The Regime

My first administrators were (inordinately?) proud of their German heritage. As I’ve noted elsewhere, stereotypes can cheat both the typer and the typee, but generally do not arise in a vacuum. German culture is not known for its empathetic qualities, and Rich Eichhorst’s and Siegfried Messner’s “all in” embracement of their Germanity (yes, spell-check, I know it’s not a real word) led them to some insensitive, at least, and more likely offensive behaviors. At least one person was offended, for sure.

One or both of these administrators had managed to procure some Nazi memorabilia (Messner’s father had been an unrepentant member of the SS, a fact he related often, without any seeming embarrassment), including some rubber stamps that included the swastika. They got great amusement sending each other notes with those stamps clearly displayed.

I had not yet ventured into the Church of Righteous Indignation, so I mostly thought they were weird and just kind of nodded pleasantly. That I was a new teacher and they were my bosses is the only excuse I can offer. Fortunately, the practice didn’t last that long.

The school secretary* (as they were called then) was Lena Duggan, who had emigrated from England. She put up with their nonsense for a while, then informed them that she had spent too much time unconscious in a London hospital from a Luftwaffe air attack to find their shenanigans one bit amusing, that she was offended, and they needed to knock it off. Thus did the swastika quickly disappear at Hancock. Just as an outgunned Britain held off the more powerful Germany, so did a feisty English ex-pat bring two grown (sort of) men to their senses, if not their knees.

* An aside for current and prospective teachers: the school secretary, or administrative assistant if you need or want more syllables, is, hands down, the most important person in a school. If she (and they have universally been women in my experience) is not your friend, you need to work on that. If you haven’t already discovered, nothing changes when an administrator is out of the building, but everything goes downhill very quickly should the secretary be gone for more than an hour, which is why so many tend to grab lunch at their desks or in a cubby-hole around the corner. Cleaning up the mess created by their absence is just one more task for these school building heroines.

From My Other Blog, re: 9/11

This is a leap ahead, but does relate to Hancock, albeit at the end of my career, not the beginning.

http://bobberndt.blogspot.com/2014/09/9-11-different-kind-of-throwback.html

Go Team!

I’ve been really flattered by the response to this new blog. Thanks to all of you who read it, whether you’ve responded or not. There have been almost 3,000 views so far; I’m glad so many of you are enjoying my little nostalgic trips down West Ripa Avenue.

I know I haven’t posted in a while, but I’ve been busy, not slacking. You know how hectic the beginning of the school year is. Oh, wait, was. But I am still coaching softball, so that makes this my busy time.

It’s ironic that coaching is the last regular job I have left in education, because one of the things that chafed in my first couple years at the Place was the jock mentality that pervaded the high school. The joke was, “How do you get to be a principal? Have a losing season.” Richard Eichhorst, the principal and ex-coach, ex-St. Louis Hawk, was kind of a stereotypical jock and so were at least some, if not most, of those who made up the Tiger coaching staff. It is important to note, socially and historically, that other than the club level GAA stuff, there were no interscholastic athletic teams for the girls at this time, and, therefore, no women coaches, at least at Hancock.

As previously noted, ties were the required uniform for male teachers, unless, of course, you were part of the coaching staff. They could, and almost always did, wear polos; most of their shirts labeled them as coaches, just in case they forgot what their sport was, I guess. However, the decidedly unathletic English Department came up with a kind of anti-jock protest counter-strategy to the double standard, one that we found amusing; the coaching staff, not so much. 

I don’t remember for sure who came up with the idea of English Department polos, but I’m going to give credit to (the late) Curt Kenner. We all jumped on board (as I have noted elsewhere, I really am a team player, even if I reserve the right to choose my teammates), though, and one day shortly thereafter came uniformly dressed in our gold polos, and conspicuously used the secret greeting of, “Hey Coach.” Our shirts all identified us as Hancock English Department; Kenner was tagged “Journalism” in a circular script above the tag, (the late) Debbie Strouth Weissflug was “Drama,” (the late) Bill Blake “Poet in Residence,” etc. I don’t really remember my tag, (but I want to say it was something like “Vocabulary Master”) or Cheryl Berry’s or Joyce Pfaff’s, but it doesn’t really matter. You get the picture.

Shockingly, we found our satire much more amusing than the coaching staff. The boys were a little touchy, proving you don’t have to be a jock to score points.

The Union, Part 1 of many

In honor of Labor Day I thought I’d share a little about the teacher’s union. Because I recognize this is a topic with limited appeal, these entries will be rationed.

Most people know I eventually rose to a position of some power within the local and even state organizations. How in the world did that happen to boy raised by good corporate Republican parents? Admittedly, I was just a series of disappointments to them: wrong wife, wrong career, union activist....

My involvement in the HPCTA (Hancock Place Community Teachers Association, at that point affiliated with the Missouri State Teachers Association [MSTA] and the National Education Association [NEA]) was anything but inevitable. At the luncheon for first year teachers I was handed a form. My only thought, “Here’s the first of my payroll deductions.” The organization’s leadership, role, functions, none of that mattered to me.

Remember, we had the highest starting salary in the state of Missouri, thanks primarily to the work of Michael Bingman, who then left the district and was working for an umbrella group called the St. Louis Suburban Teachers Association (SLSTA) representing local associations around the county. Enough acronyms for you? Wait, there’s more, or at least will be in future posts....

I guess there were conflicts brewing, but I was pretty oblivious. I had my hands full just trying to survive my inaugural year (and plan for the next year) to worry about anything else. Had Finding Nemo been a movie then, it would have been Dori’s mantra, “Keep on swimming” that I would have adopted. I remember using the treading water analogy, just struggling to stay afloat.

I also remember being asked to run for building representative (representing the high school on the HPCTA Executive Committee) at the end of that first year; I declined, saying, “Nah, I’m not interested in that stuff.” I probably didn’t even go to the general membership meetings at that point. Or, if I did, they weren’t particularly memorable. Clearly my radical true-believer days were ahead of me! I would point out that at this time principals were, or at least could also be members, which had a chilling impact on some teachers, especially at the elementary level. I don’t recall the high school principal having any involvement or even membership.

I truly don’t know what happened to change things so dramatically during the next year. The superintendent was creepy and incompetent. The school board clearly had buyer’s remorse about giving teachers the big raise, talking about the “wagon pulling the horse.” Our starting salary was frozen and some attempts made to even block experience steps. Hancock teachers were a little ahead of the organizing curve, but unionizing* teachers was building momentum throughout the state and nation, and a Vietnam vet shop teacher, the late Richard Sharp, was more than happy to take the reins (of the wagon?) and stir the pot.

Years later I came to believe that a part of the conflict was jealousy, thinking that teachers were going to be making too much money, especially when compared to board and community members. That same attitude continues to fuel modern-day resentment of unions and union members, in my opinion. Because unions have successfully raised the standard of living for their members, both those feeling left behind and those feeling pressure from below (“those people don’t deserve to make almost as much as me!”), countermeasures and movements have arisen to block (what I consider) progress. I’ve mentioned it before, but the erosion of middle class America directly parallels the erosion of labor union membership.

Sorry for the digression. This blog is about Hancock, not politics. The struggle for power during my second year really forced a taking of sides. Neutrality was not an option. The board and administration seemed intent on showing who was boss, but were so clumsy and ham-handed that everything they said and did became fodder for Sharp’s needle. He started a newsletter, TGIF, prompting a memo from the Superintendent that he should try to find a more positive title. Sharp promptly responded with his “brown-helmet edition,” So Happy It’s Thursday. There was no further discussion of retitling. TGIF became an institution and a powerful weapon for teachers for the next couple of decades or so. 

Anyway, at the end of the third year, I was asked to run for HPCTA Vice-president. Sharp (and his allies, most notably Curt Kenner) wanted someone from the high school and there was fear that Mary Geldmacher, a School 3 teacher, wouldn’t be strong enough. Flattery is powerful and so I agreed to the nomination, but I think they underestimated Mary, as well as the elementary teachers (sexism?). It became a moot point, however, when she won the election. The radical block then made the awful decision to put me up for Treasurer, and I did win this post. 

Because the history of HPCTA and my involvement could be a book in itself, let me end by offering the following unsolicited piece of advice: Never, never, never, elect someone to an office that requires actual competence, like Treasurer, for political reasons. I was awful, but it did launch me into the forefront as things heated up the next year. But those are stories for another time.

* For the most part, teachers at this time tried to avoid using the term “union,” thinking it sounded unprofessional.

Let's Get Physical

As I was discussing her need for a sports physical with a potential player this morning, my mind drifted (aimlessly, as it is wont to do these days) to the (ancient) requirement that teachers needed an annual physical before they could teach. I’m guessing this was probably a state rule, not a district requirement.

Hancock actually had a contract with a local physician for the first two or three years I was there; we could go get our physical at his office (on Telegraph, I think) at no charge. As near as any of us were able to tell, making it to the office and continuing to breathe was the essential component, although Jerry Schloss did apparently have it noted on his “permanent record” that he suffered from hearing loss because he asked the strongly-accented doctor to repeat a question he couldn’t understand. The requirement was in place for several years, but I quickly decided it was a rule I didn’t need to follow. I did get the TB tests, but having a doctor certify that I was alive seemed downright silly.

However, back in those days, teaching certificates were lifetime things, so perhaps it was important. Now, of course, teaching certificates are only good for 99 years, a change implemented so that politicians could claim they had eliminated lifetime certificates. Thus I’ll no longer be certified to teach English, French, or social studies after I’m dead. Apparently, though, I will be able to continue counseling students until 2102. Given my opinion of most school counselors, that sort of makes sense. I’ve never thought you really needed to be actually among the living to occupy that office.

Anyway, like clockwork, every October for those many years, Mrs. Bernice Warren would call me to tell me that I hadn’t yet turned in my physical and that my paycheck would be withheld were it not in by whatever date was required, usually within a week or so. She probably wrote it on her calendar when she got it: “Call Berndt for his physical.” I would scamper over to Little House on (Conn) the Prairie and get the requisite form. Miraculously I would be able to get an appointment and turn in the form with the undecipherable signature the next day. Bernice would always laugh and inquire how Dr. Carolyn was doing. “I like getting physicals,” I would tell her.

In her defense, Carolyn was never comfortable doing that, but I was incorrigible. She and Bernice were both relieved when the requirement disappeared.

Just a Riff on Place Names

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the Hancock in Hancock Place wasn’t Founding Father (and noted smuggler, rabble rouser, and black-marketeer) John, but Winfield Scott, the Civil War General who was the beneficiary of the ill-fated charge at Gettysburg from his former best friend, General George Pickett of the CSA. (Modern conspiracy buffs would no doubt suggest, and have the “fact” go viral via social media, that the fix was in and Pickett didn’t really die but lived out his life comfortably in Iowa or somewhere.)

But I digress. So the namesake of the School District of Hancock Place was General Winfield Scott Hancock, apparently the only person of note to come from the area, or at least have an interest in education, because the subsequent elementary schools were named, 1, 2, and 3 (surpassing Dr. Seuss's Thing 1 and Thing 2 by 50%), and thus ensuring that the Hancock name wouldn’t be overshadowed by some Johnny-Come-Lately.

Not to be outdone, the junior high was named, yes, Junior High and, when it came into being in the mid-20's, the high school was named, wait for it, High School. All to honor a guy who ran for president — and lost. Following tradition, when the three elementary schools were merged at the old Mt. St. Rose Hospital/Sanitarium in the 80’s, it was christened, naturally, Hancock Elementary.

You may wonder where the “Place” came from in Hancock Place, how a district populated with salt-of-the-earth families ended up with such a snooty name. General Hancock donated the site of the original school, on Military, and, as schools were wont to do at the time, it became kind of the center of the community. Hancock was a celebrity (even if he didn’t run for President as a Missouri favorite son), so, when people asked for directions to the school, they were told it was down by the old Hancock Place. Ta-dah!

(Oh, and according to my father, Mehlville had nothing to do with the author, which makes sense because they are spelled differently, and should be pronouced Mail-ville, he having been friends with progeny of the Mehl family. Without contradicting him I did suggest that this might an instance of where being right didn’t keep people from looking at you funny.)

Thanks. I’m here all week. Tell your friends.