Race for Val-e-tit-torian
Sometimes life gives you lemons. Or a set of DDD's on your voting day.
At my highschool, valedictorian wasn’t awarded to the kid with the highest grades.
Instead, it was determined by a grade-wide vote.
I’d seen enough American TV to know that “valedictorian” reeked of classism. It also meant a full-ride to Princeton and a graduation day speech.
I knew that being valedictorian would gift Grandma McClure with the perfect show piece. After my win, Grandma McClure would sponsor a page in the Georgetown Independent to propagate the news and extend my 15-minutes.
This exact display of familial greatness fuelled our matriarch. It was social currency to be doled out at church luncheons and store run-ins. Plus, the McClures were low on hard evidence to support our clan’s superiority complex.
This win—*in print*—would notably mark the end of our lengthy, awardless drought.
Undoubtedly, being named valedictorian would edge me into the favourite grandchild slot. With my name on the golden ticket, I’d get first dibs on silk scarves and clip-on earrings—which would come in handy for subsequent community appearances.
I determined that my graduation speech (AKA microphone hostage situation) would take on the look/feel of Vitamin C’s “Graduation—Friends Forever”.
There’d be applause breaks and a musical interlude, duh.
Suddenly, inspired by my pointed sentimentality, a well-coiffed teen would call out from the back, “I’m gay!”.
Without skipping a beat, I’d kick off my heels and run down the cloaked aisles. Then, speaking to him like there was no one else in the room, I’d share into the mic, “I’ve known you were gay since you called my ‘Meh, I’m the Better Looking One Anyways’ campaign kitten heels, ‘Hepburn-esque’”.
There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house (or as they say in German, “haus”).
So, in the face of power and prestige, I did what anyone would do: I nominated myself for valedictorian.
The only other nominee was a kid named Andrew Nacevski whom I’d mistakenly called “Andrew Tchaikovsky” for four years. He had kind eyes a “visibly likes Star Trek” aesthetic. He was a nerd of the “band geek” variety.
From my vantage, I felt well-rounded enough to win the valedictorian’s race. While I had a fake ID and hair extensions, I also got good grades and feared authority. I served on the student council, coached little league soccer, and was on the yearbook committee. I straddled the lines of a few cliques, but my main electoral district would be “those most likely to instigate or attend a bush party”.
Note: Despite the vicious lies and rumours (*Meredith Mark’s voice*), my position as yearbook editor had absolutely no influence over me winning both “Most Likely to Start a Fashion Trend” and “Most Likely to Have Their Own Talk Show” in the 2008 book that I curated and published.
Before the vote for valedictorian opened, Tchaikovsky and I delivered a sample speech to the class. I wove in a “storybook” theme with inside jokes peppered throughout.
On the last day of school, the polls opened.
It wasn’t long before it became clear: I had grossly overestimated my likeability.
In the halls, the band geeks were practically jerking off their piccolos for Andrew. Classmates that I’d playfully nicknamed “Lord Breathington” or “The Scab” were openly campaigning against me. Many others avoided eye contact.
I hovered around the voting station, taking stock of the comings and goings. There were people I never spoke to and others I’d knowingly pissed off. All of the extracurriculars had made the geeks regimented. When it came to casting ballots, they showed up with pencil cases in hand.
On the other hand, “my people” were nowhere to be found.
Bred out of a binary “me or them”, I began to see myself in a new light. Perhaps, I’d been exclusionary? Maybe even abrasive?
I was less of “a man of people”, and more a regular, delusional man.
It didn’t help that for the bulk of my votership, the last day of school meant parking lot beers and smoker’s pit sunbathing.
Note: In 2008, they treated youth smokers with respect. Our school sheltered the nicotine-addicted with an on-site gazebo. While it rained from the ceiling of our English classroom, our smoker’s canopy was secure and cedar-scented.
As the morning bled into the afternoon, I could feel the race slipping. I wasn’t ready to accept defeat. I attempted to corral and coerce. I suggested a war room to talk strategy but even my “chief of staff'' appeared buzzed and over it.
In my 18 years, I’d already played politician during my “Meh, I’m the Better Looking One Anyways” campaign. It was clear that I couldn't undo four years of convincing vulnerable peers to host parties while their parents were away.
With a few electoral swing states left, my only play was to head outside and compete with buck-a-beers and Canadian Classics.
As I walked onto the football field, a large crowd was beginning to form.
“Great! A rally!”, I thought.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my defeat spiral across the field.
In slow motion, an oversized water balloon flung through the air. Before I could blink, there was an audible “splatter”.
The collision was sudden. Jaws dropped. Cheers broke out.
The latex marvel had popped across the chest of our school’s most endowed.
Krystin’s white tee shirt turned see-through, revealing an oversized bra and a reason for living.
Before long, a class-wide water balloon war broke out.
With every bra revealed, my hope for valedictorian evaporated. There would be no convincing the “wild, wild, chest” population to vote.
Shortly after the fateful collision, the PA system went off. It was official. Andrew had won valedictorian.
Note: In the seconds before a loss is revealed, there’s a strange thing that happens where losers think, “I might win!”.
I did not win.
Publicly, I had gone up against a vanilla, wood-winded Trekker and lost for all to see.
Now, if every wet tit could vote, I may have stood a chance. But alas, none of the teenage breasts were trained calligraphers.
Shaken and embarrassed, I asked a middle-of-the-roader friend who she voted for. Without hesitation, she told me that she voted for Andrew.
Someone that I liked had thoughtfully not chosen me.
It wasn’t just a lack of “my people” showing up. Some of my people had shown up—they just “decided to go in a different direction”.
The title wasn’t mine. It never was.
Instead, I won a humbling gift.
Wow!