...and I'm glad I went to public school

Sometime when I was in the 9^th grade and attending Palms Junior High School in Los Angeles, California, I began to be concerned about where I’d go to high school. The junior high was highly diverse, and race relations at the campus were challenging enough for a lily white bred kid like me without worrying about making the transition to the predominantly black  Hamilton High several miles to the east. The student body was approximately 27% in the late ‘70s, and many of the neighborhood white families made arrangements to switch to private schools on the west side like St. Monica’s (in Santa Monica) or St. Bernard’s (in Westchester). Many more worked to get some kind of fake address so they could go to theoretically better public schools like University…which was almost in Brentwood in the shadow of UCLA.   

One afternoon while my father was puttering away in the garage, I reasoned it would be a good time to broach the subject with the old man. Though I didn’t recall discussing it with him previously, I was confident he too was aware of the demographic challenges at Hamilton and that he would no doubt share my concerns about being a distinct minority at the new school. More importantly, there was a common understanding that I would play football at Hamilton, and we both knew (or at least I assumed we did) that the existing team that year was 100% African American (including the head coach).

My dad was a gruff, no nonsense WWII vet and union building trades guy, but even with that rough exterior, I knew he’d sympathize with the reality of my dilemma. So, on that afternoon sometime in 1977, I decided to bring it up.

I remember beginning by telling him that it was time to give some consideration to where I’d go to high school, and being almost immediately struck by the fact that my statement didn’t even seem to register with him. He had is back to me as he milled around on the work bench…and though I watched him closely he didn’t really respond. So…I repeated the statement and the rest of the conversation went pretty close to this…

“Why do we need to give any thought to where you’re going to school?”

“Well…many of my friends in the neighbor are switching to private schools like St. Monica’s or St. Bernard’s.”

“Would you like to switch to a private school?” he asked.

“Yeah…maybe” I said… “A lot of the kids are doing that.”

“Well,” he responded, “that’s fine then. You should start making arrangements to switch.”

Like so many things in life, I remember being relieved that the conversation had gone so much easier than I had envisioned.

“Oh…by the way” my dad inquired already knowing the answer, “do they charge tuition at those schools?”

“Yeah…they do” I shot back… “they’re private so they have to.”

“How much does it cost?” he asked.

“I don’t know” I responded… “but I’ll find out for you.”

“Don’t find out for me” he said… “find out for you. You’re the one that is going to be paying it. By the way…just out of curiosity, did you recently come by some windfall of cash I’m not aware of…because just off the top of my head, I’m not really seeing how you’re going to afford this private school scheme of yours.”

“You mean you’re not paying for it?” I asked.

“I already pay taxes into the public school system, so why would I pay additional money to send you to a school miles away from the neighborhood?”

“Because that’s where most of my friends in the neighborhood will be going to school. The schools are just better there.”

“Well, unless you have a plan on paying for it, you better just plan on going to school at Hamilton.”

“Well can’t I at least go to University?...A lot of my friends are going there instead.”

“Did they redraw the district lines so that you can attend University?” he asked.

“No” I responded… “but  a lot of my friends are getting fake addresses so they can go there.”

Now…I could see my dad was getting a little agitated. He turned in disgust and faced me…clearly tiring of my line of questioning.

“Listen…we’re not going to lie so that you can feel more comfortable going to school with a bunch of people that look more like you. Give it up…you’re going to Hamilton.”

“Dad…all my friends are going to different schools that are all better and more equally mixed racially.”

“Well…maybe if all your friends had some guts and went to Hamilton where they’re supposed to, it would be a better mix.”

Then…finally, I decided to play what I was sure would be my best selling point. I was so certain he’d see my side once I laid what I thought was an obvious fact out there for him to consider. I will never, ever, ever forget this exchange.

“Dad…I’m pleading with you. If I go to Hami I might end up being the only white kid on the football team. We've been to some games...and this year there isn't a single white kid on the team. Do you hear me…I'll be the only white kid.”

“Well good…I’ll be proud of you ” he said softly as he confidently smiled and looked at me… “maybe you’ll start a trend.”

Well... I ended up the only white kid on the varsity team that year at Hami...and I wouldn't trade my experience at that school for anything in the world.

It’s Friday, and it’s time to spend some time with the people and pets you love doing the things that matter the most. Have a wonderful weekend, and if you get the chance…give someone you care about a big hug.

 

We ain't got time to chat...

 

...and sorry for all the typos and misspellings...didn't have time to proof it even once.

...and today is no ordinary Day

It’s Friday June 6^th, 2014.

Now quick…what does that make you think of?

About 16 years ago, my wife and I were sitting in a park just south of the 210 Freeway in La Crescenta, California. We were at what my mom called at the time a “cousins’ picnic,” which was made up largely by her mostly seventy-something first cousins that were all transplants from North Dakota.

My mom’s cousin Mildred (her husband Bob has passed away) was there with her daughter Pam (Pam was a couple years older than me). So were Alice and Bill, Roy (never married), Paul and Helen, Harlan and Pearl and Delores and Martin. My mom and dad were there too, and for some odd reason, I can still vividly see those Scandinavian ancestors (mostly first cousins once-removed to me) sitting around the wooden picnic tables in the shade on that very hot summer day.

I recall attending somewhat reluctantly, probably only after being shamed into it by my mom who probably said that it would “mean a lot” to the older folks if my wife and I could make the 60 or so mile drive to join the family picnic. It was hard for me to give up a cherished weekend day to go to the gathering, but I remember seeing the smiles as we arrived and feeling glad we’d made the effort.

Not sure this still happens all that much anymore, but in those days, at least for folks of that age (maybe it’s a North Dakota thing), the genders tended to separate after the meal. I recall the women all sitting at the east end of the picnic tables chatting about lost relations or some such, while us men all gathered at the west end to kibitz about the stuff North Dakotans tend to discuss. I’m guessing that every other male there was at least 70 at the time (I was in my early 30s), and having just finished Tom Brokaw’s recent book “The Greatest Generation,” I decided to ask them about the book and how they all felt about the “greatest generation” moniker.

Over the course of my then young life, I’d probably been around most of these characters at least 100 times. They always seemed so old to me, and in all those encounters over all those years, I am fairly certain I’d never heard one of them make any reference to being a veteran. None of them had read Brokaw’s book, and I recall them being almost perplexed and annoyed by the contention that they were somehow special. To a man they believed (my father was especially vehement about this), that my generation (or any other) would be equally up to the task if ever faced with a similar threat. To a man, they seemed to detest the implication that they were somehow better…or that there was anything even remotely extraordinary about what they did.

 

Each one of them had volunteered for some branch of the service and though I had to pull it out of them with repeated questions, they each had amazing wartime stories. My dad reluctantly told of harrowing Kamikaze attacks while on the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, and described in chilling detail the images right after the enemy planes smashed into the deck.

 

My cousin Martin had been one of those cats that sat in the little bubble in the back-bottom of a bomber operating a machine gun. He’d been in missions over Berlin and Paris. I remember him reflecting humbly… “yeah…the last time I saw Paris…it didn’t look too good.”

 

My cousin Harlan (now well into his 90s…and he still drives) nonchalantly told of his boot camp experience, shortly before being shipped off to his first battle experience on an island in the Pacific. I asked him what island and remember him almost whispering “Okinawa.” He described the chaos of the invasion and told of being shot in the leg several times almost immediately after existing the beach landing craft. In what still seems like a remarkably thick Swedish accent, he talked matter-of-factly of getting patched up and sent back to the front several weeks later.

 

I recall asking them if they were scared…and across the board, most of them responded by shrugging their shoulders and say things like “yeah… I s’pose…but the troot is we didn’t tink about it too much.”

On the morning of June 6^th, 1944, an extraordinary generation carried out the invasion of Normandy. This morning, 70 years later to the day, I awoke at 3:55am and rolled out of the comfort of my bed to stumble downstairs to the home gym and hammer out a poorly written blog.

It’s Friday, and today marks the 70^th anniversary of D-Day. For many, the day will pass without even a thought about that event. For many more that will be reminded by some blurry black and white images during a 30-second news story playing in the background or a quick snippet on their smartphone (there’s no google doodle but there is a reference at the bottom of the page), few will likely have a full understanding of the significance of that day and its overall consequence.

Have a fabulous weekend, and if you’re spending it doing anything other than storming a beach in a hellish hail of gunfire, try to take a minute to feel a little grateful. If you see some old chap shuffling along in plaid pants, a baseball cap and a windbreaker…you just might want to say thank you.

 

A seaside cafe in Arromanches