Shut up and smile.

A mantra, while not the most perfect of one, has been with me ever since my first time running as class president in the fifth grade. Ponies, be it any of the tribes, always trusted a winning smile, and trust me, ponies know when your smile is fake. I can only pull it off so well because I practiced for so long.

So when I was but a 10 year old filly, nervous about what I could bring to my fellow classmates, and listening the words being said by my fellow running mares, my teacher rested her hoof on my withers and whispered it into my ear.

Shut up, and smile.

So instead of trying to argue my points, banter with the other two equals of my age, I looked out to my fellow classmates and gave them the most convincing smile I could. I endured all of the things those two said about me, how I never liked to trade lunches with anypony else. How I didn’t always share the buckball during recess. No, I stood there, up at the green board, just below my name written in yellow chalk, and smiled.

And then, when it was my turn to speak? I said no ill will of those other two fillies, one of which I had called best friend for as long as I could remember until that point. Why were we no longer friends? Because of this election, because there were some things we didn’t agree on, like adding a copper bit tax on our milk cartons.

Seriously? What good would that even do?

No, I talked about how our class, our school, needed to quit focusing on what was thought to be needed, and instead focus on us. Students, teachers, even our parents, as much as mine had upset me from time to time and ground me for the, arguably, silly things I’d do.

“Mayor Mare? You’ll be speaking in 5 minutes.”

I wasn’t sure who whispered that to me, but I nodded anyway in thanks.

Shut up and smile, and I was showing off my pearly whites, cleaned to the point my gums were sore thanks to the wonderful work of Dr. Colgate. As a matter of fact, I could see her out in the crowd, speaking with Miss Cheerilee and pointing up at the stage. I knew I had their votes, they were guarantee supporters. Really, I knew I had most of the town in my hooves for support, but nothing was ever 100%.

Well, except for taxes. And death, but really I never counted those, since Princess’ Celestia and Luna have managed to dodge the latter for a thousand plus years, and the former goes to them. However, I digress, and apologize for getting off topic.

My teacher had been convinced that I was going to win the election, simply because she helped me prepare, what to talk about, how to talk about it, and above all else, just keep smiling. The silly voice of the postal man suddenly comes to me; memories of a young me sitting at the local grocers store and listening to the town’s only radio. Fibber McGee and Molly was always one of my favorites. For a moment, sitting here, my smile doesn’t feel as forced on this stage.

That sadly changes, as my opponent at the podium points a hoof at myself, and says something about my dyed mane and tail.

Urg, why some ponies thing making personal attacks is ever a good idea beats me. Behind closed doors, with a confidant and a lowball of bourbon sure, but never up on the stage. Never with the public, because you can say all the ill you want of another pony, in their hearts they know you’re just trying to push aside their own faults to make them look better, and it was a weasely tactic if I ever knew one.

From my personal experience, I knew many things about weasels, both in pony and animal form.

I’m just glad Fluttershy managed to find them a new home, far away from town hall. I had enough of the ones in pony form whom I’d have to battle on a sometimes daily basis. The mare in front of me is one of them. How Filthy could love a mare like her was beyond me, and almost makes me sad for dumping him in the eleventh grade.

Oh how different of a mare I’d have been. Wealthy? Sure, but not happy. My place was here, in the town hall behind my desk. Out with the other ponies of Ponyville, talking about what ails them, or what things have left a positive influence upon them.

The fact that this other mare is a Ponyville resident only by marriage, not born and raised here. No roots but those of Canterlot, looking down upon us as nothing more than a bunch of lowly earth ponies with the other races sprinkled in for variety. Most of the town knows she hates it here, but Filthy refuses to relocate. He, like most of those ponies out there including myself, was born and raised here. His family was one of the first, along with the Apples.

Yet she has the gall to try and take my position out from under my hooves? I’ll show her, oh how I show her.

“Thank you, Ponyville.”

I blink, and at once there’s several ponies clopping hooves and stomping in applause for her “speech”. My 5 minutes is up, and now it is my turn. Spoiled trots over to the seat next to me, giving me a knowing grin, like she’s already anticipated her victory and is trying to rub it in my face.

I know better. I continue to smile as I rise from my seat, trot over to the podium, all the while there’s a new, re-found appreciation for the townsponies as they look up to me and applaud once more, only far more lively, and them smiling in return towards me.

And now, my smile is no longer forced as I begin my opening statements.