The first time a boy told me I was 'too intense,' I was fourteen and holding a clipboard. I laughed. I thought he was joking. He wasn't joking. He was campaigning.
I didn't grow up around student politics. My mother is a nurse. My father drives long-haul. Nobody in my house had ever heard of a 'campaign manager.' So I made my own. His name was my little brother, and he was eleven, and he had beautiful handwriting.
They didn't beat me with better ideas. They beat me with a WhatsApp group I wasn't in. By the time I heard about the joint slate the boys had cooked up over three afternoons at the same house, ballots were already printed. I lost by nineteen votes. That's how many boys were in that group.
They didn't beat me with better ideas. They beat me with a WhatsApp group I wasn't in.
Here is what I learned: the room where it happens is not usually a room. It's a phone. It's a chat. It's the small, boring architecture of who feels comfortable texting who at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday. If you are not in those conversations, you are not in the race. You are the story people tell later, when it's already decided.
I'm running again next year. This time, I'm building the group chat first.
The girls are talking. Get in the conversation.