Growing Misconceptions: Step 72

One of the transformations that takes place during adolescence for boys and to the best of my knowledge, girls too, is a growing concern over personal appearance. Being a naïve child with a limited aptitude in the area of science as previously noted my mind was filled with numerous erroneous assumptions regarding human development. I got the part about hair showing up in due course under arms, around the genitals, and eventually on the face for boys. What was unclear was why certain males ended up with arms and chests like Mr. T, the Samuel Morse science teacher not the guy on TV, and others ended up looking more like Jackie Gleason or Art Carney. It was evident to me diet played a role in Gleason having a rotund figure while Carney, his co-star on the Honeymooners, appeared to be thin. No such formula explained the appearance of well-defined bicep and pectoral muscles. My ill-conceived notion was these changes somehow paralleled breast development for females. So, just as most flat-chested teenage girls had flat-chested mothers and most buxom teenage girls had buxom mothers, if a boy had a father with a muscular physique, sooner or later I speculated he would have a muscular figure. Even when Cousin Jim got a set of weights and a bench for heavy lifting my thoughts were about adding as many metal disks to the bar to show how strong I was. In an era well in advance of modern health clubs the relationship between weight lifting and bodybuilding was completely foreign. Fortunately, Mr. T knew how impressionable hormone charged adolescent boys were. A number of us were invited to the gym after school one afternoon to meet a couple of men Mr. T introduced as his friends. The shorter man, Dennis, was a salesman in his late twenties or early thirties, who when cued by Mr. T removed his shirt to reveal a torso similar to what one might see at the beach and fail to note any significance. However, when asked to flex his abdomen receded, his chest inflated and his arms bulged with cannon balls jutting under the skin. Mr. T explained that Dennis had been a Mr. Milwaukee a few years earlier, and was pound for pound one of the strongest people he knew. Then, Mr. T turned to the taller, younger, dark skinned man who had been sitting patiently waiting his turn. Jimmy was the current Mr. Milwaukee and when he removed his shirt it was not necessary for him to suck in his stomach to create the ripples that lined his abdomen. Mr. T explained that Jimmy was a student at the local university and had more time to work out with weights. He then had both men explain their daily regiment and how the exercises either helped build different muscles or increase their strength. Some time later, Mr. T brought another “friend” to the gym for us to meet. While he never took off his shirt, a number of us remembered Phil Torre from his days playing first base for the world champion Milwaukee Braves. His purpose was not to impress us with his achievements as a baseball player in the major leagues, but to let us know how weight lifting, or training as he called it, helped give him the strength and endurance to perform well as an athlete. We all listened intently, then went home wanting to know how long it took to build 18 inch biceps or 40 inch chests. When we figured it out most of us were less enamored with the process.

Doing the Impossible: Step 71

After two years working with Mrs. Haggerty and having received the Sammy for my acting, I returned to school the fall of my final semester at Samuel Morse Junior High expecting to be cast in the lead of the next school play. To my surprise Mrs. Haggerty would no longer be directing. While I cannot recall for certain, my assumption is she left the school for another position, and given what I remember learning years later about her career it was probably in administration. So, there was a new sheriff in town. His name was Mr. Reiser, and as fortune would have it my cousin Natalie was a student in his homeroom. Cousin Natalie had a larger than life personality whose exuberance led her to come up to me in the hallway the previous year, tell me we were cousins and proceed to explain how her maternal grandfather was somehow connected to my maternal grandfather, or something like that. Even though she was a full year behind me in school, her confidence meter ran off the chart. My first meeting with her parents helped explain this phenomenon to my as yet undeveloped psychoanalytic mind. Her father was a quiet man who taught at the university, while her mother, a highly trained professional, spoke at length of the many accomplishments her organization had achieved. Of course, when Natalie told me Mr. Reiser was a “super guy,” and she was certain he would bring a new element of excitement to our production I had to wonder whether it was just her natural enthusiasm or was there credibility to her assertions. When I arrived at her homeroom for the auditions he was sitting behind his desk with a number of students, mostly girls, laughing and giggling at whatever he was saying. Natalie came over to me as I sat down in one of the desks. She started to talk, but before she finished Mr. Reiser came over, extended his hand, which I automatically shook, and introduced himself injecting his first name before Reiser. He proceeded to tell me how Mrs. Haggerty had spoken highly of me, and he had taken the liberty of assigning me the role of Tedious J. Impossible, the villain in the melodrama we were going to do. Since an audition wasn’t necessary he told me I did not need to stay. I stayed long enough to learn he planned to use a strobe light to create the affect of an old time silent era movie. Natalie finished her audition and we walked home together talking about the play. Rehearsals went smoothly with everyone learning their lines with time to spare. Mr. Reiser came up on stage to walk through the steps in the short but critical fight scene between the hero and me. We knew the strobe would make it difficult to detect how we pulled our punches, but he wanted to make sure when I fell on my backside I landed properly. Dress rehearsal was my first opportunity to work with the top hat, cape, and paste on mustache. Keeping the hat in place and pulling the cape to cover my face proved easy enough, but twirling the mustache without yanking it off my face took extra practice. It proved critical because during the play I had several asides where the strobe would stop, everyone would freeze, and I’d step downstage under a single spotlight, twirl my mustache, and tell the audience, “Eh-eh-eh, little do they know, but I, Tedious J. Impossible…” The day of the play the strobe worked perfectly, my mustache stayed on my face, and the small bruise I received for landing a little too much on my side only lasted a week. My final chance to perform at Samuel Morse was a rousing success, but the best part came a few weeks later when I was in an argument with my sister. In frustration she declared, “You are just impossible.” “That’s right,” I said, “Tedious J.”

As Easy As Eins, Tzvei, Drei: Step 70

Looking back there were three reasons I took German in the ninth grade, although with the advantage of hindsight it’s easy to see none of them held the slightest degree of validity. First, Samuel Morse Junior High did not offer Latin my choice because someone had told me it was a requirement to get into medical school an illusion that persisted despite my mediocre performance in Mr. T’s science class and my lack of blood thirst. Not that I was squeamish at the sight of blood, but some of my friends actually popped pimples to see if they could get them to bleed, while others paid money to attend professional wrestling matches in the hopes one of the contestants might spew his blood all over the mat. One has to wonder if any of them had the opportunity to incorporate this irrational thirst into vocational achievement by working in an emergency or operating room. Second, during my short tenure at John Muir Junior High I had the opportunity to take the seventh grade, not for credit version of a German language class. And third, and probably the reason I took the class at Muir in the first place, German was the closest language to Yiddish. Some with far greater knowledge on the subject have told me Yiddish, the language spoken by Jews in European ghettos, is actually something called “low brow (maybe brau) German.” In this country it became the language of Jewish comedians like Mickey Katz, who played the “Borscht Belt” in the Catskill Mountains. My parents owned records of Mickey, whose son Joel Gray starred in the movie Cabaret and granddaughter Jennifer Gray starred in the movie Dirty Dancing, doing his routines in Yiddish. Most significantly, however, it was the language my parents spoke when they wanted to keep secrets from my siblings and me, and everyone can relate to wanting to know what their parents’ thought was so important they had to keep it from the kids. From the single semester of German I took I recall just three sentences, probably all from the same lesson. For those readers well versed in German please forgive my weak attempt to spell out from memory these words from my past. “Comest tu meit in da bibliotec,” means something like “Let’s meet in the library,” and “Seista da blonda? Da blonda ist meine schwester,” loosely translates, “See the blonde? The blonde is my sister.” Unless my father was going to meet his sister in the library these sentences were of little help to me, since there were no blondes in our family and my mother only had brothers. What I recall best of my experience in that class was that Mr. Freund was indeed a friend and due to the popularity of the language classes there were over forty students in the class. For some reason a number of the students in the class were not in the ninth grade, possibly because they had taken the junior high version of the class as a prerequisite. It was my good fortune to sit in the back of the room and visit whenever I could with one of them. She had perfectly cut bangs, a friendly smile with beautiful teeth, and the sweet name of Candy, but I’ll always remember her as Suzykeit, because that’s what Mr. Freund called her.

I Would Like to Thank SMJH for This Sammy: Step 67

One of my least favorite sayings is a job well done is its own reward. While it may be true and something any well adjusted self-actualized person prints on his business card or mounts on her wall, to me it simply misses the point. Rewards are not for acknowledging oneself they are for acknowledging others. Certainly, when a person achieves a goal that has taken a lot of work and a long time to achieve, such as competently defending a dissertation to receive a doctorate degree, the personal satisfaction is paramount. This, however does not preclude the person from receiving his diploma, going through the hooding ceremony, or swelling with pride when his mother introduces him as my son the doctor…no, no, not medical, the other one. Even though the accomplishment was enough reward, it would be selfish to deprive the institution, the friends, and the family the opportunity to bestow their own reward. Now, I know semantically there is a difference between rewards and awards, but in reality they both are given for accomplishment. A side benefit as producers and directors dating back to before the time of Shakespeare have realized is soothing the fragile egos of their employees. Though they have quite a few when taking into account all the ticket sellers, theater operators and stage crew, the actors are usually the ones of greatest concern. Actually, I have always considered my ego to be quite durable but given the nature of adolescence with its raging hormones and incessant peer pressure the reader might understand how I felt when I learned my school, Samuel Morse Junior High, was going to present an acting award on recognition day. As far as I can recall there were no nominations given, no campaigning in the halls or in the school newspaper. In fact, whether the student body, members of the drama club, or teachers were involved in the selection process or Mrs. Haggerty, by virtue of her status as producer and director made the selection on her own is no longer clear. What I do know is that after Mr. Hatton gave out academic awards, and Mr. Krueger gave out music awards, and Mrs. Jordac gave out journalism awards, my heart was pounding as Mrs. Haggerty took the stage. After she got done thanking everyone for being such a wonderful audience and thanking everyone who took part in the productions, the blood was pounding so loudly in my ears I could hardly hear her say my name. Somehow I managed not to trip up the stairs to the stage as I heard Jeff, and some of his friends cheering, “Go Woody!” Winning the first Sammy did not propel me onto a path to become an actor, nor did it provide me with any more satisfaction than either of the performances I had done to that point, and as far as I know it did not change any of the relationships between my friends and me. What it did provide was tangible evidence that Samuel Morse Junior High recognized my achievement, a small token of their appreciation that even though the heads are no longer screwed to the plastic base and the lacquer on drama and comedy is cracking I still treasure dearly decades later.

Nothing to Say: Step 66

We met in Mr. Takarian’s general science class. He was the original Mr. T. long before the guy with the Mohawk showed up on The A Team. For those unfamiliar with the reference he can be found on imdb. Our Mr. T. didn’t have the strip down the middle; his hair had pretty much deserted him. If his good-natured jokes and ear to ear grin didn’t impress teachers and kids alike, his immense pecs, tight abs, and huge guns screaming to burst out of his white dress shirt back in the day when they were simply known as pectoral, abdominal and bicep muscles caught everyone’s attention. He used all of these attributes to charm his students and motivate them in a class he knew they took only because it was required. He also introduced me to her. Actually, the first day of class when he took attendance by calling everyone’s name I paid especially close attention so when he said Becky and her hand went up she would be sure to notice me smiling at her. In the days and weeks that passed and despite my best efforts to say hello to her every chance I had it became apparent there were quite a few boys in class who noticed Becky. Then, Mr. T. in his good natured way began to tease some of the boys that if they wanted her to notice them they needed to step up their science game, because he noted not only was she beautiful but Becky was the best student in the class. In fact I even read the book, worked through the exercises and experiments, and attempted to internalize some of the key concepts, but science was never my strong suit and there was almost no way my best effort would catch her eye. At the same time her genial smile, big brown eyes, and glistening black hair haunted my dreams. In desperation I decided to take action. For some long forgotten reason the Jewish Center was having a dance that everyone was talking about and I decided to ask Becky to go with me to it. Again I was glad Dad had put in a phone jack in the basement, so I could carry the phone down, plug it in, and dial her number in privacy. Her answer was what I wanted, but as soon as I hung up the phone it became a matter of be careful what you wish for because you may get it. Now that I had a date I needed to find someone to “double” with us. Cousin Jim, Big Steve, and Ron were all going to the dance, but none of them wanted to take a date. So I turned to her, but none of her friends wanted to ask someone to the dance. Came the night of the dance I put on my sport coat and tie, my stovepipe pants and Beatle boots. Dad drove me over to her house and waited patiently as I went upstairs to get her. She looked fantastic all the features I’d been dreaming about wrapped in a frilly white blouse and gray wool skirt. Dropping us off, my dad told me to give him a call about 20 minutes ahead of when we wanted to be picked up from the dance. Once we were inside I said the lead singer of the band, The Contrels, was wearing the same kind of glasses as one of the Byrds. She had no idea what I was talking about and that was the last complete sentence we shared all evening. We were friendly. We smiled. We danced a couple dances. We sat in the lobby. We talked to friends. We had sodas. We went inside. We came back out. We were bored. After a sufficient amount of time I asked if I should call my father. She smiled and nodded with relief. When we got to her house I knew what was expected and walked with her to the door. I didn’t know if I was supposed to follow her upstairs, so I started to ask her, but before I could she leaned over toward me as if she was going to kiss me on the cheek, and I pulled away. It was all very awkward. She just smiled, said good night, and went up stairs. Dad asked me if we had a good time and I just smiled. Years later I saw Becky. She was still beautiful. But we still had nothing to say.

I Have to Wonder Where This Will Lead: Step 65

At Grantosa Drive Elementary the Jewish population was probably reflective of the national average, which for my lifetime has been right around two percent. While the percentage rose significantly at Samuel Morse Junior High to lets say ten percent, and became higher when limited to those interested in acting, taking into account the propensity of young Jewish students to gravitate to the arts, odds still favored those of a different faith being selected for the lead in the school’s first Christmas play. Such was not the case. Actually, one who recalls the play better than me, who can’t even remember its title, might contend Melinda shared the lead. Far be it from me to dispute such a contention since it’s difficult to recall even a single line of dialogue. What I do recall is though it certainly didn’t carry the weight of O’Henry’s Gift of the Magi it had something to do with gift giving. Needless to say, Mrs. Haggerty, aware of the law governing separation of church and state and highly sensitive to the feelings of students, selected a story with a secular theme. Although there were some humorous moments in the play and I did my best to punch up my lines that got a laugh, the role of Woody was not nearly as much fun as Oakley Cheever. Melinda played my sister and Mike W. who lived up on the corner of Lancaster Avenue played our butler. Woody and his sister’s parents made short appearances at the beginning and the end of the play, but most of the drama in the one act unfolded between the two children and their butler. Let me just point out that while Mrs. Haggerty was sensitive to the kids in the audience, to the best of my knowledge none of them had a butler. Every evening after rehearsal the three of us would walk home together since we all lived in the same direction. Mike W. whose size and demeanor made him an easy selection for the prototypical butler was six months older and a semester ahead of me. He revealed he just wanted to do something with his extra time but his main extracurricular interest was becoming an offensive lineman on the football team next fall at Custer High. I’m sure I shared my interest in becoming a doctor an idea that persisted from the time I broke my leg until I took my first chemistry class. Even though the bug had bitten me, the idea of pursuing acting, as a career seemed to be the kind of crazy illusive fantasy my dream of being a medical doctor turned out to be. On the other hand, Melinda, six months my junior and a semester behind me, held no illusions about acting. She said she knew it would not be easy and her desire was not to become the next Shelley Fabares or Patty Duke, but to attend a university where acting was taken seriously. She said she knew Mrs. Haggerty took acting seriously helping us build our character, find our marks, use props effectively, and project from our diaphragms. Being so much older and wiser I listened intently, but dismissed her vision as naïve. How well we actually performed the day we presented the play to the school is unclear, but I do recall two things that came as a result. Right after the play, when my parents came backstage, Mrs. Haggerty said she was proud of me and I possessed poise and maturity beyond my years. All right, she was probably being kind. The other thing was Jeff, one of the most popular kids at Morse who would later become the quarterback of the Marshall High football team, started calling me Woody. Mike W. did become an offensive lineman on the Custer High football team the next fall in his sophomore year. As for Melinda, I lost track of her and do not have a clue if she ever became an actress, but if she happens to be reading this now I would love to hear from her.

Ethel Has Her Say: Step 63

During my years at Samuel Morse Junior High there were certain girls who no matter what I did in class or at school to attract their attention they had absolutely no interest. Then, there were girls like Lori who held no attraction for me but I always knew if I showed the slightest interest she would reciprocate. That never happened. Finally, there were the girls who I had no desire to attract and I just assumed had no attraction to me. Ethel was such a girl. She was loud, blonde, and curvaceous. Ethel used a technique known as ratting to pile her hair high on her head and coated it with hairspray. Her perfume preceded her into the room, her lipstick was thick and dark, and her skirt revealed so much thigh that if she moved wrong one might get a glimpse of where they meet. As far as I can recall we only ever had one class together, Mr. Ruvolo’s citizenship class. I had Mr. Ruvolo for social studies, but Ethel wasn’t in that class because it entailed doing reports and studying for tests. In citizenship class Mr. Ruvolo would stand at his door, have the student show him the completed worksheet from the previous day and check it off on his clipboard. Following this simple plan assured a passing grade. One day I was sitting at my desk at the front of the room, when Ethel having just had her worksheet checked, walked straight at me, bent over and said, “Did anyone ever tell you that you have bedroom eyes?” No, no one ever did, not before or since, but it’s stayed with me all these years. I’m not sure if she meant it as a compliment, or if she was putting me on, or she had some other intent, but I am quite sure everyone in the room as well as Mr. Ruvolo at the door heard her. There is little doubt my skin turned tomato red and probably remained that way for the entire class period. However, in my own devious way I had to wonder if a certain girl in that class who fit into the first category might not have gained some interest in me. After all, I had not instigated this attention grabber. I was sure the girl, Pam, a cute slender blonde with a beehive hairstyle and perfect bangs, would think “bedroom eyes” were an asset. Unlike other communities, when I was growing up kids in Milwaukee would go from house to house for Trick or Treat the night before Halloween. To avoid having older kids spoil the fun the city sponsored a dance at each of the junior high schools. Even Mayor Maier came and thanked us for our good behavior, and Tom, the baritone sax player in Mr. Krueger’s band, joined Tony’s Tygers on the stage for a couple songs. Our entire cafeteria was wall-to-wall kids with girls dancing with girls most of the time while the boys huddled on the other side. Finally, after building up enough nerve, I told one of my friends I was going to ask Pam for a slow dance. He warned me she had a boyfriend who attended Marshall who was going to try and get into our dance. Sure enough, after picking my way through the crowd I saw her dancing eyes closed on the shoulder of a boy at least a head taller than me. Naturally, I was disappointed but there was no sense in causing trouble. After all, the lights were probably too low anyway for her to notice my “bedroom eyes.”

The Unthinkable: Step 60

When you get to junior high school some things that were considered to be relevant and fun in elementary school suddenly lose their relevance and if you participate in them thinking that they’re still fun your peers don’t want to be seen with you. One of these things is scouting. Wearing a uniform, earning merit badges, going on campouts just wasn’t hip when I was at Samuel Morse. So, I just told my friends who weren’t in the troop I was going camping or swimming, or hanging with some other friends. Which was true, just that whatever I happened to be doing was a boy scout event. Fortunately, for me there was one other guy at Samuel Morse who shared my enthusiasm for scout life and partnered with me in this clandestine activity. His name was Byron G. III, but since his dad was already junior he was simply known as Buzzy. On an early spring day, somewhere around the middle of April, during a weekend camping trip to a wooded area with a small lake Buzzy was the one who dared me to go in the water with him. The air temperature may have been unusually warm, perhaps in the seventies, but Wisconsin lakes, even small ones take their time thawing out between winter and summer. Our skin was immediately covered with millions of goose bumps and our feet as well as our lips took on a beautiful blue hue after our ninety-second emersion. Buzzy was not a mid-year student, and so was a semester behind me in school, but he had twice the confidence, especially when it came to girls. In our tent, after lights out when we were supposed to be silent, Buzz told me about how he had convinced Bernadette to let him touch her breast. Before he told me about how he was kissing her and promised her he would always be true and never tell anyone else about it, he made me promise not to say a word to Tony, our mutual friend and her brother. Actually, Buzzy should be proud of me, because until now I had never shared his story with another soul. Another thing I am pretty sure is true, is Buzz was the first person to call Mr. Ellner, our scoutmaster, Elmo. Unlike other scout leaders, who were usually the parent of one of the scouts, Elmo was a twenty-something who had completed his tour of duty in the Navy and wanted to give back to the organization that had kept him out of trouble and in school. Going over the hills on the way to Friess Lake in his Impala SS with four on the floor and rock and roll blasting was one of the main reasons I took a chance on someone finding out I was still in scouts. My best guess is he didn’t like the nickname but wanted to hang onto as many kids who were in junior high for as long as they’d stay and figured letting them call him Elmo was a small price to pay. He was also the one who explained how serious it was when Buzzy got sick, while our parents didn’t have any explanations. Leukemia was something I had not heard about before, and unfortunately it would be something that would impact my life again in only a half dozen more years. No one is supposed to die at thirteen. There isn’t much I remember about the funeral except Danny, who worked with Dad and was Buzzy’s uncle came over to the house after the service. As we were talking the walls seemed to be moving and my legs became wobbly. Mom had me sit down and said I was probably just starting to feel the impact of what had taken place. Quite honestly, I still feel the impact.

Defying the Odds of Popularity: Step 56

Kerry was the kind of kid who when evaluated from a purely objective standpoint had three strikes against him on the popularity chart. First, he was new in town, arriving just a few weeks before my bar mitzvah. Second, his voice was high and childlike. And third, he was short, at least a full head shorter than me. None of this mattered, because Kerry had the swagger and confidence usually reserved for the starting quarterback of the championship team. Before he was at Morse even a week he was going steady with Lori, the shortest but one of the cutest girls at the school. Now, let me explain what going steady means in junior high school terms. Usually, but not always, there is a friendship ring exchanged. The girl may either wear this on her finger or on a thin chain around her neck. The boy will call the girl every night and whenever possible will walk her home from school. They exchange photographs and often go to the photo booth at Woolworth’s to get a set of pictures of themselves together. Each will write the other’s name all over their slam book and will duly note their relationship in the slam books of all their friends. Finally, kissing, second base, or any other hanky panky is mutually exclusive. For Lori going steady meant staying interested in the same boy for two to three weeks. I remember her telling me at the faculty-student basketball game she had gone steady with everyone on the team. When I reminded her she had gone steady with most of the boys in the school she giggled and feigned slapping me on the arm. At any rate, her relationship with Kerry established his credibility with the female population of Morse. Most girls regarded Kerry and Lori as the cutest couple and couldn’t wait for them to break up to have their shot at Kerry. During the course of those two weeks Kerry started making friends and sending out invitations to his bar mitzvah. When I received mine it was too late to mail him an invitation to my bar mitzvah, so I got permission from my parents and called. He came, had fun at the party, and gave me the latest fashion from Johnny Walker’s, a sharp looking red cardigan sweater with black piping and buttons that I would wear every chance I had for the next year. His bar mitzvah was a tandem affair because at the time his synagogue, Beth El, had an enormous congregation and probably a hundred kids trying to fill the fifty-two slots in a year. However, the celebration at Fazio’s on Fifth, an impressive nightclub in downtown Milwaukee, was his alone. Dark, despite the daylight outside, the club served excellent cuisine in the quintessential atmosphere. After lunch the adults, many in from Chicago, danced to the jazz combo while the kids went in the front foyer and sang Beatle tunes. That night a few of us were invited over to Kerry’s house for dessert. I had never been in an apartment larger than the home in which I lived. Kerry gave us a tour of the apartment and then took us in back to see the pool that had been drained for the winter. He said he’d have us back to go swimming in the summer. Then, we went inside and sat on the bottom of the spiral staircase. We transformed ourselves into Dave Clark of the Dave Clark Five singing and using silverware to pound out the beat to Glad All Over and Bits and Pieces. We never did get to swim in that pool because Kerry moved back to Chicago by the time summer came. I’m afraid we did not keep in touch, but the guy who had his bar mitzvah with him that day at Beth El, yet another Steve, who I know simply as M, would eventually become my lifelong friend.

Rumors, Unfair and Out of Balance: Step 53

One of the great mysteries of life is why we choose to believe certain stories we hear while rejecting others. Certainly, one method we use to determine the validity of a story is the source from which we receive it. Another factor we consider is the amount of information we have to support the story even if that mass is just as fallacious as the original. Without a doubt it helps if the story fits with what our view or assumptions are about the situation or the individuals involved. Lately, some of the sources that report events have taken to fact checking. Unfortunately, when an adolescent is exposed to a tantalizing story about his peers there usually isn’t someone in the halls or on the playground checking the facts. So, for example, when a friend, who is just as hormonal as the rest of the junior high school male population and equally prone to wildly delusional images of eroticism states without equivocation that a certain girl who just recently has appeared on everyone’s radar is easy there is no one for you to turn to for statistical data to support the assertion. This dilemma was hard at work when someone, and for the life of me I’m not sure whether that someone had an extra X or Y chromosome, told me that Doris, better known as Kitty, liked me. Let’s be clear, while I was thrilled to hear of this revelation I had only recently become familiar with who this girl was, had never taken a single class together with her, did not know if we had any mutual friends, and of course had never spoken to her. Still, it was nice to know she cared. Now, while I can’t be sure where Kitty first saw me I know I first saw her and spoke with her in the school auditorium, where they showed movies during the lunch period. These movies were particularly popular during inclement weather, and in Wisconsin this can become a fairly regular occurrence. During the movie she sat with her friends and I sat with mine, but afterwards we’d talk before heading to class. Then, it happened. I should have seen it coming, but I’m afraid she caught me totally unprepared. Perhaps, it’s just that girls mature earlier than boys, but she took the bold step of asking me if I wanted to come over to her house after school. Rather than just saying yes, which is what I probably wanted to do, or finding some feasible reason to decline I just went blank and stared. Our romance was over before it began. Weeks later, when I learned she was going steady with Roger I didn’t want to believe it, but then I saw them together after school and his arm was draped over her shoulders. Rumors flew, and even Shotsie, who knew a lot about what was happening between different couples, would neither confirm nor deny that they were doing it. One story claimed Kitty had to wash sheets to get rid of his pubic hairs. That one was too much for me. I had to know. I still remember looking in the mirror in the locker room and Roger smiling at his own image while combing his blonde wavy locks. Then, he casually glanced over at my reflection and said, “Come on, you’re an intelligent guy.” Exactly, that’s why I want to know where the fact checker is hiding when you have to be sure to draw the right conclusion.

A Teacher, A Student, A Lesson in Life: Step 52

When we were quite young my parents decided to enroll my sister, brother and myself in a fitness program. Long before the advent of the modern fitness club there were special athletic programs and Milwaukee Turners was one of them. In the year or two we attended I learned to climb a rope, do a somersault, a headstand and a handstand, and an exercise on the rings known as a bird’s nest. The only reason I reference this experience is it served as a precursor for my decision to participate in the gymnastics program at Samuel Morse Junior High. We spent an entire semester getting ready for a single tournament that involved a limited number of junior high schools. Mr. Hrlavich was a young physical education teacher with a lot of energy and an earnest desire to help adolescent boys achieve athletic success. He took each kid where he was and encouraged him to develop whatever skill he was working on to the maximum of his ability. More importantly he did not tolerate anyone making a discouraging comment or belittling in any way the efforts of any students. Boys who had always dreaded the idea of attempting any physical activity due to thinness, fatness, lack of coordination, weakness, slowness, or whatever, actually looked forward to participating in Coach Hrlavich’s gym class. This is not to say that he converted awkward gangly kids into outstanding athletes, or that he didn’t have a group of athletically gifted students he favored, just that he recognized the importance of instilling in all his students a desire for physical fitness. In no way should one get the impression I was one of the elite athletes for nothing could be further from the truth. As far as I can remember everyone competed in all events, and no one specialized in any particular event. In other words, even though Wally was stronger than most high school athletes and could perform an iron cross on the rings, he would not be the one to represent the school in the rings exclusively. Everyone had to do the rings, and Wally would have to do the horse, parallel bars, horizontal bars, and tumbling just like the rest of us. There were certain athletes, like Roger, who had the strength, grace, and coordination to make any exercise look simple. Beyond that, Roger was the kind of kid who understood two concepts that made him seem less adolescent and more mature. Roger was kind and humble. He showed me how to apply the right amount of chalk to my hands to soften the friction, and helped me arch my back to gain proper form on the horizontal bar. In the locker room, when one of the kids said we would win the tournament because we had Roger, Roger said he was pleased the kid had confidence in his ability, but knew there would be other great athletes coming from the other schools. He was right. I don’t remember how we did, how Roger did, or how I did, but I do remember being a part of a team that got to go to Coach Hrlavich’s house in the suburbs one evening after school. His wife and little kids were in the backyard with us, and before he passed out awards for participation in the tournament and thanked us for all our hard work at practice, he grilled burgers and shared stories of his days as a minor league catcher. Comments welcome.

Cleats, Hemlines, Fruit Loops, and Identity Crisis: Step 42

As noted last week the dress code instituted by the Milwaukee Public Schools did not allow students to wear blue jeans to school. One might think the reason such a policy was adopted was to inspire students to dress in a manner commensurate with the task of learning, but having worked for and served in the administration of MPS I can tell you such thinking gives the district too much credit. Actually, it is fairly safe to say no research was ever conducted by the district or any other institution for that matter into the correlation between student clothing and academic performance. Shortly after I graduated from high school the state Supreme Court found the dress code unconstitutional. Apparently, it violated student civil rights. Here again, I have to admit that at the time I had no knowledge of what constituted a civil right and that I had any. What was clear to me at the time and remains clear to this day is that junior high school was a place to test limits. An important aspect of growing up is the ability of the individual to assert those unique attributes of his or her personality thereby establishing a distinct identity. Not too remarkable then was the contention by some well-meaning teachers that the student was going through an identity crisis. So, for example, if a student put on the heel of his new shoes the cleat recommended by the salesperson to keep the leather heel from wearing down and wore them to school despite the rule prohibiting these scuff producing agents, upon being detected he would be sent to the office where the guidance counselor would phone his home and report this identity crisis. Then, after receiving permission from the parent, who, too, knew nothing of civil rights, the counselor sent the student to the industrial arts shop where Mr. Christopherson handed him the necessary tools and watched gleefully as the implements of destruction were removed from each heel. Now, I never owned a set of cleats preferring the stacked leather heel, known at the time as a “Cuban heel.” In my estimation these soles had soul, and when walked upon correctly were every bit as loud as the metal cleat, and left an impressive scuff mark on the cheap floors. Of course, the travertine in the foyer by the office and auditorium was impervious to any assault. Conflict arose for girls, too. For many of them the opportunity to show how nicely their legs were developing meant wearing a dress or skirt with a hemline a few inches further above the knee than the prescribed distance. I’m not sure if any of them were sent to the home economics class to unstitch and redo those hems, but I’m sure their parents were informed of their identity crisis. Self-expression for me was simply wearing my shirt in the fashion of the times, which was tails out. Naturally, the authorities at Morse insisted we tuck our shirts in. In an effort to accommodate this difference many of us became proficient at folding our shirts under so they looked tucked in when passing the office, and would pull them back out as we arrived at class. Finally, during this time a lot of shirt makers, my personal favorite being Gant, took to adding a loop on the back of the shirt. I’m not sure if it was meant to hang up the shirt, but we never used it for that purpose. A number of girls took to collecting these pieces of material, calling them “fruit loops.” I’m not sure what the significance was but it did get a few girls who normally paid no attention to me to follow me around the building. As usual, your comments, criticisms, thoughts, and recollections are welcome.

The Irresistible Urge To Do Wrong: Step 37

As eluded to in previous stories the period of time during which individuals pass through junior high, middle, or whatever the popular term is for the school where grades seven and eight and possibly one on either side occurs is fraught with raging hormones. Needless to say medical and scientific journals are filled with articles explaining how this impacts these individuals sudden urge to stare longingly at the person of the opposite sex who previously was completely ignored. Or, how these individuals change from wearing mismatched, inside out, and sometimes foul smelling clothes to insisting on only fresh pressed designer labeled fashions. And why these same individuals who for the past dozen years could care less what kinds of stains their parents had to wash out of their clothes wanted to do their own wash to avoid questions about the secretions which magically appeared in their underwear or pajamas. However, it is difficult at least from a scientific or medical point of view to explain what impact hormones play in the emergence of delinquent behavior. All right, so my moral character may have already been called into question when a few years earlier I had stolen money from my mother’s jewelry box and my father’s sock drawer, but that was a family matter. What I am about to reveal while probably not documented in the annals of Milwaukee crime, definitely moved outside the home and into the community. While not trying to protect any of the individuals involved in this episode of my life in the interests of accuracy and lack of recall my collaborators will remain nameless. To be fair I am quite certain Ron, cousin Jim, nor anyone else previously mentioned were party to this event. On our way home from Samuel Morse we would pass a number of homes with well-manicured lawns. One such home sat on a corner and was facing the street perpendicular to 84^th Street just down the road from the school. Beyond the house were tall bushes separating the well-manicured lawn from the adjoining alley. Now, let me be clear, the people who lived inside this house were completely unknown to my friends and me and did nothing to provoke our actions. For some reason, and once again it would be nice to blame those hormones but I don’t see how, we thought it was amusing to run up on the stoop, push the doorbell and hide behind the bushes. With sweaty palms and hearts pounding we glanced out from the leafy cover to witness our victims consternation. After a while they must have realized the futility of responding and just ignored our best efforts. So, after striking several times we would return to our casual walk home. But, we had to do it one time too many. When the sound of that siren came from behind me I could feel myself gasp for breath. Kids I knew well and mere acquaintances stopped on 84^th Street and watched as my friends and I sat in the rear of the patrol car. Other than asking my name and address the rest of the questions, too, have faded in my memory. Something about what our parents would think if these fine officers went out of their way to take us home was most likely in the mix. Again, though they let us out to walk the rest of the way home in silence, the image planted in my brain was significant enough to slam the brakes on what might have been a ruthless life of crime. Your comments, criticisms, thoughts and ideas are welcome and appreciated.

The Tears in Mrs. Haggerty's Eyes: Step 35

Almost everyone who was alive on that fateful day in history remembers where she was and what she was doing when she heard. Before we received official confirmation we were on the playground after lunch at Samuel Morse waiting to return when someone said the President had been shot. I am afraid I am quite ashamed of my initial response. I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe I was tired of hearing about his kids, or I didn’t appreciate the tours the First Lady gave of the White House, which may have interrupted my regularly scheduled program. For some reason, despite my mother’s best efforts to turn me into a Democrat I was enamored with Barry Goldwater. Ron and I went to see him speak and had buttons that said, “If I were 21, I’d vote for Barry.” I remember Mike Stevens, who worked with my dad and was a poll worker like my mom telling her not to worry that I’d grow out of it. Somehow, though, it influenced my response, but I’m quite sure Senator Goldwater would have been equally ashamed and embarrassed by my gleeful response to the news. A short while later in art class when the principal announced over the loudspeaker that President Kennedy had been shot and killed most everyone in class responded in an appropriate manner. Mrs. Weber called me over and spoke to me. I’m not sure what she said, but if memory serves after our talk my emotions were more in check. Then, as I was starting to get back to work the principal interrupted with a second announcement. A bell would sound shortly and we would be sent home early. My first thought was, good we’ll have more time to rehearse. When the bell sounded I went to my locker, gathered my books for the weekend, and anxious to see Gary, Lolly and Cookie hurried down to the auditorium. Standing in front of the doors was Mrs. Haggerty. She was holding several tissues in her hands and made no effort to hide her tears. Despite her display of emotion she calmly told me rehearsal was cancelled, that as far as she knew the show would go on as scheduled, but at this time I needed to be with my family. Funny, I had thought we were a family. But, by the time I reached home and found my mother had come home early from work I realized this was not an ordinary day. As we sat around the living room and watched events unfold including stoic newscasters revealing emotions for the first time, the swearing in of a new president, and the live broadcast of Jack Ruby firing point blank into the alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, an age of innocence melted away. We had read about the previous assassinations of Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley. My parents spoke of the great feeling of loss when Franklin Roosevelt died in office. Now, we had lived this day in history, and our lives would never be the same. The following week Mrs. Haggerty asked everyone at Samuel Morse for a moment of silence to honor our fallen leader. She stood in front of the curtain and thanked everyone for their respect and told them it would be all right once the show began to laugh and have a good time. As I sat backstage with my fellow actors in full makeup and costume I knew I would never forget the lady who wasn’t afraid to show her tears on that solemn day. Mrs. Haggerty was a class act. Your comments, memories and thoughts are appreciated.

Finding New Methods of Expression: Step 32

My desire to be a storyteller evolved from the little liberties with facts my earliest endeavors involved to interpretation of words, movement, and gestures delineated by someone else in a document known as a script. To some extent we are all actors. A few hundred years ago a guy named Shakespeare said life is a stage. We never did Shakespeare at Samuel Morse, at least not while I was there. But, here was a chance for me to tell a story without getting in trouble. All right, so the words weren’t my own but they came out of my head and my mouth and with the emphasis my breathing instilled in them. Our drama coach, Mrs. Haggerty, had a gift for transforming gangly awkward pimple faced teens into confident compelling bright-eyed performers. Starting with tryouts where we stood in front of the rows of desks that lined her English class, she worked with students to project from the diaphragm, moderate the pace by taking purposeful pauses, speak to the back of the room so words are clear and articulate to those in seats furthest from the stage, and use gestures that extend and enrich the meaning of the spoken word. It was at these after school rehearsals where I would learn how to express myself in ways I’d never understood. Mrs. Haggerty made it clear there were no small parts only small-minded actors. She made it clear it did not matter how many lines one had, but what each actor did with them. We learned both the literal and the figurative meaning of upstage. One of the advantages of having the lead was all the attention. On the other hand the disadvantage was being unable to hang around backstage with the combined creative genius of the remaining cast and crew. Fortunately for me for the first play, Mike, who had moved to Milwaukee from Detroit was given the lead. That left me with Gary, who played my buddy Homer, helping go over the lines that transformed me into Oakley Cheever. Mostly, we found time to schmooze with Lolly, Cookie, and whatever other girls would give us their attention. Since the girls were excited about the new dances that were popular we volunteered to be their guinea pigs and they would teach us to mash potato or twist. None of the titles stick in my memory, but the first production was a comedy set in the lobby of a doctor’s office. Mike wore a pair of pajamas with feet, a zipper down the front and a buttoned trap door across his derriere. He was the first patient on the set and remained there throughout the entire one act play while the receptionist left to get the doctor, the doctor came to fetch patients, and patients came and went. Oakley and Homer came to get their adenoids out and sat on an over sized couch being obnoxious. But, before our premiere performance late in November there was an event that changed the course of history not only for Samuel Morse Junior High, but also for the United States and the world.

Mini-Skirts, Fishnets, and Empire Waists: Step 31

Memories often coalesce around a particular subject. Putting together the proper chronology of events decades after they occurred proves difficult with only a few signposts, such as historical events or personal milestones. Winding through the many layers of gray matter the cerebral retrieval system gravitates toward a unifying theme. In the case of Samuel Morse Junior High, as I am sure it is for most stories involving adolescent males, the subject is girls. Amazingly, a few years earlier these same creatures were irritating imbeciles covered with cooties. Through some twist of fate nature riddled boys bodies with hormones which when we saw even the least attractive girl put us in a state we usually found embarrassing and which today we ironically go searching for a blue pill to achieve. Linda was the first person I knew that used the now fairly common phrase, “my mother’s boyfriend.” While still at Grantosa Drive she started to wear makeup and had a boyfriend in junior high. His last name was Zinudes, which made us laugh since it sounded like she was saying, “the nudist.” At Samuel Morse she wore deep red lipstick and a white mohair sweater. We were in Mr. Sawyer’s English class when we both bent down to pick up something off the floor. She was a row over and a few seats ahead of me. For some reason she was turned in my direction and the first thing that caught my attention as I looked up were her breasts. My only experience with naked female flesh prior to that time had been in the pages of poorly hidden magazines. Here I was staring at a junior version of the reason people paid good money to be served beer by a person with pointed ears and a cottontail. When she looked up into my eyes I knew I had to get myself back up into my seat and start writing before Mr. Sawyer figured out what was happening. Even though I can’t clearly picture them together I am fairly certain Linda and Shotsie were friends. Unlike Linda, Shotsie, whose given name escapes me, was a successful student. Like Linda, though, she knew how to capture a young boy’s imagination. Other than the mohair sweater, there were three fashions that plagued junior high boys at that time: the mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, and my personal favorite, the empire waist. No one wore an empire waist better than Shotsie. Usually, she and I did not hang out together. We probably didn’t have too many mutual friends. However, I remember a few times being in a small group out on the playground after lunch. Unlike Grantosa with its organized noon hour activities, lunch hour at Morse was just a time to hang around and talk. Most of the time it was just discussing some new song or television program, or who was going steady or breaking up with whom. But, Shotsie liked to talk about her physical interests such as lips, tongues, ear lobes, necks, and fingers. It was thrilling to hear her talk. It was also scary when she started to ask questions. Again, I’m not certain, but I think I probably made up stuff since I had no experience. For that matter, I’m not certain she had any experience either, but I’m certainly glad she was willing to talk. It let me know it was not just boys who were interested in this new game mother nature had presented to us, but girls were curious, too. Comments welcome.

Harmonious Times in the Band Room: Step 30

One of the things you could count on during this time in the Milwaukee Public Schools was no matter how fast they put up new schools they instantly became overcrowded. Apparently demographic studies just couldn’t keep up. Samuel Morse was no exception. As a result, there were two lunch hours during the seven period day. If your lunch came during the fourth period your day was balanced, but if you asked anyone they told you the afternoon dragged on forever. Any student, who like myself played an instrument in the band, had Mr. Krueger’s class fourth period and loved the shorter afternoon. Mr. Krueger left an indelible mark on every student he ever taught. He wore his hair pulled straight back with a part in the middle and a pencil thin mustache. He was brash, opinionated, egotistical, and quick to forget your name. At least, for me that was true. “Silverblatt, Goldsmith…Obeheine…you know who I’m talking about. Play from the third bar to the double coda and don’t forget the double-tonguing this time…ah one and ah two and…” Motivation was never a problem. He’d tap his baton a few times on the top of his music stand and if you weren’t ready to perform you lost your seat. For those of you who’ve never had the privilege of playing in a band or orchestra, when you lose your seat it means the person in the seat next to you moves up into your place and you move back into her seat. So, let’s say you play one of the two French horns in the band and you weren’t ready. If you were the second chair no big deal. You’d just feel a little embarrassed. However, if you were first chair you just lost your solo. Competing, when someone challenges you is one thing, but getting caught unprepared is a whole different story. Mr. Krueger spoke with authority. At least about music. His clarinet and alto sax were well traveled throughout southeastern Wisconsin. When he wasn’t playing at a union hall, park pavilion, or hotel lounge with one of the half dozen bands that considered him a member, he’d fill in for someone who had a conflict or was sick. I’m sure they did the same for him on our concert nights. Despite his brash nature, playing in his band was a refuge from the grind students went through in their other classes. And, he knew it. Kids who struggled in the academic arena became stars in the band room. Terry, an eighth grader large enough to start at tackle on the high school football team but unlikely to ever get the opportunity due to his usual performance on reading, spelling or math tests, would clown around with all of us while we retrieved our instruments off the shelves in the band room closets. But when Mr. Krueger rapped his baton signaling the start of practice, Terry slid into his seat tucked under the winding brass known as a sousaphone. He snapped his mouthpiece into place and grabbed a huge gulp of air in order to produce the distinctive billowing sound of this monstrous mountain of metal. Three things you could count on concert night. Everyone was prepared. Mr. Krueger would show up in his penguin outfit. And even though it was written in their programs, he would tell everyone in the audience that Terry was the featured performer on John Phillip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever. Your comments and band anecdotes are greatly appreciated.

Peer Pressure is Less with Laid Back Friends: Step 29

Every generation has certain terms that are associated with youth, vitality, and to some degree popularity. Usually these terms either fade away, or become part of the larger society through a broader usage or commercialization. When this occurs youth, being vital and wanting popularity find new terms for their generation. For my parent’s generation a term my father perpetuated was “ace.” The implication being that the item referred to was like the card in the deck the very best. In the eighties the term “heavy” referred to an idea that because of its weight carried great value or reached the level of being profound. More recently the term “rad” assumed to be a derivation of radical implies something is so different it is impressive. During my teenage years a whole new vocabulary, much of which I no longer recall, was developed. I’m sure you would “dig” my meaning if you were “mellow” enough to “get my drift.” Now people introduced many of these terms a half generation earlier. The beatniks, including the likes of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Bruce coined the term that personified the individual who would become my close friend during the Morse era. Ron was “hip.” My only other encounter with a person my age who I thought hip prior to meeting Ron was Gary M. When I attended his bar mitzvah party the summer between Muir and Morse, he was wearing a tailored sport coat and ascot, which he acquired at the Johnny Walker’s Fine Men’s Clothiers where his father was the store manager, and Bob Barry from radio station WOKY was spinning 45s, giving Gary all the affectations necessary to be hip. However, his stated ambition of being the physician he would become in another 13 years, contradicts this notion since he was obviously too driven. If there was anything Ron was not it was driven. He was laid back and all about living for the thrill of the moment. Although he was extremely intelligent Ron did not wish to outshine others with his wealth of knowledge or his astute perceptual and analytical skills. Letting others raise their hands and provide answers was something he had no problem handling in each and every class. It would irritate teachers when they called on him as he feigned a complete lack of attention to hear him recite a flawless answer. For those who did not know Ron the assumption was he must have studied. Nothing could be further from the truth. If he had one ambition, it was to make it through our two and a half years at Samuel Morse without ever cracking a book. Unfortunately, when I tried this I ended up with a different result. Ron thought his time, and for that matter his friends’ time, could be better spent listening to the radio, watching Steve Allen, or hanging out with girls. With his impish smile and wave of hair that fell perfectly across his forehead girls gravitated in his direction. Again, for me this only happened in my dreams. Fortunately, as previously noted Ron was hip. He was not at all selfish, and as his friend I was easily pleased with the overflow. Be sure to stay tuned as we follow Ron Every Step of the Way. Please be sure to add your comments, criticisms, thoughts and ideas to this, our one-month anniversary edition.

Back In My Element: Step 28

Making the transition from being at the top of one’s game and admired by all the younger kids to being at the bottom of the barrel in a hormone-driven environment where everyone older wants to achieve acceptance by either verbally or physically assaulting the contemptuous newly arrived fodder is difficult enough, but when one is clearly out of his element the circumstance becomes unbearable. So, it was with those five and a half months I endured the humiliation of being a 7B at John Muir Junior High. Now, I personally have nothing against John Muir. He was arguably the most significant conservationist of his or any time. Without his efforts we may not have the fantastic national park system this country has to offer. Another significant contributor to American history, who along with his brother launched the field of aviation and whose name adorned the school where many of my friends from Grantosa went during those same five and a half months, was Wilbur Wright. Again, I harbor no ill will toward Mr. Wright; it’s just that kids living south of Hampton Avenue, many of who had become close friends during our formative years, attended said school. Finally, the day after Labor Day arrived and we were headed for the brand spanking new Samuel Morse Junior High. Yes, the same Samuel Morse who invented the telegraph and the dit-dot code that bore his name. The telegraph became the first method of electronic communication and the predecessor to the telephone, internet and blogosphere. Without Sam readers might be turning a page at this point in the story. But, I digress. Leaving Lancaster Avenue and heading down 83^rd Street I stopped to get my cousin Jimmy, who now that he was a 7B wanted to be called Jim, and was glad to be walking next to a higher status 7A. In a few years when the school system dropped midyear entry and completion the B-A distinction would be just a faded memory. It was good to see Gordy and Gary H. again. I felt like I was back in my element, but there were a lot of new faces. Entering the white brick-building students could practically see their reflection in the highly polished floors. Climbing two flights of stairs to the third floor I entered my new homeroom and sat next to Gary S. We knew we were going to be assigned seats, but we took the couple minutes before the bell to get caught up. Then, a man with a broad chest wearing a short sleeve shirt and simple striped tie stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, wrote his name on the chalkboard, and introduced himself as Mr. Grotbeck. He told us he had been a teacher at Peckham Junior High, a school my mother attended. We would soon learn that many of the teachers at the new school had transferred there from Peckham, and like a few of the other male teachers Mr. Grotbeck had been a marine. As he assigned students to the seats they would take for the next two and a half years I had no way of knowing what an impact he would have on me. During this time a president would be assassinated, four British musicians would change the face of popular culture, and I would undergo many rights of passage not the least of which was my impending Bar Mitzvah. Your comments, criticisms, anecdotes, thoughts and ideas are all welcome.

What's Diversity Got to Do With It? : Step 24

When kids talked about kids being different at Grantosa Drive they were usually talking about somebody being Jewish. We were the ones that didn’t have to participate in the Christmas program. If I recall correctly some of the parents complained because their child wanted to sing in the holiday program. So, Hanukkah songs were added. We sang theirs and they sang ours. Simple, unless you were Jehovah Witness. I think there were two. Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and atheists didn’t make themselves known until long after my younger brother had left. Other than that the differences were relatively straightforward, you were either Catholic or Lutheran. The Catholics generally split between Polish and Italian with a few German and Irish thrown in for good measure. Lutherans had two synods. To this day I’m not sure what that meant, but they were the Wisconsin synod and the Missouri synod. One believed if you were Jewish you would be forgiven and the other believed you would go straight to hell for not having Jesus in your life. It was pretty scary stuff as a little kid, but lost its potency as we moved on to junior high and closer to our bar mitzvah. Walking through the halls of John Muir one difference every kid from Grantosa and similarly configured elementary schools noticed was the addition of students with darker skin. My only prior contact with negroes, as people with darker skin were referred to during that period of history, was when I visited Aunt Jane at her store, or when we rode the bus or our bikes the two and a half miles to McGovern Park to go swimming in the summer. A curious thing occurred when we rode our bikes to McGovern. We were told by our parents to lock them up so they wouldn’t get stolen. As far as I recall we rarely, if ever, locked our bikes in our own neighborhood. Needless to say my life was devoid of negro friends. This lack of diversity, a term that would not become fashionable until long after the word negro disappeared from the vernacular, was lost on me. Certainly, none of us saw it as a form of deprivation or detriment to our adjustment in the world. But, it was. Before physical education class began those who got into their gym clothes quickly were able to shoot baskets or talk with their friends. When the teacher blew the whistle all seventy-two kids scattered to their assigned number along the black lines at the edge of the court. Well, seventy-one kids did. Matthew was always chasing the pennies kids threw across the wood floors, or he was doing handsprings or snapping somebody’s jockstrap. Not maliciously. Just for fun. He was the class clown. Well over six feet tall in the eighth grade, his long lean frame moved with amazing grace. By the second whistle he would make his way to his number. More important for me than his ability to skirt authority was his lack of intimidation by troublemakers. During one of the first few weeks of the semester, Dewey and a few of his friends cornered me in the locker room after class. Fortunately, Matthew saw what was happening and came over and snapped my jockstrap. While Dewey was laughing Matthew lifted his comb out of his pants pocket. Dewey took off after Matthew, and I was able to dress and escape. As far as this incident goes it really makes no difference that Matthew’s skin was the color of coal and Dewey’s complexion looked like fresh laid cement. For me, however, it was an early lesson in how many of my fears and suspicions were misplaced.