A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

This year marks the 50th year since the opening of S.P. Waltrip Senior High School. The web page listing the “Golden Anniversary” events can be found at www.waltrip50.org.

When Waltrip Senior High School opened its doors in 1960, we were just emerging from the rock and roll era of the 1950’s launched with “Rock Around the Clock” by Bill Halley and the Comets and ruled over by the “King” – Elvis Presley.

The United States was about to elect its first Catholic President – the youngest president ever. And, we were on the cusp of what would be the turbulent ‘60s, marred by the assassinations of the President of the United States and 3 other prominent leaders (Robert F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and the very controversial Malcolm X). This decade would see the prosecution of what would become the most unpopular war in the history of our country – the Viet Nam War.

In this month which commences a new school year, I humbly invite you to journey with me down my memory lane of “school days” memories and call to mind your own memories.

This series was inspired by a young lady now in her early teens who attends the same church as I and is a former CCE (Sunday School) student of mine. To her and to all my young readers, I say this:

“Create memories of your school days. Join in school activities and preserve the memories of them. Save them. Keep a diary if you wish. This may be the happiest time of your life. You will never be a “school kid” again. These memories will provide stories to tell your children and grandchildren. They are precious – nurture them. Remember your friends, your teachers, your experiences, your embarrassments. These memories will enrich your whole life and will comfort you in sad times. Don’t overlook their value.”

I begin with some of my junior high school experiences. So, with your companionship and indulgence, here we go!

When we moved to Houston in 1956, we settled in a home in Oak Forest. That would be my home through the rest of junior high, high school, college and my first full time job as a teacher-a total of about 13 years. It’s hard to imagine now, but at that time there was no junior high school (now called “middle school”) or senior high school in the area.

I rode the city bus from home to Hamilton Junior High and later to Reagan Senior High. Hamilton was really scary for me. Everyone seemed bigger than me – I mean physically bigger than me. I was a shrimp (skinny, lightweight person) then and retained my shrimpiness throughout high school and into college. Now at over 200 pounds, I dearly wish that I could regain some of that “shrimpiness”.

I was in the 7th grade and had a lot of trouble with Math at first. Who would have imagined that I would later in life teach the stuff – 7th grade, of course – at Spring Branch Junior High? Otherwise, I did fine academically.

But, I was not popular. One girl with the last name of “Conner” ran a strong campaign for student council, but lost the election. I think it was because of her last name. However, I was elected to represent my homeroom in the spring “pow-wow.” (We were, after all, the “Hamilton Indians”). Each homeroom elected a male “Chief” and a female “Princess.” I was the only male in my homeroom whose grades were good enough to qualify; so, I was “elected” by default.

I had to dress up like an Indian and participate in a parade on the football field after school one day. The problem was that I rented my costume late and it was the last one that the shop had. It was very much unlike the flashy, colorful costumes that the other homeroom representatives wore. It was very plain and well-worn. There was no flowing headdress festooned with a bountiful array of colorful feathers – like everyone else had! I think that I had two feathers and a headband.

It was the age of conformity for me and the peer pressure was there. I wanted so much to be like the other boys. My lack of “proper” adornment completely robbed me of my desired warm, fuzzy feeling of conformity and acceptance. It was very embarrassing to me.

There was a girl who had been elected “Princess” of her homeroom and I had wanted to impress her. My hopes were shattered.

However, afterward, my all too human brain - in its infinite ability to rationalize this adverse circumstance - came to the conclusion that mine was the only “authentic” Indian costume in the parade. Real Indians, I surmised, did not wear all those fancy feathers and slick costumes. I, in my plain outfit and sparse feathers, was the real deal! I was the only “real” Indian in the bunch. Having reached this conclusion, my ego survived.

We had fads – water guns which we secreted in our lockers and stacks of books, yo-yos which we adorned with rhinestones and sequins, and parachutes that we made out of silk scarves string and a weight of some kind. We would roll them up, throw them into that air and watch them unfurl and glide down. What a thrill it was to have a perfect execution of the event – to see your creation work perfectly.

One day, my history teacher, wanting to better discipline his students, sent a student to the nearby Yale Pharmacy (now, known as “Yale Grill”) with some money to buy a water gun. He came back with a large black water gun in the shape of a machine gun. The teacher would pace back-and-forth lecturing the class until he noticed a student not paying attention. A long stream of water would arc over the heads of the well-behaved students and land on the offending student, startling him or her to attention.

This extraordinary but effective disciplinary measure was, however, short-lived since the Assistant Principal walked into the classroom on other business. The watery firearm was quickly secreted never to see action again. I don’t think that the big guy noticed the weapon and the teacher continued to command our attention albeit in other ways.

That teacher later became an attorney. Our lives crossed and we became the best of friends and we work closely together now.

I hope that my revelation of a few experiences at Hamilton Jr. High School has entertained you and stirred your own memories. Please join me next month for a glimpse of life at Black Jr. High School (now Black Middle School) during the late 1950’s.