Why I have little faith in High School

A bad joke at best, admittedly, but when my total at the local store came to $19.32, the clerk duly announced "Nineteen Thirty Two." “Not a good year,” I remarked.

“I wouldn’t know,” shrugged the clerk, a High School graduate.

These people know me well (I see them almost daily), so I teased, “What do they teach in High Schools these days?”

She shrugged again. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t go to school.”

I couldn’t yet give up. “What did they USED to teach in High School?”

Stymied. “Dunno. I never paid attention.” And so on with her life long career as a clerk. But I can’t say my High School experience was much better.

I remember Kindergarten—age four. My teacher read us “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” I was fascinated. My home had several books—my mother had been a librarian, my maternal grandmother was a sixth grade teacher, and my dad was going to night school—and I started to read them. I read all of the C. S. Lewis Narnia series over the next few years (along with many other works).

Then it stopped. I was failing 1st grade arithmetic—until my mother bought a pile of flashcards and forced me to go through them again and again until I mastered it. Second grade wasn’t much better—I’d learned to hate school. Third grade was the deal breaker. My teacher was a witch, and I shut down. I received a C in reading. My parents were so confused and concerned that they invested in a flurry of eyesight and hearing tests. I don’t remember fourth grade at all (but I DO remember my dad coming home early when JFK was assassinated). In one of these grades, shuffled off to art class, I showed a friend a sundial I had designed and built from cardboard—hours of work. The art “teacher” walked over and ripped it to shreds.

In 5th grade, when my dad was transferred, I moved to a new school. My parents resisted placing me in the recommended “accelerated” class, noting that perhaps I just wasn’t up to the pressure. My new teacher, then, was an extremely tall, imposing man I frankly feared a bit—Mr. Christensen. Not only is he one of the best teachers I’ve ever known, but YEARS later, when I was facilitating a “introduce the arts” class for teachers, he was among the attendees—and instantly remembered me. Ironically, a few years after that, I had his daughter in two separate college classes. Yet a few years later, now working for National Public Radio, she interviewed me for an Indian land claim piece.

6th grade clinched the turning point. When my mom arrived for a parent/teacher conference, Mr. Grudzinski (as I understand from my mom later), apparently fresh from a parental conflict, announced, “I gave your son a B because that’s the grade he deserved!” Unfazed, Mom replied, “OK…” and Mr. Grudzinski relaxed. “I’m not supposed to show you this,” he noted, “but I think you should see this,” and he showed her the results of our placement tests.

Mom came home. “You will earn “A” grades from now on,” she announced. End of story. It was OK. I loved Mr. Grudzinski—a very nice man, a very funny man, and a great teacher.

Junior High School was scary. Suddenly, I was in classes with those “accelerated” students, none of whom I knew. I withdrew again, finding refuge in only two places—mathematics and music. Mark, a math wiz, became my best friend. We both entered a county wide contest. I won a gold medal for my presentation on “Functions and their Graphs.” Mark didn’t fare so well. The next year, I wrote a paper for the same contest on differential calculus. I thought about a career as a mathematician, but I was worried, and was cautioned, that this might not be a promising field. Add computers to this and consider just how bad this advice proved to be.

Four Junior High teachers stand out—two of them surprisingly in Social Studies, a subject I had always hated: Mr. Neufang and Mr. Lane. Suddenly, I understood that this was not about boring dates and events, but about people and exciting times. Riding a horse through the White House? Got my attention. I started to care about the outside world—and learn about it. The other teachers were in science. My 7th grade teacher was so full of puns and tricks that he kept my interest—40 years later I can still name the bones of the body. But my 8th grade teacher, Mr. Wiltze, really pulled it all together. We had to write a series of correlations—Dandelions and Icebergs, for example. We had to think. We were not rewarded for mere length (I wrote 12-20 page papers). We didn’t get good grades for the hell of it (and I didn’t do so well—B grades, as I remember).

Unfortunately, that was the end of my public school education. Yes, I did have a few good teachers—I remember a geometry and a French teacher—but my education moved to what I was reading/studying outside of class. By far the worst was English—we just did the same damn thing we had done in 7th grade over and over and over, just with different reading material. To get an A, just write about some personal interest. These teachers were pathetically easy to play. No wonder students come to college so ill-prepared. I did have one excellent teacher, Mr. Wanzer, my music teacher, who taught us Music History and Appreciation with a college level text, Donald J. Grout’s “A History of Western Music.” Wanzer took us step by step, and showed us the importance of each development. He developed our talent—I directed our Jazz Band my senior year. I earned performance scholarships from the Eastman School of Music and the New England Conservatory, entering my classes knowing far more than my classmates ever learned—no exaggeration. Of course, Wanzer was fired.

As a High School freshman, I visited my guidance counselor to choose my courses. I had a choice between Biology and Earth Science. I wasn’t (then) interested in biology, so I opted for Earth Science—but first I had a question. I DEFINITELY wanted to study physics (a passion I still hold today), so I asked for assurance that Earth Science would allow me to follow the sequence of courses I would need to get to physics in my senior year. I was given that assurance, so I took Earth Science (in a class of mostly seniors).

The bitch lied. When I wanted to enroll in the next course, Chemistry, I was told I needed Biology first. So, I completed my science education one year behind my peers. I never studied physics, except for the extensive reading I’ve done on my own.

The final straw was my senior year. When I received my schedule, it beared no semblance to reality—completely ignored my language sequence, for example, and scheduled me for three periods of study hall. Huh? I finally knew then, completely, that my education was up to me.

Working around the bandroom and Mr. Wanzer’s office, I happened upon the Master Schedule. Hmmm. I opened it. Interesting.

I threw away my course schedule and wrote my own—partly getting into my friends’ classes, but also getting myself into classes I wanted—Humanities, for example. I had no study halls. I went to the classes I had chosen, knowing that in each class, after attendance, the teachers would ask, “Is there anyone I didn’t call?” I raised my hand. “Does your schedule say you’re supposed to be here?” I nodded yes, knowing they never checked. “OK,” they said, and added me to their rosters.

Three months later—three months—my guidance counselor asked to see me. “People have been looking for you,” she said, “calling your name in study halls.” So right there, I knew she was a lying idiot—or at least I hope people wouldn’t look for a lost student by calling a name every day for three months. Obviously, they had long ago just crossed my name off their attendance lists. “Um, well, when I got my schedule,” I explained, knowing I was talking to a moron, “I realized it was a mistake, so I just went to the right classes instead.”

“You can’t just do that!” she exclaimed. Knowing I had already won this battle three months ago, I put on my most contrite face. “Gee, I’m so sorry,” I swore. “I didn’t realize. I’ll never do it again!” Of course not. I’m a senior. I’m out of here.

And thank god. I needed to learn, and I clearly wasn’t going to do it in High School. Mostly they wanted me to pursue a career as an architect, as my aptitude tests indicated (I think my dad still wishes I’d done this). This, of course, is currently a depressed field. I scored 720 on the math portion of the SATs--before they decided to lower the bar. I graduated with honors. And I knew that school did not equal learning.

Writer

Dad's Driving

Among the most tedious scenarios imaginable is going to dinner with a married couple as a single person. They argue about a wide range of the most trivial points, often without even realizing they do it. This is all the worse when that couple is my dad and stepmom.

Roughly once a year, they stop by to take me to dinner, and having then discharged their parently duties, move along on their travels through retirement. While I checked the menu, my stepmom insisted, “No, you were speeding,” with the hint of a smirk. Dad looked unhappy, noting “They just lie in wait for out of state license plates,” looking to me for support. “Actually, Dad—I’m a bit afraid to ride with you.”

He looked at me, 1/3 miffed and 2/3 genuinely curious. “Why?” he asked.

Dad has always sped. He used to build mini-racers with his best friends—long friends right through when both of their wives passed away in retirement. He raced the back roads of rural western New York, leaving air beneath the car as he crested hills, disdaining yellow speed warnings as he rounded curves, counting on his self-assessed superior driving skills. This perception continues, as he tailgates cars at high speed, drives without heed even in dangerous weather, and regrets only that he’s forced to share the road with drivers so inferior to himself—the ones for whom traffic laws are written.

One, in a snowstorm that should have prevented travel, Dad insisted on driving me to my music lesson (as I finished shoveling two feet of snow from the driveway, and much to the astonishment of my music teacher). “We can make it,” he insisted. We did. Another time, he hit a kid on a bicycle. Things like this aren’t discussed in my family, so I know only what little I could gather—that the parents sued, that a settlement was reached, and to my dad, clearly the problem was the kid pulling out on his bicycle. Yet another time, while Dad was giving me a ride to school, I warned him that a certain curve, almost a U-turn, was certainly a 20 m.p.h. zone as posted. “Really?’ Dad asked, as he pulled around it at twice the speed. Thrown to the other side of the road, all he offered was, “I guess so. That IS a sharp curve.” I was just glad no cars were coming down the hill in the other direction.

I’m not unappreciative. I got to every music lesson. I got to every rehearsal. I got to every Scout meeting, every swim lesson, every campout. That 20 m.p.h. curve was on the way to a professional meeting—my dad got up at four to drive an hour to my home, pick me up, and drive me an hour to a 7 a.m. meeting when my car was in the shop. He then drove me home at the end of the day and took me to pick up my car. And let's not forget those four hour trips to and from college.

Once, my teenage fight with my mom boiled over into all out war—horrible things were said, mom resorted to throwing things, and I left. I had no prospects and nowhere to go, of course, so when I calmed down a bit, I had to call. Dad picked up the phone, and calmly, quietly asked, “Are you ready to come home?” I was. “Where are you?” he said simply. He picked me up. No lecture, no scowl—just a ride home. End of the matter.

Ironically, my daredevil dad taught me to drive (when my mom gave up in frustration over our battles). These lessons became habits I practice to this day. Always signal, even at 3 a.m. when no one’s around to see. Always check all around the car when merging. Not to mention change the oil, change the oil, change the oil—and rotate the tires. I drove my last car 199,974 miles before it threw a rod. Safety, safety, safety.

I’m no saint. When I broke my collarbone in karate, for example, my sister listened to the account, then observed, “You were showing off, weren’t you?” Don’t you hate it when someone knows you that well?

I AM a careful driver—cautious, looking ahead, defensive, keeping my ego in check as other drivers act recklessly. Except in the morning when I’m in a hurry and running late. And that I often drive when I’m tired. And distracted. Kinda mitigates all that safety, doesn’t it?

To lower my insurance, I took a six hour driving course. Now that I’ve taken a few, I recommend them (although this depends greatly on the instructor)—I learned far more than I’d have thought. My dad approved, noting that my stepmom takes one every year through AARP. No mention of Dad needing or taking one.

A key difference between Dad and me is that I drive to get places. It just needs doing. Dad drives because he loves to drive. He doesn’t need a reason. The morning of my mother’s funeral, he had to run errands. I went with him. We needed salt for the water softener. We needed tomatoes—roma tomatoes, since they’re best in salads, and we had a lot of people coming to the house. We had to stop for a lottery ticket—hey, you never know. The essentials. Dad needed to drive.

Long retired, Dad drives. He drives to Florida for half the year from central New York, relishing the trip I would dread. He travels all over the U.S. and Canada, just as he did on vacations before retirement—he and my mom drove to Alaska twice. I got a postcard this week from Arizona—as far west as I have ever been—Dad’s on his way to visit California. Doesn’t know for sure when he’ll be back.

One day, age will betray me. I worry about this. I live far out in the country, and I cherish my home. We don’t have busses or taxies, and I can’t simply walk to the grocery store or the pharmacy. When I can no longer drive, I don’t know what I will do.

When not traveling, my dad and stepmom live much closer to civilization. My dad is in excellent health, but one day, when he can no longer drive, I don’t know what he’ll do.

Writer