This past Thursday I read at an event called Writers Read. The host is a local poet with her first book coming out next week, so when she and I talked about my reading at the event I had to be honest:  I don’t do poetry.  She was cool with whatever I wanted to share, and since I love sharing embarrassing stories about myself, I gave this one a go.  Not only was the event really fun, but I also got a chance to connect with some very cool writers (one of whom isn’t pictured below, but shared an amazing story about finding out the truth about Santa).  My story is below.

A Religious Affair

When I was in sixth grade, I realized I had not achieved my desired level of popularity, and decided to run for public office.  I mean, I wasn’t exactly UNpopular, but I wasn’t exactly popular, either.  If my small Catholic school were located in Sweet Valley, I was probably equivalent to Elizabeth Wakefied.  Not Enid-nerdy, but not Jessica-popular, either.  And if there was one person I wanted to be in sixth grade, I wanted to be Jessica Wakefield.

In my school, along with many others, the popular kids were in student council.  This was a general rule as universally accepted as gravity.  Student council meant weekly Wednesday meetings after school that included candy purchased at the 7-11 next door, the ability to make major decisions such as how much hot chocolate to purchase for Friday Hot Chocolate Day, and the power to make important social decisions, such as which Keds were acceptable and how, exactly, to curl and spray your bangs for ultimate awesomeness.  But in order to BE in student council, one must be elected to student council.  And in order to be elected, one must run.  So I ran.

There is a certain level of popularity one must have in order to be elected to student council.  Cool clothes, athleticism, and good looks are high on that list.  Unfortunately, I had none of those things in any sort of respectable quantity.  What I did have– what I STILL have, quite frankly– was the kind of self-awareness that many adults, especially politicians, fail to possess.  Sure, I could run for president.  Or vice president.  I had the handwriting for a great secretary/treasurer, but I was in no way well-liked enough to win such coveted posts, and I knew it.  So I went down the list of open positions, and instead of going for the position I wanted, I went for the position I thought I’d nab easily:  Religious Affairs.

“Religious Affairs!” my dad snorted with laughter.  “What is THAT?”

My dad was a hard-core, Advent candle lighting Catholic, so his response surprised me.  

“Well, obviously, I would be in charge of leading the prayer on the opening day of school…. and I would put the flowers on Mary’s head on May Day… and…”

But my dad, along with me, now, couldn’t get over the title.  Religious Affairs.  Not exactly the association you’d want for your Catholic school daughter.

You’d think that Religious Affairs would be the type of position that would be perpetually vacant and the nuns at my school would be desperate to fill it.  But that would be underestimating the power of the instant popularity achieved by being a part of student council.  I ran against a boy- A SEVENTH GRADER.  Losing the race was a distinct possibility, and would be an event that would determine my undesirable social status for the REST OF MY NATURAL LIFE.  

My campaign consisted of some posters and thirty second speech I gave in front of the whole school.  I would give a small fortune to be able to find the actual content of the speech, but I’m sure it’s forever lost.  I probably said something about how I liked to say prayers, and I would be the best for the job.  Oh, and maybe something about Jesus and how he would TOTALLY have voted for me, if he were in our school.  But mostly, like any good politician, I solidified my people, one by one.  This was fairly easy, as I was one of no more than 25 students in my class, and you’d better believe that I schmoozed with each and every one of them.

“You’re going to vote for me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Like that.  

I’m sure you’re thinking this story is about how I lost the election and how I had to learn to pick myself up by Keds-straps and move forward with my relationship with God despite my crushing defeat.  Well, you’re wrong.  I won the election, overflowed with self-importance, and was an out-and-out shit about it for the rest of my sixth grade year. I couldn’t have cared less about the job itself, and how I might inspire my classmates to be more Jesus-y.  All I cared about was that I had my place of popularity set for the following year.  Ha!

Candy-wise, the student council meetings were all I’d hoped they’d be, and more. Pixie Sticks, Slurpees, and peanut M and Ms were the highlight of my Wednesday afternoons in seventh grade.  What I hadn’t anticipated was the hierarchy WITHIN student council.  It turned out that my post as “Religious Affairs” was the lowest rung on the totem pole, and my opinions were not exactly welcome.

“How about a prayer before we start the talent show?” I’d suggest, desperate, as always, for attention.

“Um, no,” my “friends” would say.  

“Maybe I should do the announcements on Pajama Day… because I’m.. you know… the person who… Religious Affairs…”

My yearlong tenure was uneventful.  I remember there was one time I had the distinct responsibility of unlocking the choir room during First Friday Mass, which made me feel beyond important, but other than that, I was neither influential in religious matters, nor was a catapulted into any significant social status.

I was, as I had been, and would always remain, Elizabeth Wakefield.  Jessica’s bookish twin sister, dangling on the outer rings of popularity, hoping, maybe by some small divine miracle, to transfigure. Annunciate. Transcend.