I entered Peabody High School in 1949. Eighth-grade graduates from various grammar schools came to Peabody, where the kids were then put in 9B, then 9A, 10B, 10A, 11B, 11A, 12B, 12A. We were divided into three different homerooms starting in 9B, so we were meeting a lot of new kids for the first time.
A few weeks into 9B, I was home in bed, sick with a cold. When my mother came into the bedroom I shared with my brother to tell me a classmate had called, I couldn’t have known that something important had just happened. She told me that I’d been elected president of my freshman homeroom class, and I hadn’t even been there. This was the beginning of a series of events that was to have a powerful effect on me for the rest of my life.
I went on to be elected president of my homeroom in 9A, then of 10B and 10A as a sophomore, of 11B and 11A as a junior, and of 12B as a senior. Next, all three 12A homerooms made me president. The margins grew wider at each election. All this happened to a boy who had been impeached as president in the fifth grade.
I couldn’t have realized it at the time, but this gave me an unusually high level of confidence that has never wavered. Granted, I only aspire to what I believe I can achieve. I guarantee you I’ll never be chosen scientist of the year.
When I was in my teens, my brother suggested that we form a law firm together. He was in law school and I was in high school, but something about me provoked my brother to say that. Not only did he want to partner with me, he wanted to be the research guy, and I would be the courtroom guy.
When my son, Nick, was graduated from middle school at thirteen, my wife and I listened as the principal said something about each kid as they crossed the stage to receive their certificate. “She really can spell,” for example, or “He won the two-mile race.” As Nick went up I leaned forward to hear what was going to be said, and I’ll never forget the principal’s words: “He really knows how to marshal an argument.” If my brother had known Nick at the time Jack was in law school, he would have asked him to be the courtroom guy and the head of the firm.
Recently, I came across the yearbook of my graduating class. It listed the best and the most, in about twenty categories—most likely to succeed, funniest, smartest, etc. There was the best and the second best in all categories, with separate listings for boys and girls. My name didn’t appear once. It took me back to a conversation I had with the only African American girl in my class, Joanne Snyder. I asked her why I kept getting elected. She said, “You care about people.” It’s interesting to me that there wasn’t a caring category in “the best, the most” in high school then. I hope there is today, but I’m doubtful. I had no idea that was unique, and still find it hard to grasp. Today it resonates, because every time I agree to host a charity event, the organizers seem shocked to learn I won’t take a fee. I’m shocked that that’s unusual.
An odd thing happened when I was around seventeen. Miss Owen, the extremely pugnacious woman who was in charge of the school play, aggressively confronted me in the hall one day. She was angry that she didn’t see my name on the list of people who were going to audition for the senior class play. I explained to her that I wasn’t available because I had to work in my dad’s store, but she wasn’t buying. She just flat-out didn’t believe me! I had never given a thought to acting.
My plan was to go to the University of Pittsburgh and major in journalism. I had been the humor editor of my grammar school paper and also worked on the high school paper.
Miss Owen absolutely believed that I wasn’t auditioning because I didn’t like her. I’ve never been big on disliking people unless they gave me a really good reason, and Miss Owen certainly hadn’t. I didn’t even dislike any of the people who kept kicking me out of things. Oh, maybe for a moment, but generally I can understand someone kicking me out, even if I don’t agree. That remains true today.
What was really odd about that confrontation with Miss Owen was when I asked her why she was so vehement about my auditioning for the class play, since she had never seen me act. She said with great certainty, “I know you’d be good and you know it, too!”
My only theatrical experience had been playing the role of Don in Getting Gracie Graduated, our eighth-grade class play. Miss McCallum gave me the part because (surprise, surprise), just like Don, I asked so many questions. Since I had no idea how to act, I only distinguished myself by learning all my lines and everyone else’s, so I could whisper to them if they forgot, which is what happened. In any case, because of my obligation to work in my father’s store, I never auditioned for the senior class play.
There’s so much I don’t understand about what we were asked to study in high school, and talking to high school kids today confirms for me that it’s still largely the case. There were many courses that I and most others had no interest in at all. Latin, algebra, and geometry, not to mention the dreaded trigonometry, quickly come to mind. Let’s throw in chemistry. In spite of my questioning nature, I generally went with the flow as far as the courses were concerned, because I felt I had no choice.
I don’t understand why those courses were obligatory. They made most of us want to run out the back door screaming. I got high grades only because I have a retentive mind, not because I was interested—that, and they sometimes graded on the beloved curve, meaning other kids were close to having breakdowns.
About twenty years ago I asked an algebra teacher what the purpose of algebra was. She couldn’t answer me. One friend who claims to know everything, including where we were before we were born and where we go after we die, said, “Algebra teaches logic.” I love my friend, but I wouldn’t say logic is his strong suit. The metaphysical? Maybe.
I’d be for developing a curriculum that includes teaching how to get through life the best you can. How to be a good partner, a good friend, a good daughter or son, a good parent, the importance of helping those in need, and so forth are subjects that quickly come to mind. Do we have people who could teach those courses? On the other hand, I didn’t find the teachers of the courses I was told to take effective. They never explained why we were studying these things, and I who was never at a loss for questions must have been—in the science and math areas anyway—too numb to ask. Ironically, I once took an aptitude test that said I should be an accountant. In the future, I would play an accountant, but be one? Yeah, right.
I also didn’t question my third-grade teacher’s right to hit us across our knuckles for talking or how the shop teacher could whack seventh- and eighth-grade kids (not me) with a paddle for talking. I’d seen enough by high school, so when Mr. Myers, the gym teacher and basketball coach, grabbed me by the arm, I tore it away from him and gave him a look I’m sure surprised him. Early on it was clear to me that while I somehow managed to get along unusually well with others, I had a very strong reaction to anything I viewed as inappropriate.
Decades later, the producer Ray Stark was giving my girlfriend, who was directing a movie for him, a very hard time. I had more than one conversation with myself to stop myself from physically going after him. I succeeded—barely. Later, I attacked him in print. He, of course, retaliated in print, not using his name but through a columnist he had in his pocket. He got the columnist to take a cheap shot at me. What else is new?
Frankly, I don’t think I’ve yet fully recovered from “single file, no talking” in grammar school. I mean, what was that all about?! As I remember, everyone changed classes at the same time, so we wouldn’t be disturbing kids in class. I mean, this was Pittsburgh, in America—not a fascist country.
I was rushed by fraternities at the University of Pittsburgh. My only memory of that is sitting in a fraternity house with a group of guys watching porno movies. I was astonished and still am at the idea. As a kid, I remember driving around the park with buddies talking about “getting a feel” of this or that girl, meaning getting to touch a breast, never a bare one. When they finished talking of their exploits they looked at me to offer something, but I never did. This annoyed them. They said, “You’re listening to us!” I told them I wasn’t going to tell them what they should talk about, but I wasn’t going to join in. Also, it’s not as though I had anything to offer.
Later, I became a vocal critic of Howard Stern and Don Imus and always questioned what was permitted to be aired. I once asked Walter Cronkite, who said, “Community standards define that.” I so admire Mr. Cronkite, but I’m still not sure what community he was referring to.
Howard Stern once said my son would probably grow up to be a fan of his. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Howard Stern thought it was amusing on television to hold up some bones of a young woman who had been cremated and make jokes about them. Standards? What does it say about us that someone like that could have so many fans? To me, it says a significant percentage of us need to grow up! At least seek some maturity. More recently, the third most popular radio host in America, Michael Savage, attacked kids with autism by saying, “In ninety-nine percent of the cases, it’s a brat who hasn’t been told to cut the act out. That’s what autism is.” I’m a mentor to a teenager with a form of autism. I promise you, Michael Savage doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s the one who should cut the act out. Sadly, hate sells.