In the early 1980s, we the children of safe and side-walked Irvine, California population 62,000, knew a thing or two about politics.
First, there was the defeat of President Jimmy Carter to our Governor Ronald Reagan in 1980. Everyone saw that coming.
Second, there was the 3rd grade run for President between one Robyn Saunders and Kenny? Travis? I no longer remember his name. We were both kind but with little to offer the class in the way of leadership. Ultimately it was a tie, and we shared the position for the month in a gleeful collaboration.
And then there was the third election. A blood bath if there ever was one. The 1982 battle for the presidency of the Kids Club. This is the only election that matters.
Let's be clear. This wasn’t just any club. This was not the usual type that organically formed in the park with lord of the flies fervor and disbanded when we were called home for dinner. No, this was a serious club and an even more serious title that ruled the neighborhood for the under- 9rs running wild on Comet Street. Plus, the clubhouse, constructed of shipping palettes, was located in my backyard, built by my dad. It was a one-room shack with a nice flat roof that we used for hanging out, singing, and watching for intruders (we were always looking out for the bratty collective from the block over--the Doncaster Road/Karen Ann Lane kids). It was positioned next to a tall brick dividing wall that we could hop up on to practice our balancing skills much to our neighbor's despair and adjacent to my skating rink (aka the concrete pad outside my parents' bedroom). Given that it was in my yard and filled with my things, I assumed leadership. Entitled? Perhaps. But again--my yard; my things. Nobody ever questioned this arrangement, that is, until Troy, the kid next door, made a grab for my crown.
Troy was one year older than me. Maybe that was enough to tip the scale in his mind of why he should be president. All I knew was that one day he was a docile follower and the next, he was waging war from his bedroom window, which looked directly into our kitchen window. With flashlights as strobe lights and the banging of pots and pans, he got our attention during meatloaf dinner. And then came the signs. Scrawled in red "Troy for President" on one side; the other "Kids Club." Candidacy announced.
In the coming days, my best friend, Colleen, and I would discuss Troy's annoying power grab in depth on our walk to school, always scanning for him lurking in the shadows. What did he even stand for? Seriously, he didn’t even have a clubhouse at his house, a code of conduct established for new recruits, or even a following who wanted him to be president. It seemed to us that he simply wanted it out of spite.
At dinner time, the campaign wore on. Shining lights from his expanding flashlight collection. More banging. More signs. The war began to consume every waking moment. What would Troy do today? How would he smear my name—literally on the hallway wall that separated our street from the one over---with red berries? He wouldn’t talk to my other friends, would he? Dionne? Heather? Colleen and I were solid, he would never interfere there. Would he sabotage the club itself? Hopping the fence, removing nails so that it would tumble? Would he pee in my sandbox? I had caught him doing that before when we were friends. What would he do as enemies? Paranoia slipped in. These were dark and ugly days. I don’t remember paying attention during class, waiting for recess so that I could find Colleen and strategize for the day, or more importantly, for the night when the campaign of terror would kick up over dinner.
At first, Colleen and I took a democratic approach by creating a ballot.
Folded notes were handed out to the under-9rs on the block and school.
Who should be president of the Kids Club? (pick one)
Y/N Rob
Y/N Troy
The completed ballots confirmed: not Troy.
Troy's nightly campaign continued anyway.
We called my other best friend, Ericka. Ericka lived a town over in Orange. Like me, she had an annoying younger brother and sometimes that meant you had to play dirty. She recommended wrestling and scratching. Colleen and I were strong athletes---she a gymnast, me a soccer player. Yes, we would beat him into submission. Ericka always knew what was up. And so, we---wait, I'll leave Colleen out of this---I became absolutely and completely unhinged during the week, doling out abuse and lies to match those of Troy's on the playground. I was Catholic and therefore able to confess my many sins on Sunday, fresh to begin anew on Mondays. Troy was Mormon. I don’t know if he had a bad behavior eraser at his disposal. Either way, we had submerged ourselves into ugly.
And then it was simply over.
Our parents had come to an agreement. The nightly dinner intrusion was too much for my dad’s temper and my mom threatened to withhold bologna and cheese sandwiches from Troy if this continued.
Troy conceded.
And yet I never felt like I won. We weren't able to patch this one up like previous squabbles. My rooftop perch on the clubhouse was lonely without him. All these years later, I wish I knew why he wanted this particular presidency that he was willing to sacrifice all self-respect. All I knew is that you don't roll over and let someone take from you. I stand by that forty plus years later, but what did he think I was taking from him?
Photo: me and Colleen during our proud Brownie phase roughly at the Kids Club debacle time period. Sadly, I don't have any photos of Troy from this era.
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