I have never aspired to seek political office. Such striving wouldn’t suit me, and the work itself would likely bore me; my competitive and my reformatory energies both, I have expressed in other ways. But many nevers permit at least one aberration, and mine came in fourth grade, when at the last possible moment, I ran for class president. My platform? The ignorance of misogyny.
The otherwise unopposed candidate was a tall, somewhat stocky boy whom I remember to this day for his brush cut and his brash remarks belittling my gender. Be it classroom banter or playground bullying, he was unrelenting in his hateful attitude. I couldn’t stand it, and I couldn’t let it stand.
So I presented myself in front of my class, by the overhead projector, and made an impassioned, impromptu speech denouncing his language and behavior, asking my classmates in the most rhetorical tone, “Is this really what you want?”
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