In case you did not have both the contradictory misfortune and simultaneous privilege of attending my high school, I will explain more about this unique (and, I must add, uncontested) role.

Our school government had the typical trappings: president, VP, secretary, treasurer, governor, headmistress, rat-catcher, shoeshine boy, and maybe some other super-important governmenty things? I don’t know. I never really paid attention.

Anyway, I heard it through the grapevine that, this year, they would also be upping the representation “for the people.” Once the results for the regular slots were tabulated, the newly chosen student govvies would meet up in their dedicated clubhouse (a small private room near the aforementioned linoleumed cafeteria), whip out a registry of all of the students in the class, and call out two numbers. The first proclaimed number was the page. The second, the entry on the list of that particular page. And thusly, our inaugural random rep would be appointed.

I may need to clarify that, yes, random rep really does mean a randomly selected representative. And random really does mean beyond your control. Running for this position was like lobbying to win the lotto, or asking certain sperm to help create you.

To me, this odd (and against-the-odds) scenario represented not inevitable disappointment, but guaranteed absurdity, and all without a hit to my self-esteem. I literally had nothing to lose (or—for that matter—win). For the first time in a class-wide popularity contest, rejection was not an option. I could be fearless.

In addition to the smattering of miscellaneous images (accompanied simply by the single word “random”—I don’t think I even had any mention of my name, or the notion of voting, for one “series”), some posters instead featured a variety of campaign-y slogans. Ragging on the tired, typical messaging of secretarial and treasurarial elections past (and, most likely, present and future), I alleged that voting for me for random rep “just made cents” because I was “the leading lady.”

For one, I even went so far as to adopt my own nihilistic catchphrase for the job: “Vote Allison for Random Rep – Because Your Vote Doesn’t Count.” Unfortunately, even though the principal saw how, indeed, one’s vote (or non-vote) for an un-runnable, arbitrarily-selected position bore no consequence, he still insisted I take it down, so as not to invoke apathy among the student body regarding the democratic process—or, God forbid, anarchy.

The principal wasn’t the only one who was a little puzzled. Nobody really seemed to get it. Which—on top of my being allowed to showcase bizarre imagery in conjunction with a bullshit message—was maybe the greatest coup of all.

Meanwhile, the biggest surprise was when several of my peers showed their support—not for my goofy gag, but for my alleged candidacy. “I’ll vote for you!” they’d assure me. “But you can’t,” I’d reply. “I’m not really on the ballot.” To which a number promised, “Don’t worry, I’ll write you in.”

My run for random rep was the first (but not last) time I’d throw my hat into an election, and, despite my complete disinterest in actually holding office or throwing hats, I confess that a certain campaign fever took over. By which I mean I got a giant kick seeing what (granted, benign) ridiculousness I was getting away with.

Even though my posters didn’t make any kind of positive or declarative statements about myself, I couldn’t help but get a rush when I’d pass one in the halls in between classes. It was my own subversive, hilarious (to me, at least), ego-boosting graffiti; a sort of private-but-public daily affirmation; a way of comforting my (often) loner self, as if to say, “If you can amuse yourself, kid, you’re gonna be just fine.”

Election day came and went, and, lo and behold, I did not climb aboard the civic participation train.

But a few days later, I bumped into one of our elected class officials, who offered me his sympathy for my “loss.”

Elected Class Official: I’m really sorry you didn’t get random rep. I know how much you wanted it.

Allison: No, it’s OK. I mean, it’s random. The chances of my getting picked were 1 in…300? I don’t know. I can’t do math. The point is that I was not counting on winning.

ECO: Yeah, but, you wanted to win.

Allison: Actually, and no offense to this most honorable of extracurricular distinctions that I TOTALLY respect, but, um, I kinda just wanted to…um…make posters…?

ECO: Yeah, I know, we LOVED your posters! You made so many of them—really put in an effort. We’re really sorry you weren’t picked.

After I got over thinking this kid was a stinkin’ idiot, I reviewed his statements once more. He had never shown himself to give a shit about me previously, so his contrition gave me pause.

I wondered, if he was expressing so much remorse, did this mean there had actually been a for-real discussion about selecting me? (Even though this would have very obviously gone against the sacred principle of randomness upon which the position was created—thus desecrating the very dignity and purpose of the supposedly “everyman” selection. HEATHENS. All of them. Government clearly cannot be trusted.)

I imagined all the arguments they’d volleyed back and forth when making this very important, and somewhat insane, deliberation:

- She’s crazy
- She’ll never wake up early enough for our morning meetings
- She hates this place
- She doesn’t give a shit about “the issues”
- Sometimes she exhibits halitosis from an unfortunate nasal drip
- She’s always making dirty jokes
- She’s crazy
- No, I mean, really crazy
- She gives good head

But aside from that last one (no one at my school would know this, and more importantly, if they said so, they’d be dead wrong), all of these assessments would be totally correct.

And so, unwanted power still ungraspable, I accepted defeat honorably, and without protest.

I don’t think I was the write choice anyway.