May Parker's Guide to Winning the Election

Tip #1: Appreciate Where You Come From

 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.