deadpan

At Springville Middle School, circa 1991, in Coushatta, Louisiana, I was named "king" of my seventh grade class. Or king of the white children anyway. On your knees, hillbillies, the bitch is back. The black children elected their own kings and queens. I suppose they had to do it that way to keep white children happy. No white king or queen would have ever won otherwise, Springville Middle School being a mostly black, public school. The white children will have equality! Welcome to every horrible stereotype of the South. It was the worst of my school years in a lot of ways. The most harassment, the worst alienation, and realizing that yes I did want to suck cock and I was okay with that, but having no access to cocks to suck. But I guess I still had hope, or I hadn't totally shut down anyway. There must have only been about ten white boys in the seventh grade and I don't think any of them would have been up to feminizing prospect of competing for the title of king. The irony: sometimes it takes a queen to run for king. And I can say with some confidence that I was the obvious choice for the job. How did the nominations work? I think the election "officials" came into class and asked for nominations and then students raised their hands to vote. Since there were so few white boys I was bound to be nominated. I didn't want to be king, the limelight would be too intense. The culminating experience, well, really the only experience for the kings and queens was a crowning ceremony and dance. oH and there was a parade through town. This sounds like Homecoming? But I don't remember homecoming or any football themes. When I was nominated, I suddenly did want the title, badly. I guess there was a run-off, but I'm sure the other contestants had no interest in competing. And this is the funny part, in order to win I didn't have to get the most votes, I just had to raise the most money for the school. When I told my father this part of the process he was troubled by the ethical standards of this election and decided not to help me. I started crying. Why couldn't he ever help me? I realized the absurdity of it too, but still I wanted it. Finally he conceded to help me raise money in order to become king. I went to my grandparents and they rolled up all their pennies for me. I was pissed. Can't you write me a check, Nanny? Now I know where her son gets his cheapness from. Other contestants had more creative ways of getting money. Wendy Wilson who was competing for eighth grade white queen put a donation jar at Fausto's Fried Chicken. It was good chicken, but not my scene. I continued to bamboozle family members for donations. Wendy lost and I won, but then again she was a legend of sexual promiscuity in our school, so she was already a queen in my eyes. Maybe I thought being King would change things for me. Or maybe I just wanted to go to a party or just be a part of something. To be, well, yes, validated.