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"People don’t talk about politics because it is too dirty."
Megan couldn’t believe her eyes as she watched the teacher with the perfect posture scribble the word "politics" on the board with that perfect handwriting that every teacher seemed to possess. She sighed as the teacher grabbed the red dry erase marker like a censorship sword and cut through those gorgeous letters one by one.
How was it that she was stuck in a classroom, in a school that could be this fake when this was the one chance she had at escaping from that?
Escape—it seemed so impossible only months before. Her only chance at normalcy back then was the classroom. It was her only safe haven. Out on the streets she was the main attraction and in the house she was supposed to call home was an armory only her mother could possess. The guns were the microphones. The swords were the pens. The tasers were the cameras constant flashes. And it was already directed at her—the target.
It didn’t matter where she went. Whether it was the fine dining family dinners at Cercle Rouge or hidden away in an internet café on the corner of 14th street and 2nd avenue. They always followed. It was as if the world that surrounded her needed an update on every breath she took.
In a world where politicians rule the world, it was easy to see how they are a source of attraction. But being the daughter of a politician meant you were to be just as ridiculed for your behavior as they were for their laws.
Megan got back at her mom the way every teen did; she rebelled. She smoked pot. She snuck out. She found ways to get around those pesky driving laws. She had the world on her shoulder as she went 90 in a 35 into yet another brick wall. The smell of alcohol was on her lips and a sense of torment could be heard through her laughter. Fame makes people do crazy things. Ask Lindsey Lohan and Britney Spears. It is only a matter of time when your normal life isn’t catchy enough and you need that thrill just to find a reason to wake up the next day. Like them, Megan knew she was unstoppable. Every rule that her mother pushed through the houses, she violated.
By the third time she had her bail posted, her wishes were finally granted. Her mother cried as she tried to understand how Megan could have let her down so close to elections. Elections and tears those would get those guns blazing and swords swinging.
Forget the fact it was Megan’s birthday. That was only an occasion to receive the same signed card Mrs. Rosten gave her campaign organization members. For the last time, Megan packed her suitcases. This time without the bitterly angry remarks she typically spewed towards her mother as she explained how she would run away. This time, she had an accomplice; as her father grabbed her luggage and attempted to hug a daughter he hadn’t seen since she was six. She realized that this was the best birthday gift she ever got. Her freedom. No more domination from the high and mighty. No more constant breathing down her back as she picked through food she couldn’t pronounce. This was her shot at normal.
Normal was Turin, New York. Her should-have-been safe haven: South Lewis Senior High School. It was already November, midway through the first semester when she got to her new school. She started over; she dyed her once was ebony hair, burgundy. Megan also added a notorious “h” to her new name—Meghan.
Yet during her first class every ounce of hope she had was squeezed dry. She was placed into a new armory, swords ready. Her first class of her first day: journalism. Meghan found irony scribbled on the white walls as she saw the newspaper campaigns and different posters meant to help spark emotion and interest. She was supposed to be one of the countless zombies trying to get a sneak peak at the royalty of the state. Because out of every topic, it would figure that in a school this desolate, the only topic not picked over was her old life: Politics.
After explaining to Mrs. Glidden that she had no idea how she got assigned into the class and had absolutely no interest in politics, Mrs. Glidden repeated the first thing she ever said to her.
"People don’t talk about politics because it is too dirty. Write it down and think about it. Maybe something will come to your mind."
"Mrs. G, I get the point. Leave the girl that has been surrounded in politics all her life to immerse in it, but this is what I just escaped. Do I really have to go back?" Megan couldn’t help but hear the desperation in her voice. As she looked around the cluttered classroom, she felt the echo of her despair resonate the stale air.
"Why do you look at your current situation as an escape?" Meghan’s ears peaked up. No one ever asked her why she crashed the car or why she would run away. No one cared about her reason; they were too interested in keeping her in the spotlight. "Why" wasn’t a question Meghan knew how to answer.
Mrs. Glidden watched as Meghan’s brain started to shift gears as she began to acknowledge her own thoughts. "It’s a prison. You are always followed by people, like these students, with pens and microphones in hand just waiting for the next screw up. So I gave them those screw ups. But it wasn’t for them and their stupid papers. It was the only escape I could find, a sort of revenge for my mother. The only thing politicians care about is the scene. The hustle and bustle about welfare, freedom and liberty, it’s just part of their act. It’s a script they follow for their own play and as long as they are the leading actors nothing else matters. Not even their daughter’s birthdays or homemade gifts. Not the heartbreak their families face or the burdens on a six year old girl learning how to do her laundry because her mother was too busy trying out the next piece of her audition. They are all selfish. They are all a mess and not one of them cares what is written, as long as they are written about. Why would I want to feed into that as a mindless zombie infatuated with their role?"
"Maybe the best way to get back at the political world isn’t to take the light from your mother by doing drugs and stealing cars. But to blind her with the spotlight until the main attractions forget their lines and feel just as trapped in that light as you did."
It was Meghan's turn to be as fake as the world had taught her to be and expose politics for what it was--dirty.
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