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.

Reality and Humor – A Learning Curve

It started early, my tendency to get myself in trouble by trying to be funny (even before I started teaching). Sometimes what passes for my sense of humor collides head on with reality, occasionally embarrassingly so. Culture shock came into play a lot early, and it took me a while to become culturally sensitive enough to avoid faux pas (already plural, for those of who were wondering; I looked it up).

I am a tease; it’s a way I try to make connections. Unless you were the target of a mean-spirited jibe (and I admit to being capable of those {but usually aimed at administrators and politicians, not students}, although I grew more circumspect as I aged and became less certain of being right), I only teased if I liked you well enough to bother. Or it was random, as described below...

A student asked me for a “pin.” At least that’s what I heard. I kind of rooted around in my desk, but, not finding one, finally said, “Why do you need a pin?” “To write with [dummy]” was the [implied] response. It doesn’t take much to inspire a riff from me, so I launched into an explanation, something like, “Oh, you mean a pen,” I said exaggeratedly. “A pin is something you stick into an object, a fastener. But a pen is the writing utensil, or a pig pen, like where (random student selection, yes, I remember, no, I’m not going to tell you) lives.” Ha, Ha.

Not so much. Apparently the randomly selected student was kind of embarrassed about his abode’s condition. I was called into Rich Eichhorst’s office the next day. I was horrified and, of course, apologized profusely to the student, telling him it was nothing personal because I had no clue where he lived. It was just that I couldn’t  imagine being embarrassed about your house. It was not a mistake I repeated (besides, there were so many new ones just waiting to be made), in part because I quickly came to understand that he wasn’t alone in his feelings. 

Back in the day, it was perfectly okay to give students rides home after a rehearsal or activity. Today it would not only be a policy violation, but, well, dumb. Sad but true. (Even then it probably wasn’t particularly bright of me to loan my car out for a fast-food run when we were working late on the yearbook, but I was driving a Pinto – they couldn’t hurt that rust bucket.) In any case, more than a couple students had me drop them off at a corner because they didn’t want me to see their actual houses.

    Seeing their houses wouldn’t have mattered to me, of course, because these were kids I had come to know and respect, with whom I was working on a play or something. But that respect had to include respecting their feelings and sensitivity to their circumstances, so I never pushed it. What you learn as a first-year teacher is much more (and much more important) than the material you teach.

First Impressions, Part 2

Still trying to lighten the mood while trying to sort out my feelings about local events. I know this is America and knowing what you’re talking about is not a requirement for voicing an opinion, but nothing is ever as simple or clear-cut as it appears on the surface, or as people want it to be. However, I hope the following two anecdotes just are what they are.

My First Open House

Open Houses at Hancock High School in those days were poorly attended affairs, a mandatory duty that accomplished little, except giving the few parents who showed up the chance to chat up the teachers, rookies and veterans alike. But it was a learning experience for me, another big example of culture shock. The evening was nearing its end and one of my sophomore boys bounced in. That was not uncommon at the Place back then; in some years students coming up to visit almost equaled parents. What did throw me, however, was his question: “Want to see a picture of my son?” Wait, what, sophomore, son.... “Uh, sure?”

I was naive, certainly; but this was the first high school student I knew of to have a child. That’s because in my circles it was either never mentioned or “taken care of.” He, however, was as proud as could be and while I don’t know what happened to him or his family, I at least hope that pride translated into being a good father.

Remember, this was 1971, and good, blue collar, usually union jobs were there for people who had the skills and willingness to work. A couple decades later I tried to explain to students how quickly the world had shrunk. “When I started here,” I would say, “my students were competing for jobs with kids from Affton, Bayless, Mehlville and the City. Now you guys are competing with people from not just the metropolitan area, the state, or the country. You’re competing with people all over the world. You better make sure you’re up to the challenge.”

(F***) Bombs Away

Another sign of how things have changed comes from my “Make It or Break It” class of sophomores. I think we had reached our accommodations by then, working together to get through the year. The bell had not yet rung and students were milling around their desks, conversing before class started. One of the “stars” of my challenge class rushed in and tried to drop his books on the desk (in the front of the room, of course), but one spilled on the floor. It was his bad luck that for probably the only time all year the entire class got quiet at once, just as he dropped the “F-bomb,” clearly if not loudly.

Two points. First, the word was certainly not in as common usage as it has become. Second, with all eyes upon him, he looked around, shrugged, and said, “I know.” He then reported himself to the office. I didn’t have to say a word. By the end of my career, students would either argue that they hadn’t said what everyone had heard them say, or ask belligerently, “What the big f***in’ deal?”

First Impressions, Part 1

Hoping, perhaps, to lighten the mood and offer a diversion from the disturbing events out of North County (Ferguson), let me share a couple stories from my first year at The Place.

You have to understand that Lemay was something of a culture shock for me. My parents may have been South City kids (Idaho and Osceola Avenues, Cleveland High graduates), I was not quite 5 when we moved from Nottingham to Webster Groves. My school districts had been Webster (8 years), Lah-de-dah-due (Ladue, 2 years) and 3 years of high school in Brussels, Belgium. College post-high school was more than the norm where I grew up, it was the default. Even when I left Hancock 37 years later, almost every graduating class had 5-10% of its graduates as the first in their family to finish high school.

My first Assistant Principal was Siegfried Messner. For some of you, that should be enough to send your mind careening down memory lane with your own stories. My first actual contact with the 5x5 bowling ball who moonlighted as a bar bouncer was one morning as I was headed up the stairs to the third floor of the West Wing. By contact I mean literal contact. A blur blasted past me on the left (I had properly used the “Up” staircase, Up the Down Staircase having been a recent bestseller). A couple seconds later, as I reached the top of the stairs, came a significantly larger blur brushing (fortunately) by me and launching itself in a flying tackle of the offending student. There followed a wrestling match. Lee Warren was otherwise occupied with his Wrestling at the Chase duties, apparently, but the outcome was quickly determined. I’m guessing Siegfried enjoyed a close to 200-pound weight advantage.

Later that year (or perhaps the next) a student offered a rather unflattering opinion of me (standing up to announce, “You're a J-off,” to which I calmly [and for those who knew me later, calmness was something of a gradually acquired attribute] replied, “And you're gone.”). It is a sign of how dramatically times have changed that the student took himself to the office and reported the exchange. Anyhow, the next morning Mr. Messner called me to the office.

“Come in here,” he said. “I want you to see this.” I entered the office to find the offending student (Yes, I do remember his name, no, I’m not going to tell you.) waiting inside, trembling.

“Bend over!” bellowed Siegfried. The student complied, grabbing a chair or desk with both hands. To be fair, students were always offered the choice of swats or a suspension, so I guess he knew what was coming, at least in a general sort of way. Messner then proceeded to take down the leather glove he kept on a nail next to his prominently-displayed paddle. Slowly he flexed his hand into the glove, testing to make sure there were no wrinkles, I assume. 

Messner then took the paddle, rocked back and forth a couple times and, literally, I swear, launched himself at the skinny butt, repeating the force of the 300-plus pound blows twice more. That young man was a lot tougher than me, I’ll tell you that, but, then, he was a Lemay kid.

    Having finished, Messner then ordered the offender out of the office. “Get out of here!” he choked. The poor kid was lucky he didn’t get another blow from the door as Messner couldn’t get it closed fast enough so that he could fall on the floor, rolling in laughter. “Did you see that?” he chortled. I assured him that I had. I also never sent another kid to the office for years. I don’t know if my student was traumatized, but I certainly was.