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?”