The Line

We all sat primly in our designated positions in the large hall, dressed in our flowing, virginal white gowns, white stockings and white leather scuffies. Having just marched in, and spoken our required pronouncements in turn, we listened quietly as Mrs. Vitale, the bethel guardian, read through the day's announcements.

This term I was running for "the line," which in the vernacular of the Job's Daughters organization, meant that I was vying for the elected position of Honored Queen. In order to become Honored Queen, one must first be elected by the other members of the bethel (the organization's term for a chapter), then progress through the four lower positions, each held for six months, before being crowned Honored Queen.

The process is very somber and dignified. We were instructed not to tell anyone of our decision to run until the nominees were announced by the bethel leader. A secret ballot election would be held a few weeks later, and the winner would be announced.
Mrs. Vitale began to read the day's announcements.

"I find it necessary to remind those girls who are running this term that you are not to tell anyone of your decision to run. Campaigning of any kind would be unfair to the other candidates and is strictly frowned upon."

I hardly heard anything after she spoke the first few words. Though she had not mentioned my name, I knew her remarks were directed at me. I felt the heat of my humiliation radiate through my body. I froze in my seat, praying to just disappear and never be seen again. For a moment I couldn't see anything around me, as if I had lost all peripheral vision. At the same time, I felt as if all eyes were fixed on me.

My mother had worked hard during my first few years as a Jobie. She volunteered to chaperone events, bake cookies and cupcakes, and generally do all she could to support me during this time. Believing that politics were involved, she thought it would help me to win if she was an active volunteer.

"Don't worry," she told me. "It's okay to tell a few friends you're running. No one will find out. Just drop a hint here and there. I'll bet everyone else does."

Wanting to win, and trusting mother's intuition, I hinted. And hinted.

After the election, a few friends came up to me to offer their condolences. One even said, "I would have voted for you, but I couldn't spell your name."

I will never know whether my flagrant disregard for the solemnity of the process was cause for my defeat. But I'm sure it was around this time that I began to see my mother as fallible, and that her advice should be considered carefully, and not followed blindly.