Your Cheatin' Heart

Well, not your heart exactly. A former student, whom I vaguely remember only by name, felt the need to insert himself into a discussion of vote fraud and, in the process, stumbled (jumped would require thought and intentionality) to the conclusion that because, unlike him, I hadn’t worked myself into a dither over the issue, I must have been okay with students cheating while I was in the classroom. 

He suggested that I should have made that known and my classes would have been more popular. I never had trouble filling my classes, although I admit that I also never invested a lot of time and energy in trying to nab cheaters. I had other priorities. But I do have some stories.

First, the reason I didn’t spend much time or energy worrying about cheating dates back to my own high school days. I didn’t have to cheat, but I had a friend who sat behind me who needed, shall we say, help. Now, I know that technically I was cheating, as well, but, well, just let the story tell itself.

It’s American history and we’re in the back corner, me in front of him. I’m getting ready to move from page 1 to page 2 of a test when I hear a whisper: “Wait, don’t turn the page yet.” A couple minutes later, “Okay, I’m ready.” I don’t really remember how many pages the test was, but I paused at least another time or two. Again, yes, cheating by both us. A couple days later the tests come back. I had a score in the mid-90s, his was low 70s and he directly copied my test! I came to the conclusion at that point (I was not even close to realizing I’d end up with my own classroom) that for the most part cheaters are so bad at it that it’s not worth worrying about.

So, when I found myself with my own classroom, kids cheating was neither a large nor loud blip on my radar. Not that I was Captain Oblivious, I mostly just didn’t care, unless it was so obvious and, frankly, stupid, that I had to act.

Anecdote 1

1975-76: If you were to ask me about the worst class I ever had I would hesitate not even a second in picking the focus of this story. I gave weekly vocabulary quizzes in English, because I thought, and still think, words are important and having a better vocabulary than a 5^th grader matters. This class may not have worked hard, if at all (oh, so many stories), but their behavior was awful and I wasn’t very good at managing them. So when one of the worst came to class a bit late and insisted on taking the weekly quiz even though I told him I’d excuse him…. And when he, like many, if not most, of the class got the first 11 questions correct (and then missed the rest), it was clear that I had been careless with the answer key. Their average score of 13 was a big jump over their normal performance. The next week I made sure I gave them time to copy all the answers before entering and starting the quiz. Of course it was a fake key, but their 2-week average came to about 5 or 6 out of 20, so order was restored.

Anecdote 2

Late 80s(?), teaching World history. I was an early adopter of the computer and had a test generator program that made it easy to create multiple variations of a test. Usually two was sufficient to thwart the “efforts” of people like my friend from high school. Of course, I didn’t exactly advertise that there were multiple versions. I usually let the kids watch as I graded the test. One student (Maurice Moultrie, if memory serves) was a good student who did well. A friend of his who shall remain nameless although I do remember him, watching his performance, got very excited. “Oh, do mine next Mr. Berndt. I really studied for this one.” Suspicious, because while he was a charming scoundrel, academic rigor was never one of his strengths. Apparently the kids all knew because they struggled mightily (and not very successfully) to not laugh as his face fell in synch with the rising tide of red marks. “You know, K, there were two versions of this test, don’t you?” “Aww, man.” He was really a good sport and rather than get angry, he joined in the laughter at his expense. Like I say, a charming scoundrel.

So other than a few precautions, I wasn’t really worried about cheating. You don’t need a degree in statistics to realize that, in the big picture, a few stolen points, even on every test, don’t really change anything. Kind of like extra-credit. Kids would beg for extra-credit, never realizing, apparently, that even 40 EC points didn’t really move the needle if there were over 1000 points available during the grading period. Plus, I didn’t enjoy getting mad at kids or trying to trap them in bad behavior. But some teachers did. Which brings us to 

Anecdote 3

I’m thinking this is maybe mid-late 70s. The health/PE teacher, who, honestly, didn’t really like teaching or kids that much, sent a student to my room to take a make-up test. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember, about 5 minutes into the test, her asking, “Mr. Berndt, how long does ossification* last?” “3 months or 3000 miles, whichever comes first,” was the first thing that popped in my head (probably due for an oil change). Ignoring a couple giggles from the class and my arched eyebrow, she dutifully recorded the answer. She apparently decided that worked so well she’d continue to trick me into helping her with her test. I don’t remember any more answers, although the ossification one was the least ridiculous in the progression; if she actually knew any answers, she decided mine would be better. She did ask, once, “Do you really know this stuff?” I assured her that I had taught health and was married to a nurse. On she wrote and eventually off she went to turn in her test. It didn’t take long before an overheated PE teacher steamed into my room, certain that I had disrespected both her course and her. She calmed down (some) when I explained the whole sequence of events. Never content to take the win (all wrong answers) she departed to vent her anger on the student for trying, and failing miserably, to cheat. Whomever you were, if this sounds familiar, I’m sorry. 

Final anecdote, I promise (unless another story pops into my brain while I’m recounting this one).

Spring of 1985, College Credit Composition. This one did bother me because I was especially fond of this group. It came to my attention, from multiple sources, that a cabal had been conspiring to cheat on the weekly vocabulary tests. I was both hurt and disappointed. On the day I decided to confront the class, there was, not coincidentally, an important paper due so I had a stack of compositions on my desk as I expressed, in forceful and perhaps mildly profane language, my feelings of betrayal. I then told them that if their grades were so damn important that they needed to cheat, then they could all just take their damn A’s and I wouldn’t bother any more. I then picked up the entire stack of comps and dropped them in the trash can (which I had emptied), saying any papers that remained when I returned would get an automatic A, but if anyone really wanted to learn something, they could retrieve their work and replace it on the desk. As the grand finalé of a staging that I think possibly eclipsed my portrayal of Felix in The Odd Couple (perhaps not a high bar), I stormed from the room to the teachers lounge where my department colleagues waited to hear the replay. I’ve been told that there were some tears, and at the end of the period, all the papers were waiting for me. And that was that (at least as far as I know). Lesson learned, I think, that process means more than results.

So cheating mattered to me, just not enough to divert energy from the bigger picture of what I was trying to accomplish. And here’s the thing. Cheaters get caught, one way or another, eventually. The price to be paid may not be immediate, it may not be obvious, but the soul will be witnessed, in that I have faith.

*ossification – the hardening of the top of the skull in a newborn. Also, getting stuck, becoming stagnant or rigid in your thinking – while important, I’m pretty sure that was NOT the context.

The Workout Fight: Mind-Body Connection

Working out at the WG Rec Center this afternoon, we were joined by one of the firehouse crews who arrived in their ladder truck and ambulance, so obviously still on their shift. As I was circling the room waiting for Carolyn, who had been interrupted by a phone call, to finish, I thanked some of them. I jokingly noted to one that on TV, responder houses all have cool tricked out weight rooms. Apparently the WG house has a small one, but not enough for the whole crew to get in a workout. I realized that maintaining physical conditioning is really a job requirement for first responders. 

My mind drifted, as it is wont to do these days, back to a dispute that roiled the high school for a few weeks over the issue of teachers working out (by walking the track) during their conference period. The principal at the time, in what I think was more about power than principle, insisted that teachers needed to be in their rooms or the workroom during their conference hour. Granted, this was before cell phones, but it was also before classroom telephones. I can’t imagine it would have been any more difficult to get a teacher from the track than his/her classroom. That was one of the arguments we made, but this was a fight we were destined to lose; the price of winning would have been too high.

While I would never try to argue that the physical demands of teaching (only those who have never taught can believe that it’s a sedentary profession) are equivalent to those of first responders, I would maintain they are significant enough that physical activity, and its mental by-products, would have been more beneficial than sitting in a classroom, waiting for an unscheduled summons or phone call. I know that when I walk my mind is as busy as my body. And while I wasn’t much (okay, even that’s an exaggeration) into exercise then, I tried serve as an advocate for those who believed they would benefit. It is why so many forward-thinking companies today recognize the need for the mind-body connections that exercise brings.

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!” 

It's The Little Things

I was recently asked to solicit “testimonials” from former students about the impact of teachers on their lives. That generated some warm fuzzies from formers on Facebook about their years at Hancock, but it also got me thinking.

It also generated some memories, and because it’s been a while since I’ve posted on my HP-HP blog, I thought I would share a few, plus a lesson it took me a while to learn.

When I started at the Place in the early 70s (okay, very early 70s) I resisted the notion of being a “role model.” I parroted some professional athletes of the time who were rejecting that job. “My job is to teach, not preach. It’s not my place to set an example, that job belongs to their parents, not me, etc., etc., etc.”

I was wrong on a couple counts. What it took me years (too long) to realize was that I was a role model whether I wanted the job or not. We are all role models, not just for our own children (and I think I became a better teacher when I became a father because my perspective expanded) but for all the children with whom we come in contact. I immodestly also think that in spite of not wanting the role model job, I managed to do it decently anyway, just because I truly did care about the kids in the Hancock community.

When people asked me what I taught, my semi-flippant answer was always, “Kids.” I instinctively realized that who I was teaching was far more important than what I was teaching. But it took me a longer while to realize that as teachers there is a huge difference between what we think we’re teaching and what we’re actually teaching. What the students in our care remember is not some random fact or skill so much as an attitude, an approach to life. 

Conversations with formers frequently reveal that what they remember best is a random thought, a throwaway line, a kind word, a compliment; it’s not some specific part of the curriculum, it’s not whether you put the day’s objectives on the white board (or smart board, or, in a retro reference, blackboard – and if you have to ask what a blackboard is, just “Shut up!”), or whether you got all the boxes checked on some administrator’s walk through checklist.

I’m guessing that’s what will be revealed in the brief videos that will alleviate what is the usual tedium of those interminable in-service days. For those who submitted them, know they were appreciated. And for those who just thought about that teacher or organization that helped during your adolescent school years, those thoughts, too, are appreciated – because I believe that energy makes the universe a better place.

And if you get a chance, pay it forward with your own kind words, thoughts, and deeds and be a role model for good.

Give and Take, Snow Days and More

As we wait for the Republicans and PEOTUS DJ Trump to come up with their replacement for the Affordable Care Act, and while I listen to announcements on the closing of schools for weather (I still get a charge out of hearing my schools mentioned), I am reminded of the contract negotiations about the calendar and the issue of snow days at Hancock, back in the ‘70s.

Calendar negotiation was a minefield for both the union and administration, because one thing was guaranteed: no matter what you agreed to about the start of school, the end of school, the breaks, both length and placement, a significant number of people would be pissed off and loudly unhappy.

Snow day scheduling was also a challenge for a while. Hancock teachers, being on the bottom as far as competitive salaries were concerned compared to most other county districts, were not inclined to work more days than was required by law. The district, on the other hand, wanted a set calendar and thus insisted on a certain number of snow days to make sure we met state requirements. If we didn’t use them, well, BONUS! (Bonus for the district. anyway.) This was before snow days were as common and state aid was tied to attendance for districts like the Place.

Our proposal, for several years running, had called for scheduling the minimum number of required days (no snow days), with the proviso that whatever days necessary to meet state standards in the event of a run of bad weather would be tacked on to the end of the year. Every year that proposal was rejected and the fight went on. Compromise wasn’t a dirty word back then and we always managed to reach agreement.

Knowing that our usual proposal was destined for rejection, we offered a variation – scheduling several extra days (we didn’t care how many) but removing any extras at the end of the year. The administrative negotiating team responded that they couldn’t possibly do that, but would return with a counter-proposal.

And they did. Their proposal: schedule no snow days, but add any needed extra days on to the end of the school year. After we rubbed our sore jaws, removed them from the table, stopped the bleeding from our tongues, and composed ourselves after stifling our incredulous laughter, we caucused and came back to accept their proposal. Once the proposal wasn’t ours, but theirs, it became acceptable.

The ACA (aka Obamacare, née RomneyCare, originally of the conservative Heritage Foundation) seems doomed, but Speaker Ryan and PEOTUS DJ Trump both claim to have (secret?) plans to replace it. Mr. Trump even says his plan will cover everyone. Given that I have both a daughter and now a granddaughter with auto-immune diseases that would, pre-ACA, have eliminated them from  insurance coverage due to their pre-existing conditions  (a known problem before the ACA {I’m choosing to use that acronym to minimize the frothing that seems to result in some corners every time President Obama’s name gets mentioned}), that piece is crucial to me and my family.

I admit that it will irk me if the vilified Obamacare morphs into superfantastic Trumpcare or Ryancare or GOPcare (modifications that could have begun 6 years ago had the goal been to actually do something for the citizens and not just deny credit to the president), but, like the snow day policy of so many years ago, I’ll just take the win and move on.

Oh, and just like you paid for the treatment of those who did not have insurance when they showed up at an ER before the ACA, or got “free” care from a hospital, you’ll also pay for the new and improved health care plan that is coming soon to a neighborhood near you. It just won’t be called Obamacare. If that makes you feel better about it, okay. After all, health care is all about feeling better.

Also on the Don't Get Berndt Blog

Sexism & Misogyny at the Place

I know I haven’t posted here in a while. But the recent furor over Donald Trump’s hot-mic reminded me of a story that is not particularly flattering but maybe needs to see the light of day.

It was my first or second year and there was definitely a locker-room culture thriving at the Place. Certain male staff members would ask generously endowed female students to deliver a note to another member of the club. The least offensive one that I can remember went something like, “Check out the knockers on this one.” In the incident I observed (I was in another teacher’s classroom), the receiving party smirked, wrote something to add on, and sent the girl on to another staff member.

I did observe the players huddling together on occasion, guffawing and chortling like schoolboys, if schoolboys guffawed and chortled, There were certain favorite messengers but several students apparently qualified. I was quietly, but obviously, appalled and evidently was denied membership in a group I would never have joined, even if asked.

Disgusting, you say? Absolutely. But if you think it’s only because these were young women who were also students, you’re missing the point and bigger picture. Sexism and misogyny were perhaps more prevalent then (we hadn’t even started debating the Equal Rights Amendment yet) than today, but, obviously those attitudes are not just lurking in the darker corners, but occasionally come strutting into the open.

I guess my question is, how would you feel if it were your daughter or sister who was the object (the absolutely correct word) of those kinds of words and actions? I know my answer.

Women's Sports

I am posting this on both my blogs, because it has obvious Hancock roots and memories as well as the more obvious general application. (Slight) apologies to the Hancock Place Hancock Place followers if this has more political overtones than you are generally accustomed to seeing (t)here.

I noticed a FaceBook meme last week, pointing out that amidst all the celebration over American Olympic achievements and medals, there was little if any credit given to Title IX.

Talking to my softball girls the other day after practice, I noted that when I started teaching, there was only the GAA, a club for the “sporty girls,” but no interscholastic sports. The same was true when Carolyn attended Centralia HS – no Orphan Annies, had she wished to play. Girls were limited to May Fete, a kind of dancing thing in white dresses around a May Pole. 

When forced indoors, my Tigers practiced in the “Girls Gym” (the one with the warped floor and no locker rooms and bleachers right next to the sidelines). One year I got permission to order new uniforms for the girls; the local sporting goods store ordered men’s slow pitch sleeveless uniforms. The huge (really huge, gigantic, biggest ever) arm slots were embarrassing. We rejected them and reordered from a company that specialized in women’s sports and equipment. 

In 1994 when it came time to select the St. Louis Post-Dispatch Scholar Athlete, there were two eminently worthy, 3-sport choices, ranked one and two in the class (only a B in one class separated them). Originally the coaching staff and administration picked the male candidate. “Obviously it’s --------------.” I dissented (not an uncommon position for me), despite the respect I had for the male candidate. “Ummm, [the female candidate] has a D-I scholarship offer and also played three sports, all at an exceptional level. This award is for an exceptional athlete who is also a (and in this case, also exceptional) scholar. If the male had that resume, then it would be obvious. To my view, the choice is clear.” To the credit of the Athletic Director and others on the coaching staff, we rethought our choice and Hancock nominated the (IMO) most worthy candidate (of two almost equally worthy students).

Note, we had had previous female scholar athletes, so this is not intended as any kind of criticism of the coaching staff, administration, or process. In this case, however, the seeming tie at first went to the male, “obviously.”

My real point is this. Women’s sports did not progress because of the generosity by their male counterparts or because those in power recognized the long-standing inequality or sexism. Women’s sports and athletes progressed because people, mostly women, recognized their importance and worked and fought to create tools to elevate that status. When you were cheering the incredible accomplishments of the female athletes in Rio, you were also, like it or not, cheering for Title IX. Yes, that same Title IX that was decried, derided and disrespected by conservatives.

Those same conservatives also opposed (in their time, of course) declaring independence in 1775-76, the ratification of the Constitution in 1789, abolition in the mid 1800s, women’s suffrage in the 19^th and early 20^th centuries, integration of the armed forces in the 1940s and 50s, civil rights for African-Americans in the 1950s and 1960s, women’s rights (including Title IX) in the 70s and 80s, gay rights at the end of the 20^th century and beginning of the 21^st.... 

I understand that change is scary, that people want to keep things the way they were. And conservatives play a vital role, forcing those who would rush, without sufficient thought, into change, because, The.Law.Of.Unintended.Consequences. But (and I’ve never had anyone offer any kind of counterpoint, coherent or otherwise) conservatives have been on the wrong side of history for centuries. [Addendum: to be fair – I hate that – conservatives probably DO get credit for the Bill of Rights, but that was before compromise was a dirty word.] I’ve noted my disinclination and skepticism about labels, so I’m not claiming any particular one for myself, but I could never call myself a conservative (unless we’re talking about the environment; that is something I definitely want to conserve, and, ironically, some so-called conservatives seem to discount).

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.