time I Broke My Ass

When I was a kid growing up in Southern California, my family would often take mini-vacations. Both of my parents worked in education, which meant summers off and the same school vacations my brother and I had. When we were kids, this was a blessing (not so much when we were older and wanted our summers to ourselves sans parents, but still).

At the time, I fancied myself a seasoned world traveler, even though our destinations were typically a 2-10-hour drive from our house (except for the time we flew to Mexico City and Guadalajara and my brother and I were *thisclose* to being electrocuted in a pool and we all caught a case of ‘Montezuma’s Revenge.’ But we’ll get to that later. You’re welcome in advance.)

California was cool like that, because you could find yourself in the desert, the mountains, or historical forests that resembled those you read about in fairytales in the time it takes to sit through a crappy movie you wasted too much money on, without the requisite “buttered popcorn” bellyache that always seemed to follow. At least for me anyway (I told you I had a weak stomach). We had a few “regular” places we visited. We would camp at the same grounds in Santa Barbara, stay in the same tiny, off-the-beaten-path, incredibly charming motel where we were on a first name basis with the owners in Palm Desert, and the same rustic chalet in Bass Lake.

Bass Lake, CA, USA, April 11, 2023: Waterscape, beautiful sunset on Bass Lake.

Fun fact about Bass Lake: the classic 80s film ‘The Great Outdoors’ starring the incomparable John Candy and Dan Akroyd (along with one of my earliest 80s crushes, Chris Young) was filmed in the EXACT tiny town we used to stay. One year when we arrived, my brother and I saw flyers posted all over the little village (which looked more like an Old West movie set) alerting townsfolk and visitors that said movie was being filmed there and if anyone wanted to be in it as an extra, they were welcome, without pay. We were beyond excited and I immediately began writing my “Best Extra in a Movie Ever” Academy Award acceptance speech, only to learn filming had wrapped the week before and they had just forgotten to take down the flyers.

As disappointing as this was, I did take some comfort in knowing had I been given the opportunity, I totally would have snagged that Oscar.

As I said, we used to stay in the same chalet every time we went, but this particular time, my parents decided they wanted to shake things up a bit and surprised us with a fancy, technically ‘three-story’ chalet. I felt like royalty…”What did you do on your Spring Break?” they’d ask when I returned to school. “Who me? Oh, my family and I stayed in this darling three-story chalet on the lake for a week. No big deal. It’s just how we do things.”

In actuality, it wasn’t much bigger than the previous chalet we used to stay in but it had stairs and for some reason, I’ve always had a thing for stairs. I love them. I will always love them. Not necessarily in buildings when I have to walk six flights because I’m afraid of elevators and am immediately reminded I desperately need to remove the clothes currently hanging on my treadmill because I’m short of breath after the first five steps, but in houses (or chalets)? Absolutely. I don’t think I’ll ever NOT be excited when I see a staircase. I make no apologies.

Back to my family’s regal chalet…yes, it had three stories. However, those three stories were made up of a main floor, which is where the front door, kitchen, living room, pull-out couch, door to the deck, and TV were (another thing about me…I must be able to locate the TV and the bathroom in any and EVERY place I visit before I do anything else.) It sounds palatial, but all of this was crammed into about 700 square feet of space. Behind the couch was a staircase (YES!) which led to the master (and only) bedroom and bathroom.

The space below was about as big as the main floor, which for a single room and bathroom seemed pretty big to me, plus, I had to use the STAIRS to get to the bathroom. I was enchanted.

“But what about that third story?”

When we first walked into the chalet, we did notice a hand-crafted wooden ladder affixed to the wall as we surveyed our cooking space, whether or not the TV was equipped with a VHS VCR (though my dad preferred Beta-Max…he was always on the cusp of the best technology, and very disappointed that VHS won out), and which one between my brother and me was going to get the couch-bed or the floor. Once we dropped our luggage and settled in a bit, we realized the decorative ladder actually led to a nice-sized loft, equipped with a bed, electrical outlet and window overlooking the lake. My brother called dibs before I could even open my mouth. I cried foul, but my parents rationalized that he was, after all, three years older than me, and my time to climb through the tree-house-like hole into nirvana would come soon enough.

Well, I don’t think an explanation is necessary when I say I was livid. LIVID! Not only did he get stairs in the form of a cool ladder and an entrance that resembled crawling through a secret passageway that led to untold treasures, he won. Just because he was older? No matter how many benefits there are to being the “baby” of the family (and there are many), there were just as many injustices (in my mind).

At the time, I was 13 and my brother was 16. Did my parents not understand how much effort and time went into looking as ridiculous as I did? (I mean, it was the 80s. I had bangs that went on for days thanks to my curling iron and cans upon flame-inducing cans of AquaNet, and a VERY specific makeup routine I would begin hours in advance of anyone else waking up because clearly, the entire world was looking at and/or judging me if it wasn’t on point. I would have sooner become a hermit than drag the trash to the curb without my “face” on at that age. This was serious business.)

Once my brother called it, he wasted no time in setting up camp in “his loft.” Oooh, did that burn. He was rubbing it in my face! (No, he wasn’t.) On a side note, I absolutely believe in karma. However, when it came to my brother when I was 13, that wasn’t necessarily the case. I mean after all, I got the pull-out couch WITH the TV/VCR. I had the power to change the channel or press pause at will. But at the time, I clearly didn’t appreciate the bigger picture. Had I thought about it before acting upon my childish behavior disguised as teen angst, I would have realized I made out WAY better. I HAD THE REMOTE! (That’s another thing about me. While most people have a security blanket or plush stuffed toy, my comfort comes in the form of holding the remote. I know, but it is what it is.)

Apparently, that wasn’t enough for my goofy, newly-teenaged self. No. I had to go and climb that ladder, pop through the passageway and make my way to my brother’s space, solely for the purpose of annoying the shit out of him in a tantrum-filled brat attack.

It didn’t end well.

As my brother tried desperately to ignore me by listening to his “heavy-metal rock music” on his super sweet Sony walkman, I refused to give up the fight. I was on my game that day for sure. I taunted, teased, messed with his stuff, and talked so loudly (which isn’t hard for me to do), I overpowered his music until he finally responded with a resounding, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

What I didn’t realize was that as I was taunting, teasing, messing with his stuff and loudly vocalizing my righteous indignation, I was also moving my body back inch by inch, with no regard for the opening to the loft. Oblivious to my impending doom, I continued to match my laughter with his increasing frustration until suddenly, the world around me came to a slow-motion halt.

Up until this point, I had been positioned on my knees with my arms on the ground for support in a typical snot-nosed, little sister pose. When I felt I had sufficiently irritated him to the point of defeat, I began to move my arms from in front of me to the back in order to sit on my bum and relish in the ruin I had created. Except that while my bum was searching for a safe place to land, it very painfully learned there wasn’t one. Instead, there was only the open space leading to the handcrafted ladder below the opening to the loft.

In what I remember as taking hours because I watched the entire incident in a my-entire-life-flashing-before-my-eyes montage, I fell through that hole, ass first, onto the cold, cheapest-carpet-ever covered cement floor.

Illustration of woman falling from the sky, surreal abstract concept

Oh, and I managed to kick my dad square in the face on my way down.

My dad had a habit of getting mad when he was scared. Whenever my brother or I got hurt, his first response was to yell, because he was afraid. What’s funny is, he never yelled at either one of us when he was actually mad. Instead, he would raise his hand in the air and silently begin counting on his fingers – one….two….thr-…I don’t think he ever actually got to three because my brother and I would get to our rooms as fast as possible because we knew we were in trouble.

My parents didn’t believe in spanking (phew!) but it was customary for my dad to “ground” us to our room for five minutes. FIVE MINUTES! As kids, this seemed like an eternity and we couldn’t believe what a meanie our dad could be. I remember asking my dad when I was older what he would’ve done had he actually gotten to five on his fingers, and my brother and I didn’t move? He deadpanned, “Counted to six.”

With arms akimbo and a generous amount of flailing, I managed to land with a perfect thud right on my coccyx, effectively cracking the bone upon my (dis)graceful dismount. Usually when people say they “busted their ass” while doing something, it’s considered admirable. They worked hard, put in countless hours, sacrificed their time and energy in an effort to deliver successful, high-quality results. However, in my case, I literally busted my ass. I suppose I did work hard doing it – taunting your older brother can take a lot out of a gal.

I don’t know if people regularly consider how often they use their butts (although, what people do on their own time with their butts is none of my business), but in terms of effective body functionality, it’s a lot. Most of us sit down for a good portion of the day, whether at school, work, or home on the couch binge-watching the latest, greatest show on Bravo. At the time, I was in seventh grade. What is now referred to as middle school was known as junior high back in those days, and it’s quite possibly THE WORST TIME in an adolescent’s young life, largely due to a little thing called puberty.

Everything matters during these formative years. On top of the rollercoaster of emotions that shift on a dime, your body is constantly changing, not necessarily in unison, your skin can’t decide if it wants to be dry, oily, clear or broken out, and others’ opinions of you matter more than anyone is ever willing to admit. Sure, it would be great to say I was 100% comfortable in my own skin at 13 and whether or not people liked me for me was irrelevant because I liked myself so much. As lovely as that sounds, it just wasn’t the case. Image. Was. Everything. and I had no intention of singling myself out just because I broke my ass.

Given we were in such an isolated vacation spot when it happened, there wasn’t a hospital nearby and my parents figured it was probably just a bad bruise that a little ice and some time on the couch could effectively fix. My mom would have been the first to tell you I was the type of kid who would complain about a hangnail for a month, but when it came to a broken bone or other such injury, I kept fairly quiet, only mentioning in passing that it still “felt a little sore.” When I was 11, I fractured my left wrist (which happens to be the hand I write with) and didn’t see a doctor for a week because I made such a small deal about it. And really, after the initial incident, it didn’t hurt all that much. It just kind of ached. When we found out it was, in fact, fractured, my mom went ahead and filled out the forms for Mother of the Year herself. Pretty sure I got a new Culture Club tape and a couple boxes of sugar cereal (an absolute no-no in our granola/carob chip/healthy food only household) out of the ordeal, because she felt so bad. Who was I to look a Count Chocula in the mouth?

As I lay on the couch in the chalet, I was in so much pain I couldn’t even speak, but I had ‘The Goonies’ (and my new crush Sean Astin…Chris Young, who??) to distract me as my family went about enjoying our vacation in the great outdoors, checking on me in between activities. It wasn’t until we arrived home that I went to see the doctor because I was having trouble even standing upright. No amount of ibuprofen or Tylenol was helping with the pain and the mere thought of sitting down brought insta-tears to my eyes and a tsunami-sized wave of nausea. I’m fairly certain I threw up a couple of times, but it could have been for totally unrelated reasons because that was just how I rolled back in the day. Thankfully, my dad had a very strong stomach and never uttered a complaint when I puked (I very rarely made it to an actual bucket or toilet, which meant my dad was usually saddled with cleaning up the aftermath.) The only thing he couldn’t handle was when we were sticky, which for some reason, cracks me up. He’d had students vomit all over his desk, into his trash cans, and on his boat, (not to mention his own daughter tossing her groceries anywhere and everywhere like it was her job) but the second we had sticky fingers, he passed us off to mom. My mom didn’t mind the sticky, but had a hard time with puke, so you know…quid pro quo.

Upon examination, the doctor confirmed that I had, indeed, fractured my coccyx. The only problem was, you can’t really put a cast on an ass, and you can’t avoid putting pressure on it because even when you’re lying down, your bum is still in use. I knew I would get at least a few days off from school until I was able to at least stand up without wincing, but I would eventually have to return to those dreaded, grooved, saddleback wooden chairs attached to each desk in every classroom. I wondered how this was going to happen because like I said, you can’t cast an ass (although if they could have, I would have dropped out of school then and there and never looked back). I asked the doctor if sitting in school would delay the healing process and he seemed to get really excited.

Huh? Why was he excited about this? Was he taking some kind of sick pleasure in my broken butt? With a great big smile and a look that suggested he had a wonderful surprise in store for me, he said, “It would affect the healing process if you sat directly on the wooden chair, but lucky for you…you get to use THIS!” I still shudder when I recall what he presented me, all as he seemed to believe I would be just thrilled.

It was an inflatable donut that I was supposed to carry around with me and set on my chair during each class. It wasn’t just any inflatable donut (which was already horrifying enough). No. It was an inflatable donut with images of Donald Duck all over it. DONALD.FLIPPIN.DUCK! I sat there, mouth agape, eyebrows raised, staring at this reputation-ruining ass-pad; the doctor seemed to mistake my expression as one of delight. He exclaimed, “I know! Isn’t it fun? You’ll be the coolest kid in school! Who doesn’t love Donald Duck?” I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Me. I don’t love Donald Duck.”

Look, I don’t have anything against him and sure, I enjoyed him very much as a little kid, with a very strong emphasis on little. (We’ll get to that later. As I said, karma is a crafty mistress.) I just didn’t love him in the form of a rubber accessory to go with my meticulously crafted hair/makeup/clothing ensemble. In what warped, twisted universe did this guy think I would be the coolest kid in school walking around with a Donald Duck donut tucked under my arm? Like I wouldn’t then have to explain WHY I had the damn thing in the first place, which would have been humiliating enough. Falling out of a loft while taunting your older brother resulting in a fractured ass bone is not necessarily the kind of thing that wins popularity points, if you get where I’m going with this.

Needless to say, I didn’t use the donut. Instead, I spent the rest of the school year pretending to pay attention in class while acting like I wasn’t in excruciating pain, and that the only reason I moved so much was to show off the Guess label affixed to the pocket of my ultra-trendy acid washed jeans that matched one of my Forenza tees. In hindsight, I understand I should have just sucked it up, sat on the damn thing, and spun that shit to my advantage, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this entire experience, it’s that my ass has never been the same. Well, that…and the fact I’m still, and forever, infatuated with Sean Astin.