What's in a Name?

    Other than being an important piece of my development as a person and a teacher, and some nominal connections to current faculty, especially those who are also former students, I really feel little connection to The Place any longer. That’s kind of sad, I guess, and was perhaps unnecessary, but it’s hardly a feeling that presents any danger of my spiraling into an abyss. My exit turned out to be a blessing. (Details elsewhere on this blog)

    But I’ve noticed a change that, well, irks is too strong so let’s just say bothers me. The high school I loved has changed its name. Okay, it probably didn’t change itself, being an inanimate object, even if one imbued with a soul. Somebody decided it should no longer be Hancock High School, but Hancock Place High School. 

    As proud as I am of what a dedicated group of teachers accomplished there during those four decades, as previously noted I have little connection and even less influence over these things, so I can assure you I’m neither losing (even a little) sleep nor preparing one last charge at a windmill.

     Still, here’s the thing. The DISTRICT is Hancock Place, a moniker attached because its namesake, the esteemed Civil War general, W.S. Hancock, donated land for the first school. When people asked about the school’s location, they were told, "It’s down by the old Hancock place," directions apparently good enough for the time before Siri and Alexa. 

    As the area population grew and schools multiplied, they were all named for the general, plus political/geographic markers. The elementary schools were Hancock Wards 1, 2 & eventually 3. The junior high was Hancock Junior High. When the high school first came into being, closing in on about 150 years ago, it was named Hancock High School, a pretty good legacy for a man who ran for president and lost. How many other losers have that many schools named for them? 

    Don’t believe me? Just look at the picture at the top of the blog. Revisionist history is all the rage, I know, but I spent my 37 years at HANCOCK HIGH SCHOOL in the School District of Hancock Place, NOT at Hancock Place High School in the Hancock Place School District. I’m not thrilled about having that history, and by extension, my history, erased because, well, maybe there is a reason, but I can’t (or won’t) come up with one that I am going to agree qualifies as GOOD!

Accidental Counselor

As I was prepping an entry on one of my other blogs (Don’t Get Berndt), I examined the role serendipity has played in my life. My becoming Hancock High School’s guidance counselor fits perfectly into that pattern; needless to say, I didn’t follow the typical path to, well, anything, but especially not to manning a school guidance office. My my feeling for most of my career was that most guidance counselors had usually tried to escape the classroom at their first opportunity. Like all stereotypes, what truth lies at the base is potentially unfair to any individual.

Because I generally did not have a high opinion of the denizens of those offices (based primarily on my experience with those from Hancock in my early years, as well as anecdotes from teachers around the county), occupying a guidance chair was the least likely trail on my education career path I could imagine. All that changed in late October, 1990.

At the time, I had what some might have considered an ideal teaching schedule, five World History classes and one Advanced Credit (UMSL) class in political science, all taught in a corner room with a view of both Ripa and Clyde (Mr. Keel had just retired). Even though my buddy MaryAnn McGrane taught next door and we could keep each other amused, the truth was I was bored. A lesson that took me a full period to teach in the morning lasted barely half that long by the end of the day. 

I was about to head out for the day (it was right around Halloween) when Principal Jerry Schloss told me to make sure I watched the local news on TV, with a cryptic hint about a Hancock guidance counselor. My mind immediately leaped to a former occupant of that office who had recently moved up to Pattonville. With shock and disbelief I learned of the arrest of our own Junior High (Middle School having not yet been invented in Hancock) counselor, charged with, well, let’s just say a crime that made continuing in his role impossible. (I’ve heard that the boys who made that accusation recanted years later, only after a career was ruined.)

In any case, Jerry came to me the next morning, telling me that Curt Baker (junior high principal) needed a guidance counselor and there were two choices, of which I was one. I had earned my coaching chops under Curt and we were friends; I’m sure that played into the equation. 

I asked for the evening to think if over, knowing that if I declined there was a second option, but I’d have to pick up a couple French classes. So my schedule was going to change, no matter what. I had had a good student teacher (Dan Easton) the year before who was certified in both English and social studies (like me) and had not scored a job yet, so I was pretty sure he was immediately available. 

The stars aligned: bored with my schedule, the less than attractive option of returning to teach French, working with a(nother) principal I liked and respected, the district’s needs (you know, team player, which I sort of am, if I get to pick what team I’m on), the availability of a replacement I knew and liked, well, it didn’t take lots of margarita therapy at Hacienda with my wife for me to okay the change the next morning, with the proviso that I kept my college class (who had to trek over to the junior high – I think we met in the teacher’s lounge, I remember couches).

Thus began what I referred to as my “Year of Penance.” I think I did an okay job, even enjoyed parts of it, all things considered, to the point that when we began discussing the 91-92 year, I briefly considered going back to school and getting certified. Still, my assessment really was, “It’s a dumb job, but somebody’s got to do it, just not me.” Plus I had the opportunity to return to journalism at the high school and a more varied schedule (AmHist, Gifted 8^th Grade English (I had gotten to know and like that crew {Class of 96} during the year, even if not all of them had really unwrapped their presents yet), journalism (newspaper & yearbook), UMSL Intro to Politics; I can’t quite remember if Psychology was part of that picture yet, or came later, replacing the English class, plus softball, of course. #lowthreshholdforboredom 

“Wait,” you’re saying. You still ended up as a counselor? More serendipity.

Several years later I was out at the UMSL campus for a meeting about the political science class. Waiting for the meeting to start, I started reading a bulletin board (Readers gotta read). “UMSL in your own backyard,” it said, advertising classes at Lindbergh High School. One was a class in school counseling. Never mind that it had started a week earlier and required a pre-requisite that I didn’t have. I called the number, eventually talked to the professor who said she didn’t mind if I didn’t (adjunct faculty are not picky, just sayin’) and thus began my journey toward counseling certification.

Why? Well, I had been using the phrase, “I’m so old I teach history from memory.” Unfortunately, it was starting to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I wasn’t there yet, but I could feel staleness starting to creep in and I wasn’t feeling inspired to invent new classes, at least not then. I could see the need to reinvent myself. (I also used to joke that I changed departments every five years or 5000 miles.) I also knew that Barb Klocke would be retiring, not imminently, but down the road and that there would be an opening.

With some twists and turns (other stories for other times) and a transfer to Lindenwood’s school counseling program, I eventually was close to being certified, needing only a course or two and a practicum (“Student Counseling”). The timing was perfect as Sherry Rischbeiter, the Middle School Counselor, was pregnant and ready for a maternity leave that would essentially end her school year. (Although she returned with a week or two left in the semester, Superintendent Bourisaw allowed me to finish the year, working side by side with her.) Mike Wersching had been my student teacher and was available to finish out my classes, giving him some experience to build his resumé. So I joined Paul Huff and the HMS. 

To be honest, I don’t know if it was the next year or the one after that that Barb retired and I became the only internal candidate-applicant for the HHS counseling job. (The superintendent let me know that I wasn’t his choice for the job; not that I wasn’t his first choice, just not his choice at all, but Jerry Schloss was the principal and I was his choice.)

Thus began my 6-year career as a high school guidance counselor, more by luck than by design. I brought some things to the party, thought I did a good job in general, if far differently than my predecessor. No one really knows what a guidance counselor does, so the job allows for creative definition of its roles, with the plusses and minuses that entails. I know Barb Klocke had strengths that I could never replicate, benefitting kids that I probably couldn’t have helped; what strengths I had were very different and the dynamic in the office changed, probably for better and worse. Just as no teacher is the best fit for every student, the same must be said of a guidance counselor. And in what was essentially a one-person shop, that can be problematical for some kids. But, as the saying goes (actually the following was not a saying then), “It [was] what it [was].”

There you go, your word of the day: “Serendipity!” 

Program Building: The JEG

Just a short piece, at least in part because on the political front I don’t know where to start, and, some would say, don’t know when to stop, either. So those thoughts will continue to percolate until they spew messily all over the counter. Not sure anyone is looking forward to that mess.

A former, now friend, who shall remain nameless but knows who she is, wrote to thank me and let me know that she had received kudos (and some $$) from her bosses, based in part on her written communication skills. The credit is hers, of course, because she took instruction that was available to everyone and developed skills that continue to serve her well.

But where those skills were honed was in the JEG room. JEG was born in my second attempt as a journalism adviser (my first was short-lived and less than memorable because I had no clue as to what I was even supposed to do). When Curt Kenner left Hancock (and, for a while, teaching, until finishing his career in journalism at Lindbergh) after the 1977-78 school year, the high school needed a new yearbook adviser. In true Hancock fashion, I was selected because I had the best camera, a Nikon, and knew, more or less, how to use it. I never was journalism certified, but worked (very hard) at learning the skills needed to teach it and train young journalists.

With the help of Rich Wall (and the gang at Schiller's Photo – an uncompensated and unsolicited plug) and some enthusiastic young photographers, together we learned how to set up and run a darkroom and some of the toys we inherited from Curtis (like a huge process camera). The next year, trying to tap into the Foxfire (cultural journalism) trend, we resurrected the school newspaper and, eventually, a literary magazine.

I believed that to build a program that would be a source of pride for its members, we needed to create an identity and tradition, just like any team, organization, or club. Thus was born the Journalism Education Group (JEG). We were successful enough that the acronym stuck for a long while. (In fact, I think it survives to this day.) We muraled the wall outside of our door with paintings of front pages and yearbook covers. My alt. kids also decorated the darkroom with the names of their favorite music groups, some of which I not only remember but have on my playlist: Ramones, Blondie, Sparks, Gruppo Sportivo, Devo, Roxy Music, The Tubes, etc. Music drove a lot of work printing pix in the dark and breathing the chemicals.

Anyway, we grew and developed not only an identity, but a certain amount of power. As you might guess, that was not always well received. But I contend to this day that Hancock’s first state championship was actually in 1985 when we were awarded All-Missouri status in a state sponsored competition for the school newspaper, one of only two St. Louis schools to be so recognized (the other was Kirkwood, a perennial all-state journalism program). 

There were a couple unfortunate by-products of that success: the school principal did not speak to me for a year and a half; I got tired of the conflict and quit the post after that year. Our HQ in Room 102 was then broken up like Germany after World War II, and moved to another, more easily observable, location in the building. I had some great young journalists in the pipeline and still feel bad about abandoning them, but the situation had become untenable and I needed to step away from the fight.

I returned, under a different principal, to the position in 1990-91 and stayed for another six years, and while the second batch of student journalists was more mainstream and less alternative, they were equally successful and proved that location is just one challenge, not an obstacle.

The point of this, however, is that I believe a strong journalism program is the best college (and life) prep available on the high school level. Think about the skills: writing under pressure with deadlines and for public consumption; editing one’s own writing as well as those of others; finding multiple ways to say the same thing in fewer or different words; researching supporting ideas with evidence and detail; talking with people, making cold calls, developing and living within a budget; working as a team, playing well with others, committing to excellence.

Unlike many people, the students in JEG understood that being critical was NOT being disloyal. They felt a part of something important, something that had a tradition, something that was bigger than any individual, something that could make the school they loved better. I could go on and on, and, seeing as how I don’t have anyone to edit me, probably would, except I said this would be short. (You didn’t really believe that, though, did you?)

I’m proud of many things about my Hancock career, but the bright trajectory of the JEG (which, after several stops and starts, is once again in capable hands) I consider one of my top achievements, and, if you look at the alums of that group (both the 80s and 90s versions), you’ll find a significant (and diverse) number of successful Hancock graduates in a variety of fields. I’m proud of each and every one of them.

The Building on Ripa

I am (finally?) stirred to action by a Facebook picture-post from inside the old building at 229 West Ripa (a crossword puzzle word meaning related to or situated by the banks of a river) and I thought I’d jump start this blog in the new year with some memories of a place where I spent so many happy years.

The memories are kind of random and will focus mostly on the building itself.

My first room, 200 (bottom left in the picture above), around the corner from Bill Moody’s Library office, from which he would frequently emerge to offer either “advice” (of dubious value, IMO) or a ribald story, was a revelation to me. Now, my high school was hardly a palace*, but Hancock High School, built in 1934 (I hope someone salvaged the cornerstone and dedication plaque before it was demolished) took me somewhat by surprise. First were the Venetian blinds on the windows in my room. Anyone who’s been challenged by those from the past knows they’re not sturdy in the best of circumstances, that cumbersome and size are absolutely correlated, and these were well-worn when I arrived. They didn't last long. There was also a built-in wood cabinet/closet for my coat and whatever other stuff I needed to keep out of the way.

I remember hardwood floors, but would not swear those were in my room; I’m pretty sure they were common on the third floor for quite a while. The windows were big, heavy wooden things that either stayed up or didn’t; it was kind of a guess which ones would stay open on any given day. And they needed opening, even during the winter, thanks to the radiators that did what radiators do, get scalding hot and spit steam and water. Fluorescent lighting was still in the future.

Bel Kaufman’s Up the Down Staircase was a ‘60s classic. Despite its satirical title, Hancock actually had “Up” and “Down” staircases for its two wings, connected only by a hallway on the second floor (not visible in the picture above). To go from Room 315 to 305, for example, you had to go down to the second floor and then back up to the third. Incidentally, a marginally known “secret” was that, unlike so many other buildings, school and otherwise, that I’ve been in, room numbers at Hancock actually followed a system that made sense. Room numbers beginning with a 3 were, of course, on the third floor, even if it seemed like the second floor because the primary building entrances were located on that middle level. Rooms with a 0 as the second digit were in the West Wing (not to be confused with the White House); those featuring a 1 were in the East Wing. Odd numbers for the final digit were closest to the (Mississippi) river on the east side of each wing, even numbers to the west. Rooms starting with a 1 were in the basement.

There were two gyms by the time I arrived, designated as the Boys Gym (Dome) and Girls Gym (smaller space including a warped floor, the stage and non-functional locker rooms underneath that eventually morphed into drama dressing rooms and random storage). Yes, Girls PE was in the Girls Gym and Boys PE in the Dome. (Eventually the name was at least changed to Gym-B in a nominal nod to equality.) Underneath the Girls Gym bleachers was more random storage, a spooky and fascinating area.

The shops were on the bottom floor of the East Wing. Bill Parkhurst’s machine shop did a fine job of prepping boys for good jobs. Bill also provided security for the back faculty parking lot when he took his smoke breaks between classes. We also had a wood shop and even an auto shop that lasted into the 80s. 

It was a cool old building, sometimes downright cold when the boiler went out, as it was wont to do with some regularity. Or hot; air conditioned rooms? Please. More than one box fan plummeted from a third floor room as it toppled out a window after failing in a vain attempt to circulate some air during the hot humid months for which St. Louis is famous. I will confess it’s tough to try to be professional with sweat trickling down the trough below your beltline.

One final anecdote about the windows. In the Spring of ‘75, if memory serves (and it’s becoming a balky servant more and more frequently, so it might have been ‘74), we had just passed a bond issue to put in new windows to replace the (then) 40-year old originals, when a ferocious hail storm blew out all the east windows in both wings. Because no one was hurt (despite a junior high science teacher, who will remain unnamed, thinking it would be a great idea to send out a kid to fetch some hail using an umbrella to ward off the golf-ball+ sized stones), the hailstorm turned out to be quite providential. Insurance picked up the cost for the about half the building’s windows and we ended up with a free roof out of the deal. And since teachers hadn’t had a raise since the 71-72 school year, most of us just pocketed the checks for hail damage on our cars. And really, in my case, what would have been the point of fixing an orange Chevy Vega? I loved that car (and both its engines).

Feel free to sign in and add your own memories, either here or on Facebook.

*Although my high school did contain a big white “chateau” which housed what passed for a library and some small classrooms in the basement labyrinth and elsewhere, it consisted mostly of three 2-room prefabs (see picture below) with a middle area for lockers and a bathroom. My previous public schools had been relatively new, however (Edgar Road Elementary, which went into service the year before I started there for kindergarten in 1953, Hixson JH, and finally West Ladue Junior (which eventually became Westminster Christian Academy), brand new the year I started (1961).