{ roosevelt speech } toll to daylight

"Let me start this event off with a welcome to you all - a thank you to everybody in attendance for taking apart in this election and our community." Dear lord, dry mouth already?

I swallow spit, the district eight attendees taking a second to clap. Smiling through rose-tinted glasses, this isn't your first time, Rosie, politicians, protests, organizations - I've done my own, this is no first time here. I look in the audience for my daughter or my brother, placing one hand on the podium.

"As one of the two older dads this election-" some snickers, I crack a grin before returning to what I practiced. "I have been apart of this community for near five decades now, coming from the factory side of our district. Some of you may recognize me as a co-worker, an employee, a leader or a friend, and for those I say thank you. For support, for stories and for being apart of what makes this district great for what isn't televised."

"Prior to being on this stage before you, I was Ashcroft Roosevelt, the single father. Through forty and more years of working I, along with many of us, have never known riches past middle class. Those of us who managed to survive day to day untelevised, we are the parents working fourteen hours in smoke.

We are the single fathers and mothers barely able to buy the clothes we make." Formality is a scary thing.

What are you here for.

"To us, and to the children looking up to us, I thank you for surviving, at the very least."

Humility is a reaper I'm no stranger of, that I'm not scared of, fixing the cuff of my sleeve before continuing. I'm not scared of losing, I remind myself - there's a crowd listening to my shit words, that's all I've ever needed.

"This campaign is not dedicated to me, nor my child or family, but for those worse off than me. As citizens of district eight we all learn the same things: cover your mouths before clocking in and respect your parents. And as politicians, we are not able to cure tesserae and the reaping; any of us selling the fix to poverty is a scam artist-" a deep breath, glancing at the punctuation of my note cards.

I find my daughter in the second row.

"But as our mayor," clear my throat, "it is my dedication in compensating the lower class. Reducing factory pollution for the working groups, cutting down on smog in the district of our parents and our children." I keep my eyes fixed on my daughter- finally I'm getting to actual campaign points. 

Ha, eye contact, awkward; "The second point of my platform is a center for the homeless - improving the living conditions from the lowest point upwards. As the working class, our environment and health are imperative, but are also our weakest points; it's a risk we can't afford to have, nor afford to fix." 

Am I doing this right? 

"The final point of this campaign for the people, is spreading the wealth. I would strive to implement a compensation to those who lost relatives to dangerous occupations or to the hunger games-" that's a funding complication. 

Fun. 

"And to hopefully increase the middle class of our district."

I try not to pay attention to the crowd reaction's, one track mind in this scenario- keep my eyes on the audience, keep my mind on the words. Eat the rich, I glance at my cards. 

"Thank you for listening to an old man's words," hopefully Pierre can do better. "Life is more precious than factory smoke, we rebuild for the ones who are alive- together."

"Remember this," I bundle my notes together and wave to the audience, one smile- "Ashcroft Roosevelt."