Political opponents glanced at each other from campaign tables outside the Wilmington Recreation Center.

The Alejandra Rodriguez exhibit featured brochures about who she was and a poster of her hanging in front of the Banning Museum, where her bubbly mother told anyone within earshot why she should be Wilmington's next honorary mayor.

Alicia Baltazar and her son enjoyed the free chips, homemade mini muffins, she She made her own election posters, portraits of her in front of the shipping cranes that dominate the port community's southern skyline, but she had a problem: The posters kept falling off their flimsy cardboard stands.

Rodriguez stepped over and set up a small metal A-frame.

“Thank you!” said Balthazar gratefully.

“Thank you you!exclaimed the 38-year-old Rodriguez with a heartfelt smile.

“Do you know what I mean?” Balthazar, 46, told me. “We're running together and against each other!”

The encounter was common in one of Southern California's healthiest political races.

For the past 70 years, Wilmington residents have competed to become their blue-collar community's honorary mayor. The winner gets a two-year term but no salary, no staff and no political power. There are no votes and no political action committees are formed.

The position is a holdover from the time when dozens of communities throughout Los Angeles appointed a figurehead for publicity purposes — usually a movie or TV star who lived or worked in the area, such as Steve Allen (Encino), Roy Rogers (Studio City) or Johnny Grant (Hollywood), whose main job was to take photos at parades and grand openings.

Like Wilmington, which was an independent city before becoming part of Los Angeles in 1909, these communities were unincorporated and therefore did not have traditional mayors or city councils.

At one point, the honorary mayors formed the organization to “find ways to serve a more beneficial and functional purpose for our community and the City of Los Angeles,” according to a 1965 Times article.

According to a 2001 Times article, at least 20 municipalities had elected honorary mayors before 2001. Only a few remain today, including Wilmington, San Pedro, Pacific Palisades and Woodland Hills, where former Los Angeles City Councilman Dennis Zain serves as honorary mayor.

“The Sunshine State and Sunshine City monikers have always been something of a novelty,” said Jaime Regalado, professor emeritus of political science at UCLA, who traces the tradition back to the rise of Hollywood in the 1920s. “But I don't think it's relevant anymore. The city has grown over time and realized that role didn't bring it the prestige it should have.”

Wilmington has always distinguished itself by having its honorary mayors work for the honor.

Candidates attend local events, host fundraisers, stand on street corners and canvass door-to-door, soliciting wealthy individuals and corporations for donations a little more than $1 — just like in a real political campaign. The winner is the candidate who raises the most money for their local nonprofit, primarily through the sale of $1 tickets.

“We're really old-school,” Wilmington Chamber of Commerce CEO Monica Diaz replied when I asked why the town still does things this way. “It's a friendly competition, but we're talking about people who are very enthusiastic about representing their organizations. More than anything, this is a way to generate local leadership.”

This year's honorary mayor will be announced at a Wilmington Chamber of Commerce event on Sept. 26. In 2018, the last election, candidates raised a combined $41,200.

When I asked Diaz what perks the winner would get, she said they could ride in an open car as the grand marshal of the parade and get free admission to chamber of commerce events. “Maybe we could even give them a sash!” she added.

I saw Baltazar and Rodriguez in action last month at the Los Angeles Mayor's Office of Gang Prevention and Youth Development's Summer Night Lights event in city parks.

Baltazar, a self-described “military kid,” sees running for honorary mayor as a way to give back to the community she's lived in the longest — nine years — and raise money for Tianguis Cultural, which organizes night markets in Wilmington and San Pedro.

“I love that my son can't skip school without someone calling me, and if he gets a flat tire, someone's there to help him,” says Baltazar, a community activist and parent leader who serves on the advisory board for Los Angeles Unified School District Executive Tanya Ortiz Franklin. “I want to build a village for my son, and Wilmington has the space to do that.”

She was silent. “I would almost like to lose so I can run again and raise more money.”

Rodriguez campaigns for the Wilmington Teen Center, a place she frequented as a child because it was across the street from her family's apartment.

She wanted to run again in 2018, but “I didn't think I had a chance of winning. This time around, I realized it's not about who wins, but at the end of the day, everyone wins.”

She wasn't technically campaigning for Summer Night Lights because she was running as a district representative for Los Angeles City Councilman Tim McCosker, who represents Wilmington.

However, her boss allowed her to meet with her mother from time to time to check on ticket sales.

“No, I'm not endorsing anyone!” McCosker said with a laugh, though he did donate $1,000 from his Public Service Commission account to each of the four candidates: Rodriguez, Baltazar, Eric R. Ojeda Garcia and Cindy Guerrero.

“Buying tickets for $1 is the most inefficient way to raise funds in the world!” McCosker added. “You're just giving yourself away for free.”

The councilman hails from San Pedro, where a similar honorary mayoral election is held.

“Building a community is very important,” he said. “This is a lesson for us. [politicians]”Get close to the people you want to serve.”

At Summer Night Lights, no one paid any attention to Baltazar or Rodriguez at first. Kids were running around on the lawn or drawing at the art tables. Mothers were chatting at the picnic tables. People were walking their dogs. Men were playing basketball in the gym, and families were lined up next to a big grill for free nachos and burgers.

A man carrying a plate with two cheeseburgers finally approached Rodriguez's table and told her mother, Graciela Sepulveda, that he wasn't interested in politics.

“Well, you can donate a dollar,” Sepulveda retorted in Spanish. “If you don't help, this won't continue.”

The man, who refused to give his name, stomped away, saying he didn't believe anything. Sepulveda shrugged. “He's missing out!”

Soon after, a woman approached Balthazar and quickly left.

“That's my big weakness: I don't speak Spanish,” a dejected Baltazar said when I asked him what had happened.

But as the sun went down, ticket sales began to pick up and adults began to realize the true purpose of the Honorary Mayor election.

Rita Anaya bought two from Baltazar. “It's just so sweet,” Ms. Anaya, who lives in Wilmington, said in Spanish. “I really love her display.”

Next up was Alejandra Cervantes, who has lived in Wilmington for more than 20 years but had never heard of the race.

“That's a great idea,” she said in Spanish. “Politics is always about degrading people and power, and people are tired of it. But a politics that just helps? I can support that.”

Cervantes then went to Sepulveda and purchased two tickets from him, who was doing a great job for his daughter.

But a free, tasty muffin is always better than a pamphlet, and as I was getting ready to leave, Rodriguez had sold 25 of Balthazar's 56 tickets.

The gap didn't dampen Rodriguez's enthusiasm. At one point, Milvia Coloma approached Baltazar and spoke to him in Spanish. The candidate silently gestured for Rodriguez to help her.

Rodriguez was happy to oblige again, and explained to Coloma how the honorary mayoral election worked, but he couldn't understand why rivals would help each other. Aren't they both after the same thing?

“It's good to work together for a good cause,” Rodriguez said. Coloma nodded.

“Okay, give me five,” she told Balthazar, then walked over to Rodriguez's booth and bought five more.