A not so funny thing happened to me on the way to graduation
from high school.
A not so funny thing happened to me on the way to graduation from high school.
In February of my last year, the Dean of Boys ordered me to his office for a chat. “Son, I hope you don’t have any big plans for this summer.” Based on your first semester grades, it looks like you’ll be with us through mid-August.”
His remarks got my attention. It began to sink into my peanut brain that I probably wouldn’t graduate with my class; I was slated to hopefully graduate after summer school. In those days at San Francisco’s George Washington High, being on the “Dean’s List” was not something that brought you bragging rights.
Mr. Klinger had a replica of my recent report card in front of him: three A’s; three F’s. Weighted grades wouldn’t have helped.
“Did you want to talk about your flunking marks in English, Physics and TypingII?”
“Sir,” I explained, “You may want to know that I hate my English teacher, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”
She was the only teacher in the whole school that had given homework over Christmas vacation. What I didn’t tell the Dean, is that once, when she had gotten trapped in the faculty elevator, I had stood on top of her desk, and led the class in cheers of celebration for her absence. When she finally arrived, on the brink of our dismissing ourselves, I had quietly initiated a chorus of boos. A couple of teacher’s pets had ratted on me.
Physics was a monumental bore, and so was the instructor. Our text was authored by a Dr. Chas M. Dull. It was said of our textbook, that if the school should ever be flooded, we could stand on top of our books, and keep perfectly dry!
Typing class was clearly unfair. Most of my classmates had typewriters at home, and could practice till the wee hours. My house had no such instrument. In spite of the handicap, I managed 30WPM, but when corrected for errors, I netted three words per min.
The visit to the Dean’s shop, however, had rattled my cage. I was starting to tire of blaming the teacher corps for my malaise.
Thus by June, I was to hear the big surprise that I would be in the graduation line after all, finishing fourth in my class, fourth from the bottom; 356th out of 360.
Then it was time for another pep talk. This time from my Dad. “Where did you plan to live after you’re finished with high school?” he asked.
My father left home after acquiring his diploma, and had gone to work for Simmons Co., Beauty-rest Mattress. He was also an accomplished card-shark. His gambling luck had furnished him a place near the bedding factory. Dad has finally risen to foreman, so it was appropriate for me to ask about a job. “Not on your life,” he said. “One Paterson is more than enough at Simco. But if you sign up at the local junior college, you can live at home for free, and I’ll try to land you a summer job to pay college expenses.”
The alternative for me, soon to be 18, was going off to war in Korea. But I had been too chicken to even go out for football, opting instead for assistant yell-leader, while watching other guys get themselves ” killed” on the gridiron.
One of the men in the class ahead of us had already come home from the Korean Peninsula in a pine box. Another was detained in a hospital in the Philippines, his body riddled with shrapnel.
I would have joined a Peace Movement, if I could have located one, but instead, I rethought a career decision that had surfaced way back in junior high. One of my teachers had given her class a library assignment to research career options. Each of us had to select a vocation, and report on a future workday, earning a livelihood, 10 years hence.
I had chosen dentistry because: 1. I wanted to be my own boss; 2. I like the importance-sounding vanity of being addressed as “Doctor”; and 3. I wanted to make enough money to one day get married, buy a house and raise a mess of kids.
Medicine as a career was a distant sound because of way too many years of study and because its practitioners were responsible for the whole human body from the top of the head to the bottom of both feet. Dentistry, on the other hand, was more a nine to five deal, and you were only responsible for everything from the upper lip to the lower lip. Additionally, I like the notion of selling the simplistic slogan, “Be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you.”
It took three years of junior college; to work at various janitorial jobs and carry a minimal load, so I could concentrate on getting A’s in solid subjects, for eventual admission to professional school.
Passing the test in manual dexterity for dental college was greatly enhanced by doing electives during the three-year pre-dental stretch, with course-work in ceramics and jewelry making.
With the help of skilled community college instructors, I was enabled to get a second chance in pursuing an education. I was to discover an academic Mulligan to rescue high-school screw-ups like me.
Thank God that South Santa Clara Valley has a vibrant Community College with a main campus in Gilroy, and a satellite in the new community center in Morgan Hill.
“God energizes those who get tired; God gives strength to dropouts.” Isaiah 40:38 (The Message version).
Bill Paterson is a longtime Gilroyan and a former school board trustee.
