Political Game

ACT 2: Initiation and Transformation

But the outside world? Still stuck in false binaries. The hero sees through the illusion of power and sideshows. He rejects the lie, even if it means losing friends or votes.

The Great Ballot Banana Peel

My name’s Jimmy “Don’t-Call-Me-James” Thompson, and last year, I accidentally became mayor of my middle school. I say “accidentally” ‘cause I didn’t even mean to run. I just made a joke speech about how the vending machines should be filled with gummy worms and chocolate milk. Everyone laughed. Then they voted for me. A landslide, they said. Whatever that means.

Turns out, being mayor ain't all chocolate milk and gummy worms.

The first day in office, I got invited to “The Meeting.” That’s what the principal called it. Just “The Meeting.” I was whisked into the staff lounge (which smelled like burnt coffee and mystery casserole) and sat across from Principal Hargrove and Vice Principal Doolittle. Both wore the same suit, just different colors. One red. One blue. Like ketchup and blueberry pie fighting over a hot dog.

They smiled the same way raccoons do when they find an open trash can.

“Jimmy,” Principal Hargrove said, “you’re doing great! We just need you to approve a few... school improvement proposals.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well,” said Doolittle, “you can pick between new lockers that don’t open, or a new bell system that rings randomly every seven minutes.”

“Neither!” I said. “That’s nonsense.”

They leaned in close, still smiling. “You can’t say neither. You have to choose. It’s the rules.”

That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t about choices. This was a political game. And I was the ball being kicked around.

So I did what any reasonable fourth grader would do.

I rebelled.

I started wearing mismatched shoes. I ended announcements with “Also, free nap time for anyone who wants it!” I held secret meetings in the janitor’s closet and passed around a petition to replace both principals with a class hamster named Mr. Nibbles.

The school erupted in chaos. In a good way. Kids started thinking for themselves. We demanded real choices. We questioned stuff. We even got the vending machines fixed.

Then one day, I walked into “The Meeting” again. This time, I brought Mr. Nibbles in a tiny tuxedo.

“We’re not playing your game anymore,” I said.

And just like that, I resigned. Gave up the power. Gave it back to the students.

Mr. Nibbles took over. And oddly enough, things got better.

The Big Lesson: Don’t let folks trick you into picking sides when the whole thing smells fishy.

Proverb: “If both choices stink, pick the skunk who tells the truth.”