Or so says Aristotle.
Man is a political animal, a party animal, a mammal in the animal kingdom.
And we’re all animals in political parties in a kingdom ruled by ma’am-males.
Being a daughter of a campaign manager, a political consultant and pretty much, yeah . . . let’s just say I was born into the political scene. It’s evident, even in my first name. People often ask why my name is spelled the way it is, or why I’m named after a place that I’ve never even been to, and the only story I could ever give them would be about how my father was the campaign manager of the winning politician from the region I was named after. People deemed me as the ‘Lucky Daughter’, ‘The Political Baby’.
It’s both a blessing and a burden.
For one, being connected to rich people does you good. When you’re in trouble, or having a fund raiser for some charity event, when you need connections, when you need help with ideas on projects,
when you need a free or discounted house and lot, a car or even a job, when you need an excuse to ride on someone famous’s coattails, the political connection comes in handy.
But it’s the ultimate guilt trip of a lifetime. Trust me.
You think to yourself, where does Daddy get all this money? Or, if this is the congressman’s car, isn’t it supposedly by law only for the use of the congressman? Are we really helping this man campaign; is he worthy of my trust and support?
To those questions, things can still be justified. First off, those politicians were businessmen or were born rich before they even ran for a position, so chances are, they really didn’t have any reason to steal. Next to that, I witness my father work his ass off, day in and day out. And we used to own a sum of property which we sold now. So if anybody asks where my father’s money comes from (which really, isn’t that much–trust me) I could give you legitimate reasons.
But for the questions of integrity, of you following a certain political or philosophical movement–because your entire family’s into it or something–or of you growing to believe that your father was a hero in this country during the time of the Martial Law but slowly realizing in a vague sense of disappointment that his loyalty is no longer with the sovereignty of the people, but of the administration–I don’t believe it, not one bit; but still–they hurt. They truly do.
And you know that you’ve held on to this particular identity as a Political Baby, a true campaign animal. Then looking at what things you may have been connected to, the things you thought were true and correct, but maybe–just maybe–they were all lies, wouldn’t you feel like everything you believed in was bullshit, and everything you worked for was in vain?
The question of who I am and what I am worth will forever bother me.
If man is a political animal, then I must be the legitimate Wild Child.
Cue keyboard smashing.