Class President

An Introduction to Electoral Government

• Empty the pencil sharpener

• Rinse and dry the sink

• Clean the erasers

These were among the daily chores in Miss Parent’s classroom. Monday mornings and Friday afternoons the gerbil cage required extra attention. It was the responsibility of the classroom president to assign chores and assure they were completed in time for Miss Parent to release us to the busses. I’m sure no first grader ever missed the bus ride home for failure to empty a pencil sharpener, but we lived with that anxiety.

Friday afternoons there were elections. The candidates’ names were on the chalkboard in Miss Parent’s crisp handwriting, and we put our heads down on our desktops. Miss Parent announced each candidate name in turn, and we raised a hand for our favorite.

On the blackboard’s top-left corner Miss Parent had written

CLASSROOM PRESIDENT:

Each Friday she neatly wrote the winner’s name for all to see until the next election.

What was the nomination process? I don’t recall. I do recall that there was a form of term limits in Miss Parent’s system: Past presidents were not listed as candidates again until every student had served a term.

The popular kids were elected first. Dave W, Nancy E, their friends. (The same ones, it turned out, who would be the popular jocks and cheerleaders in high school.)

Rodney was a frequent troublemaker in our classroom. Rodney made fart noises and gross comments to no one in particular and squirmed around on his chair and he dressed differently and had stinky breath and BO.

Each week when it was time for the election, I hoped to be nominated, and a few times I was. I had an idea that I wasn’t supposed to vote for myself—that would be rude or selfish. I always voted for the candidate I thought would be best, beside myself, and that person usually won, and I always felt simultaneously disappointed and happy for the winner.

I regarded my cleanup assignments seriously. I was particularly good at polishing the stainless-steel sink, taking extra care to scrub away the powdery white buildup that the other kids missed under the knobs and at the base of the tall gooseneck faucet. I believed doing the chores well made me a better candidate for president.

One late-winter Friday there were only two candidates listed on the chalkboard ballot—the two who had yet to be elected: Me and Rodney.

We put our heads down and Miss Parent said my name first. I hesitated, but I put my hand up. I felt bad doing that. I feared I was doing something wrong. I worried that Miss Parent might even interrupt the voting to make clear that candidates may not vote for themselves. In all the elections we’d had she had never done that, and I couldn't bear the thought of even Rodney being elected class president before me. So, I held my arm up to be counted for myself. Seconds later, when Miss Parent said Rodney’s name, I curled my arm around my head and didn’t peek. I never peeked.

Miss Parent announced that we could raise our heads. I felt happy and proud to see a circle chalked around Steven. I looked at Rodney. He was looking at the chalkboard and then looking away, and then picking at a scab on his arm. I had a pang of sadness for Rodney and guilt about voting for myself. But mostly I was happy when Miss Parent wrote my name next to CLASSROOM PRESIDENT: Steven

My assigned chore that day was to shadow Lisa N, the outgoing president, to assure the smooth transition of powers. I followed Lisa around the room, carefully observing her actions so that I would be fully prepared for my inauguration Monday morning. I watched as the pencil sharpener was emptied, and I tapped an eraser to make sure no chalk plume arose. I inspected the gerbil cage for missed turds and checked that the wire lid was secure.

When it was time to leave and line up for the school busses, we rushed to the long closet with its cream-colored accordion door. My jacket was on the hook inside the furthest end of the closet, so I pulled the door all the way open, as far as it could go. I had to step inside the closet, behind the folded door, to reach my things. There were small wooden step stools we could use to reach for our caps and gloves on the shelf above the coat hooks. My jacket hung on a stainless hook, and I had figured out that I could save a step by slipping one arm into a sleeve first and then shrug the jacket off the hook while turning to get my other arm in. That day, as I turned and reached my second arm into its sleeve, another kid bumped against me. He was pushing to the back corner of the closet to get his things, just like me.

I stood in place for a moment, waiting for him to clear out of my way. He wasn’t as quick as me, so while I was waiting for him, I stepped onto the stool, reached up for my stocking cap, pulled it onto my head. The other kid was rummaging below for his boots, still blocking my exit.

To save a little more time, as long as I was caught in traffic, so to speak, I zipped up my parka. It caught a little, so I had to give it an extra firm tug, but I got it up, and finally the other kid found his stuff and moved out of my way. I stepped out, forgetting that I was on the stool. I tipped forward, the stool kicked out behind me, and I found myself dangling above the floor, the stainless coat hook still attached within my parka’s collar.

I kicked at the floor but couldn’t reach. I grabbed behind my head to unhook myself, but I couldn't lift my own weight while I was suspended from the hook. I tried to undo the zipper, but it was strained and stuck firm. I pushed and kicked at the wall and twisted as best I could, but I couldn’t get free. I pulled again on the zipper where it was jammed tight under my chin. It wouldn’t budge.

I was about to shout for help when Miss Parent appeared, tall and stern in the fluorescent gap of light slicing into the closet. Before I could speak, she thrust her arms beneath mine, heaved me up, and slid a hand behind my head to release my parka from the hook.

Relieved, I said “Thank you,” but I don’t think she heard me. She was walking brusquely away. We were alone in the classroom. At the chalkboard, she plucked the eraser I had just inspected from the rail, spun back to where I stood rumpled and bewildered. She held the eraser under my chin, pointed at my name on the chalkboard.

I walked solemnly to the front of the room. Miss Parent positioned a small stepladder near the chalkboard. I climbed the steps, my cheeks burning.

CLASSROOM PRESIDENT: Steven

I held my breath, squeezed my eyes against tears. I stretched to reach high and wiped at my name with the eraser. It didn’t come off with the first swipe. I had to stretch high on my toes to reach it and properly scrub it away. Then I retreated from the stepladder, returned the eraser to Miss Parent’s outstretched hand.

I couldn’t stop myself looking back before I left the room. I watched as Miss Parent neatly printed Rodney.