Elections

In retrospect, high school was pretty awful. Second only, in fact, to middle school. As is true for many people, one of the things that got me through was finding my own niche, my own thing to belong to that didn't have anything to do with school. For me, that was my youth group (though a few fellow youth groupers also went to my high school and we were friends in both realms). I felt so comfortable there, so welcomed and at home, right from the start. I was also a really shy kid - my mom talked my 5th grade teacher out of making me do my state report in front of the whole class because it gave me such fits of anxiety. One of the most helpful jobs I ever had was one where I had to make phone calls to lots of strangers. Before that job, which started the summer before my senior year of high school, I wouldn't call strangers; I wouldn't even want to talk to my friends' parents on the phone if they happened to answer, and not because I was a snotty teenager who wouldn't give adults the time of day. I definitely wouldn't call my friends' parents on purpose. But after a little while at that job, one day I announced to my mother that I was calling the parents of a friend who was away at camp and horribly homesick. I called her parents to get her phone number at camp so I could call her and make her feel better. When I hung up the phone, I turned around and my mother was staring at me, agape. "You never would have done that a few months ago," she said, shaking her head. But there was a smile on her face and I knew she was proud of me.

There was a similar moment with my mother when I announced my intention to run for the regional board of my youth group and told her what it involved. Not to mention the up-front emotional costs of having to write and deliver a speech about my "platform" in front of a hundred or so of my peers; there were also the sustained dues of having to make announcements in front of the whole group at probably every event for the next year. Elections were held in the spring for the coming school year and the new board's first official duties were planning the week-long summer retreat at the end of August. Throughout the school year were 3-5 other weekend-long retreats; while each retreat, or kallah, had its own cochairs, the Board was the constant. Each board member had their own area of expertise in making a weekend retreat happen and was responsible for knowing what was happening at any one moment during these weekends. So many people who inspired me and that I looked up to were on the Regional Board in years past, and while they took it seriously, they also had a lot of fun. Being on the Reegie Board was A Big Deal, and I wanted in pretty much from the get-go. I wanted in so badly that I was willing to make a speech, and possibly a fool of myself, in front of dozens of people I loved and respected and who made high school bearable for me. With one year of high school left, I realize now that this had the potential to ruin my safe space for me. I didn't think of that at the time, though - all I thought was how much I wanted to be on the Board and make this safe space happen for my friends and all the new kids who would come in the following year. When I was a freshman, I had my heart set on being President of the region. When the time came closer, I realized that wouldn't be practical (wayyy too much extemporaneous speaking; I'd rather have more of a behind-the-scenes role, as I did, literally, with theater endeavors). I now realize a more appropriate fit would have been Treasurer or Secretary, but somehow I got my heart set on Social Action Vice President. I served my sophomore year as treasurer of my local youth group (a small sub-set of the regional group, with whom I'd never felt comfortable and was always an outsider) and junior year as its SAVP in preparation for running for the regional board counterpart. I wracked my brain to come up with a platform, a meaningful way to engage my peers in social justice work that is so important to me. I came up with a sort of trickle-down strategy where we would spend the year creating a guide for the local youth group leaders to help them plan their own events throughout the year, rather than focusing on work we could do as a region. I wrote up the speech and practiced it a little bit. I conferred with my friends, several of whom were also running for board positions. I made photocopies of fliers with my name, intentions, and qualifications on them, complete with cute little clip art, made from my dad's computer. I packed my bag in preparation for a weekend across town at one of the six other Reform synagogues, where we would have a home-stay one night and a lock-in the next. I would return home on Sunday either victorious and elated or heartbroken and humiliated. I was ready as I'd ever be, which is to say, not at all.

The weekend came. Upon arrival at the host synagogue, we discovered who was running for which positions - five out of seven positions were contested, and the last two became contested when people who lost their race dropped down to run for those spots. (Voting began with President, moved through the four VPs, and then to Secretary and Treasurer, so if someone ran and lost for President, they could run for any of the other positions.) So in addition to all of this preparation, all the other candidates and I had to decide whether we would drop down if (or when) we lost. I decided not to; it was Social Action VP or bust, for me. I looked at the list of candidates. Two or three each for most of the positions. Halfway down the list, SAVP: 6.

SIX?! That number slammed me in the face. Not to mention, of course, that a few of those were some dear friends, including Brett (who I'd known since first grade) and Hayley. My heart sank. My name was on the list, too late to take it back. I had to go through with it. The entire lead-up to the election was a blur, but I do remember some embarrassing Q&A time (mostly on the A side) on Saturday afternoon. After dinner, we all filed into the sanctuary for speeches. I barely focused on my friend Caryn's speech for Religious and Cultural VP, though I remember being impressed. Then again, she was on the Forensics team at school and did theater, so it wasn't really a surprise that she would nail it.

Finally, the six of us SAVP candidates were herded into a small room to wait out each other's speeches. (We weren't allowed in the sanctuary where the speeches and voting were taking place so that no one had the advantage of going last and showing everyone up.) Two of the adult leaders stayed in the room with us, trying to distract us. They had their work cut out for them - we were one tough bunch to distract from the present. Taran, our songleader, had brought his guitar and was making up silly songs about each of us, trying to get us to laugh. At some point I was escorted to the sanctuary and the podium, where I unfolded the two sheets of paper containing my speech and smoothed them with a shaky hand. I blinked into the lights and tried not to focus too hard on the people I knew were out there. I tried to pretend I didn't know them. I stumbled and mumbled through my speech, which took itself way too seriously. As I was reading, I started to hate it, but it was too late to change it. Somehow I made it off the bimah (stage) to mild applause without tripping all over myself back to the tiny, airless room to wait some more.

One by one, the other five left and came back, mostly wide-eyed and shaky. Only Brett seemed composed; we could hear laughter down the hall during his time away, and when he slid back into his seat, his juggling balls quietly rolled onto the table. I'd known him since we were six; did I know he could juggle? I stared at the juggling balls, knowing he'd charmed all their socks off, and feeling like an imposter, as though I could have ever thought I could compete with him or the other four people in that room. After an eternity, the votes were counted and Taran broke the news gently: Brett had won. As deeply disappointed as I was, it had become clear to me in that little room that of anyone else, myself included, he was the one who would do the best job. So, while I was heartbroken and clung to my decision not to drop down to run for another position, part of me was relieved to not have to be a leader and part of me was (later) glad to have someone so capable take it on. I waited out the rest of the elections, though I don't think I was able to re-enter the sanctuary. Then I had to compose myself and drive away.

I drove away, not because I had to get away from the loss, but because this was all happening the same weekend that my school's spring musical was going up. It was Fiddler on the Roof, starring (in my opinion) my dear friend Jeff as Motel the Tailor, and me and some other friends on crew. Jeff was also running for Treasurer and had had someone else give his speech for him while he was at call for the 7:30 curtain. Being crew, my call was much later, so I stayed at the elections until I learned the outcomes, since Treasurer was the last position to be voted on and Jeff didn't even know how many drop-downs he was running against.

As soon as I knew the election results, I hopped in my little white car and flew across town for call. I scooted into the school at 7:25 and dashed backstage, clutching a plastic bag with my black stage clothes in it. I ran into the crowded, narrow area filled will shtetl-dwellers milling about, talking, laughing, joking, shaking out last-minute jitters, finding props, getting to their places. I looked around wildly for Jeff, needing comfort, needing to tell him what had happened. I spotted him precariously climbing the stairs to the costume loft.

"JEFF!" I yelled over the din of the room and my own head, hoping he could hear me, my voice breaking a little at the end. He turned on the stairs and met my eyes. And then the world stopped.

Everyone else fell away and it was just the two of us, my eyes filling and mouth trembling as the truth sank in - Jeff, and Caryn, and Brett, and four others, would spend the next year having fun and I would feel left out in my safe space, just as I had felt in the walls of my high school. Jeff hurried down the steep, ladder-like stairs and flew to me, enveloping me. I smudged his stage makeup, crying into his black vest. Somehow I managed to sniffle out, "Congratulations." He just hugged me harder.

And then it was showtime.

Candice

So, I've been a little writer's blocked, and a little bummed in general lately, because my friend Candice passed away about two weeks ago. She was my friend Joe's wife, and I didn't know her overly well, but I knew her well enough to know how fun she was and what incredible spirit she had. I was feeling stymied by what to write about her; nothing seemed concrete enough to put into words or good enough to sum up the amazing presence she had. Maybe it's because I lost a friend a few years ago quite suddenly, or because I lost my aunt to cancer last year, or because I recently supported a friend through chemo, but I feel what must be just a fraction of Joe's pain so acutely right now. Candice and Joe lived in Seattle when my sister and I lived there for a spring and it was the first time I'd spent time with either of them since graduating college a few years before. Joe lived in my dorm and Candice went to a school near enough to allow them to visit each other occasionally (or maybe more often; I wasn't clued in to their exact schedule). Nevertheless, they were the only people I knew in Seattle and we were glad to get to spend time together again.

One day, we went to brunch in their red convertible. We must have been listening to NPR on the radio because Candice and I soon got on the topic of NPR shows we like. I like general favorites: Car Talk; Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me. I also love the way A Prairie Home Companion really hits the nail on the head with accents and down-homeyness and makes me miss my native midwest. Garrison Keillor's voice is soothing and he has such fantastic comedic timing and storytelling ability. I am generally pretty sensitive to and prejudiced about voices. Too many or too glaring differences between the way I speak and the way another person speaks could sour my first impression, or lasting impression, of them forever. To that end, though I appreciated the concept of This American Life, Ira Glass's minor speech impediment (can you call it that?) really rankled me. Perhaps it's because I had a speech impediment once upon a time (my mother was shocked recently to learn that I've really just gotten very good at hiding it, but I still have to think quite hard about pronouncing my Ls and Rs), but listening to his show made me uncomfortable. So there we are, driving along in Joe and Candice's convertible, the wind whipping our hair around (well, not Joe's, so much) - Candice's dark brown curls and my straight, light brown locks - and discussing NPR. I was enjoying getting to know her a little better, since I liked her so much already, until the following exchange, called over the noise of the road:

Candice: I just love This American Life, don't you?
Amy: Actually, I don't listen to it. Ira Glass's voice drives me crazy, and not in a good way.
Candice: Oh. Huh. The only person whose voice I can't stand is that Garrison Keillor.
Amy: What? Uh... I don't know if we can be friends!

Of course, I was joking, since we were already friends. In fact, Candice's faith in This American Life was a major reason I later tried (and succeeded in) putting aside my prejudices and listening to the content and came to really enjoy the show. I don't know if she ever listened to PHC, but it doesn't really matter. The point is that I was so worried about trying to write about that exchange clearly and make it a fitting tribute to Candice's memory. What I realized is that what was special about Candice to those who didn't get a chance to know her super well isn't easy to pinpoint or explain. But the fact that I knew her well enough to be saddened by her absence, and her death's effect on Joe's life, shows how welcoming she was to everyone. She was incredibly outgoing and disarmingly funny, making you feel like you really knew her, had known her all along, and how blessed you were to have had her in your life, in whatever capacity, and for however long.