Darien High School’s chess club, of which I was one of seven members, met to elect a new president. I’d begun at the club two years earlier by beating another new member twice in a row. My opponent, Jeff, now a senior like me, turned out to be our best player, and I never beat him again. I had a chess set designed for visually impaired players, with raised black squares and white pieces whose heads were planed flat so I could identify them as such.
Our club was in a league of surrounding schools in which the contests were less about who would prevail than whether the visiting team would show up with the minimum number of players. Not defaulting was our most feared weapon.
Jeff was the logical choice for president. We sat at a table with him at the head and, by happenstance, me opposite him. The other members lined the table’s sides.
“So,” Jeff said, “are we ready to elect the next president?” Murmurs around the table indicated assent. “I nominate myself,” he said. No preamble. A friend of his seconded.
At my left a guy named Mel said, “Jeff, I know you think you’re entitled, but you need a challenger. You can make a fine speech, and we can listen to the other guy’s speech, and then we’ll decide based on what you both say.”
Mel had read and digested more than anyone I knew. But he had no time for such distractions as course assignments and good grades. His views were all his own, untainted by leading questions from teachers. He was what was politely called socially awkward, but I liked him.
Several times during the summer, he’d dropped in at my home to play chess. He’d try to anticipate three or four moves in advance. When convinced there was no alternative to his losing, he’d announce, “I resign,” honoring chess etiquette by not wasting time on a foregone conclusion. I wasn’t always sure his assessment was correct, but he’d already be removing his pieces from the board and lining them up for a new game.
Jeff asked Mel, “Are you nominating yourself?”
Mel said, “I think the right person to run this club would be…” After a dramatic pause, he said, “Adrian.”
I managed to suppress a gasp. Nothing I could do if I was blushing. Sitting at my right, Liesl, the club’s only girl, promptly seconded. She’d quietly befriended me, too.
I hadn’t done anything to deserve Mel’s nomination other than being his friend. Not only was I a so-so player, but also Jeff had done all the organizing, such as setting up the contests with neighboring schools.
A few evenings earlier, I’d spent several intense and angry hours with Dad as he filled out my college applications. In those years before the computer era, I relied on others to complete forms at my dictation. In some vague way, our being immigrants led me to believe the only people I thought I should trust with this task were my parents. As usual, Mum deferred to Dad. I was to wish I’d asked a friend.
I had the grades and SAT scores, but my extracurricular activities were few: the chess club, volunteering at the town’s suicide intervention program, and a slew of poems about which even I had reservations. I’d earned a couple of honorable mentions in statewide story-writing competitions, and I’d had articles published here and there. But was that enough?
Dad didn’t seem sure, either. Although I played guitar only for myself and without any skill, he insisted I put it down. I said it didn’t feel honest.
“Don’t be a stupid oaf. You’re in America now. Every other applicant is claiming they’re an expert in everything from Buddhism to thumb-twiddling.”
At the chess club election, I said, “I appreciate the nomination, and I accept.”
“In that case…” Jeff said. He stopped. He was deflated. It showed in the pause. But he rallied, projecting his voice across the table to me, “Who goes first?”
I admired how gracefully he overcame his justifiable assumption that his candidacy would go unchallenged.
“I’m sure you’ve prepared,” I said. “I’m putting my thoughts together, so why don’t you start.”
Even three seats away, I heard him take a deep breath. “I hate making speeches,” he began, “and anyway, my case is simple. I’ve been a member of this club for two years. I got Stamford and Norwalk to agree to compete with us. That’s my case. I’d love to be president, and I promise more competitions.”
“How about chips and dip?” Liesl said.
“That, too, if members want.”
Mel said, “Not all those meets worked out.”
One school hadn’t shown up on the scheduled afternoon and defaulted. We didn’t want that kind of victory. We just wanted opponents.
To head off more bickering, I spoke up. “Okay, my turn. I promise that if I’m president, I will use all the resources available to us. I’d urge Jeff to continue to use his contacts to make arrangements with the other schools. Above all, I promise to bring a civil tone to our meetings.”
Jeff wasn’t to blame for the bickering. It was my friends, Mel and Liesl. They didn’t like him. But their blaming him worked to my advantage. Promising harmony and good feeling could be an effective, if cynical, strategy for a one-minute campaign.
“And the chips and dip?” Jeff asked.
“Oh, I count on Liesl for that.” I beamed a smile at her.
The chess club knew nothing about secret ballots. Jeff called for the vote. He and two others raised their hands and declared their vote for him. Mel, Liesl and another boy declared their vote for me. That left my uncast vote as tie-breaker.
I weighed my decision. Conscience pointed a finger at me and said, “You know Jeff has earned the honor.” But the voice of my father inside my head barked, “Don’t be a stupid oaf. You need every credential you can get.”
This was to be the only office I would ever run for. It taught me what it can be like on the inside: self-interest, compromised motives, how an inferior candidate can have an unfair edge. And it left me with decades of regret.
I told the members, “I vote for me.”
Note: I’ve changed the names of the chess club members.
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