Ryan's+Memoir

By a Cat's Whisker

I stepped up to the podium and mechanically moved my mouth. I let my voice pass through my lips. I formed the words of my greatly rehearsed― my mother drilled me like a marine― speech resonated throughout the auditorium. The punchline in my speech knocked the audience senseless. The sounds of mirth, the murmurs of agreement, and the overall applause of the audience reached my ears. I was realistic, I made promises, and most of all, I was honest. And I seemed to move the hearts of many. Every eye was on me. From my point of view, it looked like the stars in the night sky, not a gap between them. The title of Fifth Grade President was mine!

 Come to think of it, I don't think that I won by the landslide I always dreamed I did.

 Some of my promises seemed a little farfetched to some voters: “Ice cream, Ryan? Ice cream?!” inquired a student who shall remain anonymous for their own protection.

 “I said I was kidding!” I sourly retorted.

 “Oh, I guess I wasn't listening.”

 At the start of my incumbency, I was filled with confidence and enthusiasm. When I entered the student council meeting room, I greeted everyone with the energy of a seven-year-old who had guzzled eight cups of coffee. “Hi!” I shouted with a smile so wide, I practically grimaced. Everyone reciprocated my action― albeit in a lower register and level of energy. They all shot me a look that said, //This is the guy who's supposed to be the President?// I just held my face high, grinning painfully. I think people might have taken that as, //Heck yes.// My high spirits would plummet during the semester to come.

Throughout my term as Fifth Grade President, I attended pointless meetings, substituted for my homeroom representatives, and was criticized often. My ideas were shot down like flies; my note-taking style was ridiculed: “But Ryan, how will we have enough money for that? When will we do it? You need better penmanship! How long will it take?” Mr. Smith would say in his usual narcissistic drone from time to time. I simply gave him a cold, grim stare every time he would talk to me with criticism― which was pretty much every time he talked to me. This simply was not what I had expected. I felt hurt. My blood turned to thick, red steam. I was reaching my limit. I was full to bursting with anger. Oh, how I longed for retribution! Actually, I just wanted to punch the guy, but I didn't. I decided to be the bigger man― er, boy. Mr. Smith, I was the enemy you should have never made! And so, I bided my time until middle school.

* * * * * * * *

 During the second semester of seventh grade, the ASB elections were underway. When the day to put up posters arrived, I was ready with parodies of Shepard Fairey's Obama Hope poster. However, I didn't take into account one small detail: VANDALISM. I came to school one morning to see my multicolored face sporting a Hitler mustache, a speech bubble with an odd phrase in it, and an unmentionable thing crudely drawn in Sharpie marker. They were horrible. They were unoriginal. In fact, they weren't even funny! But I didn't let that stop my ambition― actually, I turned as red as a tomato, but that's beside the point. Now, you may be wondering why I was so desperate for the office of ASB President. I wanted to have a say in the activities done in my school. I didn't just want to stand around and go with the flow, I wanted to make a change. This also pertains to my life now and in the future. I want to make something of my life, I don't want to be a bystander. I want to affect history. To be great. To be recognized.

__ On the day prior to voting― and I don't want to brag, but it seemed like I was the only candidate who was prepared, speech in hand. My competitor had hurriedly scribbled a quick monologue on a piece of paper only hours before the assembly. I felt like I had the upper hand. I was absolutely brimming with chutzpah as I approached the stage. I stepped up to the podium, feeling a great sense of déja vu. I scanned the auditorium, seeing everyone's eyes on me― only this time, they felt like the eyes of vultures, just waiting for me to drop dead and the chance to swoop down to devour my flesh! Imagining the audience in their underwear wouldn't save me now. I started my speech in a voice filled with false confidence. I started to lose some of my fake enthusiasm as I approached the middle of my speech. My Groucho Marx routine wasn't very successful: there was scattered laughter. And those were not laughs of mirth, but of pity. My Groucho-Glasses fell off and I took a deep breath that echoed and reverberated in the auditorium. I started to shake like a chihuahua. My false courage was now replaced by a chilling sense of embarrassment I finished and was met by― to my surprise― an uproarious applause. Confused, I let my opponent take the stage. It was over in less than a minute. After school, I was patted on the back by the silver-tongued-voices of the students: “Good job. . . You did great! . . . Nice speech!” chimed a clot of students in an ocean of people. They may have blocked my way out, but every one of their compliments fed my malnourished ego and blew it up to massive proportions. In other words, my ego was back to normal size. I thanked them and swam through the current of students to the shore that was the sidewalk. __

 Oddly enough, my opponent received the same number of votes as me. I guess people don't pay attention during speeches. They, the students, treated the election as a popularity contest. It seemed liked my competitor and I had an equal number of votes. It was very close. It was so close that we considered co-presidents. . . . until the untimely arrival of a late vote.

 Ah, the ASB room, the room where I would make my mark on John Muir Middle School. I had many responsibilities as a member of ASB. I was ready for the new school year. I was ready to lead the school to greatness. Except the fact that I lost. It was that one, little vote.

 I decided to bide my time until high school.