All families have a niche; some are athletic with parents pushing their kids into every sport known to man. Some are musical; their homes filled with the sounds of an array of instruments and melodies. Some are scholars, some are working class, some are just normal. Mine is none of the above; my family is a breed all of it's own: political.
Dan Parker, PhD in political science and acclaimed senator of Virginia. He's been in and out of the political limelight since I was a small child; first as a representative in the House and more recently as a senator. My mom, Elizabeth Parker, has been by his side since his career began, but that didn't stop her from creating a career of her own and drawing more attention to her already strained family. After I was born, she decided to get her master's in political science and begin her campaign for the House seat my father vacated when he became the state senator. It meant more rallies, more hands to shake, more parties to host and even less family time than before. I didn't mind, though; I'd never gotten too used to having my parents around.
Despite their absence, I still felt the immense pressure they placed on me to maintain a good reputation and to eventually follow in their political footsteps; everyone else in my immediate family already had. I'm the youngest of four children and so far, every one of my older siblings have decided to join the family business. My older brother is an intern in the white house thanks to my dad's connections and his stellar performance at Harvard. My older sister is a political journalist for the New York Times and my other sister is a secretary to one of my dad's senate colleagues. My immediate family,though, doesn't even begin to cover how deeply politics runs in my blood. Everyone as far back as my bloodline goes has been involved in politics in one way or another; there's even rumors that George Washington himself is part of my family tree and if that doesn't qualify as big shoes to fill, I don't know what would.
"May, you need to get dressed and come downstairs immediately." My mom calls irritably up the stairs. "Time is money and money cannot be wasted."
Time is not the only thing being wasted in this house. I think to myself as I roll off my bed, exhaling deeply. In this house, if we weren't moving all the time, we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves. I grab the dress my mom had hung up on the hook inside my closet, her small way of reminding me that I had yet another political function to attend tonight. My face contorts in disgust as I run my fingers over the plain red fabric; it's yet another dress in a long line of dresses engineered to make me suffer and to keep the critics at bay. It would seem that everything I do is to keep the critics at bay, though, so I've gotten used to tailoring my life to their perception of me.
I slip out of my sweatpants and toss them in the back of my closet where the rest of my half-worn outfits are situated in an ever-growing pile. It's the only messy thing in my life and the only reason it still exists is because my mom is too preoccupied to come fix it. Everything else in my life fits her version of orderly to a tee, but the messy pile of clothes in the back of my closet serves as the only thing that makes me an individual. Without it, I would've become just another chess piece in her game of politics.
I grudgingly slip into the dress and zip it, the sound sealing my fate for the time being. I put on the necklace my dad got me after his first election, more to show the public that I value it than because of some personal or sentimental reason. As far as I'm concerned, the necklace is just an empty gesture, just another ploy so my dad can get what he wants. I sigh and pull my hair into a low bun, meticulously pinning back any fly-away hairs that might sway public opinion against my parents.
When I was little, my parent's political strategist would practically live at our house for weeks before a big event or speech. He'd wake us up every morning to go over our strategy for the day, telling us what to wear, who to talk to and how to live our lives. There was nothing left to the imagination; there was just a schedule and six people who were forced to follow it. One day before I left for school, I had my hair pulled back in a ponytail and a few of my baby hairs were falling out as I raced down the stairs, so I could make it to my bus on time. I stopped in the doorway so I could get a hug from my nanny, Marie, and in walks my dad's political strategist. He was swaggering and holding a cup of coffee as if he owned the house. He gave me his typical once-over and then told little six year-old May Parker that her fly-away hairs would make her parents lose the election because she looked like a ragamuffin.
I burst into tears and ran out to the bus, Marie mumbling under her breath in her thick accent as she closed the door. When I got home that day, my dad's political strategist was still there, but he didn't acknowledge me or tell me all the things wrong with my appearance. He just sat in stony silence as he typed up reports on his computer. I thought someone in the house had stuck up for me and forced him into closing his mouth; it turns out my dad's poll numbers had dropped.
In my family, poll numbers determined futures and any threat to those numbers was taken as seriously as if it were a threat to someone's life. This was why I tolerated the political strategist, why I went to the rallies, why I put up with having my every move in the public eye: every time my dad's career was put to a vote, my whole future was put to a vote. If I didn't put up a good front, if I didn't act like the perfect daughter than my future would go right down with my dad's. One wrong move and I'd screw up everything my parents worked so hard to craft; it was as close as a minor could get to being disowned. In my family, you wouldn't necessarily be disowned because that would make the whole family look bad, but you would be shunned and in some respects, being disowned would be the better option.
I walk downstairs, my sensible shoes clomping on the polished wood of the mansion my parents bought after my dad was elected to the House of Representatives. It's large and lonely, mirroring my familial relationship perfectly; the ceilings rising high like my parents expectations for me and all their other children. I'm the only child left in the house, though; my other siblings have long since moved out and are now rubbing elbows with the rich and powerful of society, so I'm the one all the expectations are now falling on.
I make my way to the kitchen where our maid, Muriel, is directing the catering staff on where to set up while the rest of the maids are busy polishing silver with back-breaking effort. I bite my lip as I side-step to avoid all the moving parts of the machine that is the kitchen staff. They all move around with their heads hung low, trying to get their jobs done and avoid the wrath of my mom should their effort not live up to her expectations.
There's nothing you can do to live up to her expectations, 'cause when you think you've done enough, she comes up with something else. I think to myself with a sigh as Mr. Edwards, the family political strategist and consultant, calls me into the living room. He directs me to stand next to my brother and sisters who are home for the sole purpose of the party. I make eye contact with my brother, James, as I pass him. I fall into line next to my sister, Jenna, who's eyes are trained forward, avoiding my gaze. Mr. Edwards walks up and down the line, adjusting ties and attaching pins to everyone's collars.
"It is vital for you to be on your best behavior. This party could make or break your father's reelection campaign." Mr. Edwards gives me a stern look before sweeping his gaze over the rest of the family. "Look like one big happy family, be polite, shake a few hands and we should all make it out of here in one piece." He checks his watch and then claps his hands together, indicating that it's time for the party to begin. Cars begin to pull into the circular driveway, glamorous socialites stepping onto the cobblestone path leading up to the house.
Mr. Edwards forces me and my siblings towards the door, situating us around our parents so we look welcoming. I sigh and adjust one of the bobby pins holding back my hair as I watch the door apprehensively. Every time my parents had one of these parties or dinners or any function really, their careers were on the line. Socialites and donors determined the path of their lives and one toe out of line could make the difference between gaining support and being cast out.
It had been impressed on me since I was a small child that I had to put on a good face for the public, that my parents' reputation depended on my behavior. When my parents would host parties, I was either on my best behavior or I was sent to my room until it was over, which always ended up being way past my bed time. Since then, I've fallen into a routine. I get dressed up, go to the party and keep my mouth shut, allowing my parents to do all the talking about me.
They know what's best for their reputations anyway. I think sarcastically as a group of political chess pieces walk in the door. The men are dressed smartly in black suits with red or blue ties, while their female companions are wearing dresses much like my own. It was almost as if there was some sort of unspoken dress code among us: wear what won't draw attention to you. The women teeter on their heels as they greet my parents and each sibling in turn. They smell like expensive perfume, their necks dripping in jewels, taunting my father, who so desires the money those jewels imply. I shake each hand and politely ask them how they are before allowing them to move into the living room where the servers are eagerly waiting their arrival.
The men linger and congratulate my father on his success as senator and wish him luck with the reelection. They go down the line of children, asking each about their jobs and how they enjoy the political atmosphere. My siblings offer the Mr.Edwards-approved one-phrase responses and then exhale deeply as the men move on to the next sibling. They finally reach me and my other siblings have dispersed, going off to join the party and shake hands like they're supposed to. My parents crowd around me, my mother fussing with my hair affectionately and my father placing his hand firmly on my shoulder. These actions were not uncommon in a setting such as this; the only time they showed even an ounce of parental affection was in front of the donors who determined their futures.
"So, young lady, what year of school are you in?" One of the men asks in the booming voice I've come to associate with rich, old men.
"I'm a senior in high school, sir." I reply politely, remembering Mr. Edwards' long-winded lecture about maintaining proper tone when addressing those in power.
"And where do you go to school? Mount Forrest Academy, I suppose?" The man says, urging me to answer.
Where else would I be going? Anyone who's parents want them to be somebody goes there... "Yes, sir and I like it very much." I respond with fake earnest, which goes undetected as he begins to speak again.
"I remember my time there; it's produced some of the greatest minds in Washington today, including your father." The man says with a small chuckle, prompting my father to roll his eyes in a good-natured manner.
"Oh, Charles, you flatter me." My father replies with a grin; the same grin he reserves for every political function. It looks fake to me; not that I have a real smile of his to compare it to, but it just seems forced.
"Are you thinking of following in your father's footsteps and running for president of the school?" Mr. Charles asks, his expression implying he wouldn't accept any answer, but the affirmative.
"Of course," I say, putting on a fake smile of my own. It's not like I have a choice. Every single one of my siblings has been the school president; it's just another legacy I've inherited and been forced to maintain. If I don't keep it up, I'll be the laughing stock of the entire Parker clan; even good ole' George Washington will be laughing at me from beyond the grave.
Anyone who's anyone in Washington has been the school president of Mount Forrest Academy, including my parents. My mom was a year behind my dad, so he was president his senior year and she was his vice president and then the next year, she became president. It's been handed down to my family for generations, almost like the inherited monarchy our founding fathers fought so hard to get rid of. How ironic.
My dad and Mr. Charles move into the living room and grab flutes of champagne as they continue to reminisce about their days at Mount Forrest Academy. I stand in the corner and wait to be addressed, so that I can give out my bland, rehearsed phrases and do my part to keep my parents in the political limelight. People continue to file into the house, the mansion swelling with the sounds of smarmy chatter and teetering laughs that sound like polished silver bells. I check my watch as often as I can, praying that the act will end soon, so I can go to bed and escape the stress of public life for a little while.