Mr. President

Zeke Leonard was one of my mother’s favorite children.

Talk about marching to the beat of your own drummer… Zeke paraded through life with his own band, rootin’-tootin’ melodies most of us had never heard.

Zeke was different. Not peculiar. Not a little odd. Different different. Unique. Special. One of a kind.

I think it’s fair to say most of us didn’t pay much attention.

He was skinny. Well, he was as narrow as we were wide. Long hair. Black overcoat. All kinds of bracelets and rings and necklaces.

We tolerated him because Margaret loved him. He wasn’t obtuse or anything, he just wasn’t “one of us.” Most importantly, he hadn’t earned his place in the inner circle.

It was our traditional end-of-the-school-day gathering in Room 150. Magnolia was irritated. We waited for the hammer to drop, wondering who had messed up.

“Y’all know Zeke…”

“That little boy in the black coat?” It was probably Beau, because he was the only member of the inner circle afforded to the grace to make politically insensitive comments.

“Yes. And he’s not a little boy. I like him. He has a problem and I want it fixed. Tomorrow.”

Turns out, some older, bigger, dumber and uglier boys were making life difficult for Zeke. He told Margaret. Margaret told us. It was handled.

Nobody was older, bigger, dumber and uglier than us, so it really wasn’t a big deal.

That was all it took. Zeke belonged.

Whatever legacy we created, good or bad, we left in the hands of others. Win. Susi. Marsi. Zeke.

In the spring of his junior year, Zeke announced he was going to run for student body President. My mother was not pleased.

I was sitting in her room after school when the conniption hit. I sure was glad it was directed at somebody other than me.

“Zeke, it’s not funny and I can’t believe you would waste everybody’s time if you don’t really want to do it.”

I think Zeke thought of it more as a protest or rebellion, than anything else. That’s what it looked like.

“If you want to be President, don’t mess around. Campaign and do it. Otherwise, get out of the way.”

Zeke did not mess around. It was a group effort. Everybody campaigned. The speech, fabulous. The posters, direct. The slogan, “Why not?” It worked, too.

Zeke won the election. The student body President at North Forsyth High School. His name is etched on a plaque outside the main office on Shattalon Drive.

I was a student council officer. Care Bears appeared on my campaign posters. It was charming.

My mama was a student council officer at Thomasville High School.

It runs in the family.

We were prepared for Sophia to make a run in the fall of 2020. It didn’t happen. The pandemic ensured there would be no campaigning and no voting at Vienna Elementary.

Miles came home and said, “we’re gonna vote for the Student Council. Do you think I should run for office? It might be fun!”

Margaret and Zeke: the encore.

I heard myself quoting my mother.

“Let me tell you something young man, if you want to be President, don’t mess around. It’s not fun. It’s work. Campaign and do it or get out of the way and vote for somebody else.”

He trudged down the hall, like I had sucked all the joy out of the universe in ten easy seconds.

He returned to the living room a few moments later.

“I want to run for President. I’ll do the work and I have some ideas. Will you help me?”

That was like asking a Clydesdale if he wanted to work for Anheuser-Busch.

Posters. Flyers. Business cards. A speech.

He’s thought and thought and thought.

He’s written and written and written.

He’s practiced and practiced and practiced.

He’s campaigned and campaigned and campaigned.

Win or lose, he did the work.

He made the effort.

I couldn’t be more pleased.

He’s dealt with bullies making fun of his campaign slogan.

I encouraged him to ask the question. “Why didn’t you run?”

The kids voted.

Like Zeke, he won.

Somewhere, some day – his name will be etched on a plaque.

Congratulations, son.

Mr. President, it’s time to get to work.