First Day of School
The year was 1957, and Junior was just beginning 7th grade in a new school. In another month he would be 13 years old. He was small for his age, and frequently found himself in situations that required more bravado than he felt capable of. Today he did not feel very capable at all. This day had been on his mind almost constantly, ever since his last day in sixth grade. Now it was here. He had to face up to it. It would be too embarrassing to let anyone know about his feelings. At 13, you can't let on that anything bothers you, or that you are not as tough as you act. Also, when you are smaller than the rest, you learn early, how to hand out wolf-tickets with the best of them, and hope that nobody calls you on it.

On this day he was especially apprehensive, because this was Junior High School, with people from all over town attending. This was not at all like the last six years in his little neighborhood elementary. Grades one through six were spent in the company of kids only from his neighborhood. This was all new. He had not even found his home room yet, and already he had a sense of how different Junior High School would be. The truth was, he was scared. Scared of harder subjects, scared of not being accepted, scared of being bullied by the ninth graders, all of whom seemed very large. Most of all, he was scared of not being as good as the rest. Thirteen is a scary, insecure time.

There was only one thing to do, comb his hair, and pretend nothing bothered him. It was essential to check the condition of his duck tail as often as possible. Nothing spelled cool as clearly as long hair combed straight back, with both sides joined in the middle at the back of his head. With a sufficient amount of Brylcream, it would all stay in place. To create the final look, he slid the comb down the back of his head. This resulted in a crease, that looked very much like the rear end of a duck, right where the feathers come together. Perception being everything, he now felt better. The other requirement was to walk with a swagger, and sort of bob his head slightly, as he presented a look that told the rest of the world just how unaffected he was by it all. Then he turned up his collar, and was just too cool to be bothered by anything. It was an act, but if done well enough, he could fool himself into believing it. This day, he was successful.
Home room was number 112, and currently organized after the plan of a Chinese fire boat drill. Kids jockeyed for the seats in the back, and tried to convince those already seated to give up a spot if it was near a friend, or a window. Now, if you managed to land a back row window seat, you really had something. Junior decided on a spot in the middle of the center row of desks. Actually they were not desks at all, but chairs with a small movable writing area. There was a kind of an open metal frame under the chair, that formed a basket to store books and other things in. Everyone was talking. Junior was looking out the window, and didn't see Billy walk in and sit down in the next row, one place behind him. Billy was one of his best friends. He was also the best little league pitcher ever to play the game. Well, at least that is what everyone said.
The teacher walked in, and everything got quiet. It was a man. Wow, Junior thought to himself, this is different. In grade school all his teachers had been women. His first thought was that a man could really be trouble. The fear he felt just coming in here, was not at all diminished. This new situation may have actually made it worse. Several of his teachers in the old school had been little more than girls. This guy looked ~ well he looked serious is all, older, bigger, and serious.

Mr. Quinlan was the man's name. He wrote it on the board in bold strokes. Then he turned around, said it out loud, and spelled it. He said, "That is for any of you bozo's, who can't read yet."

Junior sorta didn't like this guy. He felt threatened. He often took remarks made in general, and sometimes in jest, personally. He reacts as if the teacher is talking to him alone. In his mind, he knows that he is not a "Bozo." All he can think of is the famous children's clown with the flaming red hair, stomping around the classroom, and knocking things over. At the same time he is wondering, what makes this guy think I can't read? I can read! Who's he think he is? Mentally he is working himself into an agitated state, over this perceived insult.

About then he felt a stinging sensation behind his right ear. He had been hit. A spit-ball fired at high velocity, at close range from the feel of it. He slowly turned around, and looked to see who was pretending innocence too strongly. The guilty party will usually give themselves away, by looking too obviously in another direction. They will have a forced dead pan expression, that telegraphs the message, "I did it." Not this time. This time he was met by a grinning face looking back at him, and giving him the finger. It was Billy. He turned around, trying not to laugh, but it was no use. The giggle reflex had kicked in. Behind him, he heard his friend also trying to suppress the laugh, which made it all the funnier. Some of the kids in nearby seats have witnessed the exchange, and they too become caught up in the giggle response. It was obvious to everyone in the room, that something had happened in the center section. The teacher, not the fool that they suspect, also heard the commotion. He too was blessed with the ability to assertain guilt, by reading body language and facial expressions. This time little skill was needed, the guilty have made it too obvious, and too easy.

Mr. Quinlan walked around his desk, and proceeded up the center isle, between the column of chairs. He stopped in front of Junior, and asked, "Is there something you feel the rest of us would enjoy hearing? If it's that funny, I am sure the class would benefit from hearing the whole story."

Junior was now faced with a dilemma. Should he straighten up and act contrite, or escalate the confrontation with a smart remark? Really hard to decide on short notice, but the smart remark option seems more in character, so he went for it. He said, "Nothing funny going on here sir, I am just so happy to be here I couldn't help smiling, and it got away from me."
Mr. Quinlan was not impressed, but the rest of the class was, and laughter can now be heard from all sides. The teacher bent over, deliberately close to Juniors face, and said, "I suppose your friend behind you, was also overcome with the joy of the moment."
Junior has used his best line, and falls back to a solid standby. A shrug of the shoulders, and an "I don't know" look.

Quinlan plays his ace. "I want to see both of you in here tonight after class. You two just set the record for making detention. You managed to make my list, one minute into the first day. Congratulations, but I doubt it will seem so amusing to you at 3:00 PM this afternoon." With that he turns, and heads back to the front of the class.

Junior thinks of Laurel and Hardy. He can see Hardy fidgeting with his tie, and saying, "Another fine mess you got me into." It is all he can do not to break up again, but he manages to cool it. Save it for another day.

Junior and Billy decide to get with the program. They both take out notebooks and prepare to learn about their class schedule, and how to actually go about changing classes. This is all new to them. Mr. Q. hands schedules to the first person in each row, who then passed them back to the rest. Junior reached forward, and got his class schedule.

Oh no! His first period class is Civics, and it is right in this room with Mr. Quinlan. It never occurred to him that he'd have this guy for a class, let alone first period. Now he's already got a strike against him with his teacher, and it's all Billy's fault. He was just sitting there minding his own business. Why'd Billy have to go and pop him in the ear with a spit-ball? That was just dumb. Then he made it worse himself, by mouthing off. He thought to himself, there was no reason for any of it. Why couldn't he resist that type behavior? It always made him feel bad. It was like an ocean wave, that once set in motion, had a momentum of its own. Oh well, he thought, it'll pass.

He looked at his schedule and scoped out the rest of the day. It looked hard. Civics first, then English, then American History, and lunch. After lunch he had Phys. Ed., then Study Hall followed by Business Math. Considering everything, it looked okay. Study hall after Phys. Ed. was great, but winding up in math at the end of the day wasn't so hot. Still, the first half of the day looked to be the worst of it.

The first day turned out to be just a practice day. Home room period was extended, and all the other periods were shortened. This was to give each home room teacher time to review the daily routine with his charges, and to generally set guidelines regarding what was expected of the students. School rules, class changes, what the different bells meant, and who to see about what. Regulations, rules, and directions. Everything from proper lunch room etiquette, to what would be considered acceptable gym attire. He truly hated gym. It meant getting all sweaty, having to shower -- naked yet, for all to see. Then he would have to spend the rest of the day with wet hair. Very uncool.

Junior did not do well with rules either. It had always been his belief that rules were only for those who needed them. Those timid souls, unable to think and act on their own, without the benefit of someone's else's direction. It was, he thought, ridiculous to have to ask someone else if he could take a pee. I mean come on, he was thirteen years old, and certainly knew if he had to go or not. Raising your hand to ask some old lady if you could take a leak, why it was just degrading. No smoking, was another silly bit of nonsense. Okay, he could see how it would be a problem in class. But what would be the harm of a smoke at lunch? Didn't they know, that some rules caused you to break a different one, to get around the first one? Like, "No smoking on school grounds," would just make people leave the school grounds to do it. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
"No talking," was also about as stupid as anything he ever heard of. Who wanted to spend a day not talking? Especially if he just thought of something funny to say. They really did not expect him to abide by all of these directions, did they? Surely not. Why did they want him to be like everybody else all the time? It made no sense to tell young people to become independent, go your own way, and not to follow the crowd, then do everything possible to prevent any independent thought or action, by making it a crime. The system threatening all manner of evil punishment, up to and including suspension from school. Let us not forget the worst threat of all. "This will become part of your permanent record, and follow you all of your life." What pure crap! Who could possibly care if he talked in class, ten years from now? Even at thirteen, he could not be easily fooled. It absolutely set every nerve on edge to have someone take him for a fool, patronizing him with that silly adult refrain, "We know what's good for you." Crap, crap, crap!

It was irritating and painful to have a keen sharp mind in a boy's body. He felt saddled and restricted by adults bent on limiting his enjoyment of just living. Like Don Quixote, he tilted at windmills, unable to give in, raging against conformity regardless of the cost.

"Tuck your shirt in Junior." He would wear it out. "Get a haircut, you look terrible." He would let it grow longer. "Don't smoke." He would carry a pack of Luckys, rolled up in the sleeve of his tee shirt for all to see. He wore that pack of cigs like a medal. No one seemed to understand the depth of his rebellion. He didn't either. He worked diligently against all things deemed normal, by those seeking to control his life. He knew, that in any situation requiring submissive behavior, he would not. After all, his reputation and standing in his society were at stake. It was expected of him, and someone had to do it. They might not recognize his brilliance, but they would by God recognize him. These feelings were all below the surface, not conscious, just felt, a subliminal kind of thing. The urge to be different would overcome him, as if he had an invisible messenger whispering in his ear, begging him to do the opposite. It was irresistible.

First period bell, and, according to his new schedule, (that he has already drawn a few rockets on) he is to stay put. Civics is right here with his new pal, Mr. Quinlan. Kids get up and leave, just as a new group is coming in. Again the exercise of jockeying for position is played out. He stays in his seat, not knowing what to expect. Civics, he has no idea what that's about.
Mr. Q. raps a pointer on his desk, producing a loud crack, and quickly gets everyone's attention. Once again pointing out his name, and spelling it. This time he does not make reference to the perceived illiteracy of the group.

Civics, as it turns out, is the study of (even though it did not have an ogy ending) government in general. More specifically, American Government in general. The branches of government, the Constitution and Bill of Rights, and of course the Declaration of Independence. The who, what, where, why, and how of government. Junior was prepared for it to be boring, but he found himself being pulled along, due to Mr. Quinlan's runaway enthusiasm about everything governmental. Why the man actually lit up talking about the congress, and almost stroked out when he got into the Constitution.

Second period was English. Well not just English, but English Literature and Composition. The teacher, Mrs. Donovan, looked like the proverbial fat lady at the opera, but older. She had gray hair, all rolled up in a bun on the back of her head. She wore a plain dark gray dress, almost everyday. She had a long strand or pearls, that competed for space on her expansive chest, with eye glasses forever dangling on a chain around her neck. She would pick them up to read something, and drop them when finished. Junior wondered why she didn't just leave them on her nose, as it was obvious, she needed them to read anything at all. She was short and round, and very much like you'd expect most grandmothers to be, if they were to show up in a lit class. This lady was as consumed with her subject as the last guy. What was the most surprising was that these people thought the students would be excited too. Either it was a very good act, or they didn't have a clue. Junior reached the conclusion that teachers in general, spent too much time in a make believe world of books and theories. They seemed to have lost touch with real life, and did not understand that most of the kids would not be here at all, if they weren't forced to attend. Expecting teenagers to look forward to the joys of slugging through four hundred pages of some classic, was a bit much. Junior decided he would use the comic book version whenever possible. It would give him the gest of the plot, and all the character's names. With a little creativity, it would look as if he'd actually read the book~good plan. The room seemed overly hot, and it was making him sleepy. He hoped that the bell would ring soon~and there it was. He thought to himself that it was kind of spooky, to be thinking about the bell, and have it ring on cue. He mouthed the words, "Thank you lord," not quite loud enough to be heard.

Glad to be out of there, it was on to History, the American type. He noticed something that had not been apparent before. Only a few people had remained with him through three class changes. Because you had a friend in one class, did not necessarily mean he would be there in the next class. It was another part of his new life that he would have to adapt to. Being together all day with the same people led to close friendships. This would lead to more casual acquaintances, but probably fewer actual friends. It made for an increased anxiety level.
"Come to order, come to order, quiet," the new teacher was making her move. Miss Spence was her name, and history was her game. Those were her exact words. It was all he could do to suppress a laugh, but he managed. With one detention already, he was not up for another one.
Miss Spence was perfect for the part of the old maid school marm. If you were casting for a movie, she'd get the part. She looked forty something, but to teenagers anywhere from thirty to fifty is about the same, so it was really hard to tell. Over thirty is near death for kids, as far as Junior was concerned, Miss Spence was just another old lady school teacher. Unlike Mrs. Donovan, Miss Spence was tiny, both in height and build. Junior guessed her to be about 90 lbs., and maybe five feet tall with heels, but she had a voice that could cut glass. Holy Moly, she was loud. Not only loud, but when she was going for everyone's attention, she went up in pitch. The class would come to order quickly, if only out of self-defense. Later on, after several weeks of class, Junior noticed that she had a way of manipulating people. She would bring up a subject, call on someone, and ask what they thought about it. Then, after the poor fool hemmed and hawed his way through an answer, she would call on someone else, and ask if they agreed with the first guy. Then she'd ask somebody else, "Why?" By then she'd have a real argument started, with everyone actually wanting to get in on it. All these kids, being somewhat expert on the life of Tom Jefferson, found it hard to resist. Junior was one of the few who saw how slick she was. With the class literally argumentative over why a shot was fired at Concord, she would sit back and let it happen. Only occasionally, did she offer up a bit of clarification. Then she would fan the flames of interest by asking some other provocative question, sure to get a rise out of a dozen more experts. She became one of his favorites.

Lunch was always great. Not the food, just the break. It was fun just seeing the cafeteria ladies in all their glory. His elementary school did not have a cafeteria. Everyone brought a lunch, or went home to eat. His first exposure to the cafeteria people was, to say the least, a shock. Never before had he seen an uglier, fatter group of white women in one place. One of them had breasts that could only be described as mountainous. She was so huge, that it was impossible for her to touch both hands together. Now we're not talking attractive huge, but big fat ugly huge. It wasn't nice to make fun of people~everyone knew that. However, seventh grade boys lack the discipline to adhere to the proprieties of life. So every day, the cafeteria ladies were the focus of cruel jokes. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of funny things to say about Big Emma and her crew, as they came to be called. The word "Emma" took on a meaning of it's own, and became widely used in any situation requiring a negative comment, about a less- than-attractive female.

After lunch it was on to gym class. Junior was not good at sports. It wasn't that he was bad, just that his best friends were great in comparison. He was too small for football, or basketball, and too slow for track and field events. He did pretty well with baseball, but usually got assigned to the outfield. He was frequently one of the last ones picked, after suffering the humiliation of standing by, as the ritual involved in choosing up sides played itself out. The good players got picked first. They got to play short stop, or third base, or even pitch. The average, and not so average, knew their place. They waiting patiently for the chosen captain to run out of options, and finally pick them. Then it was on to right field. It was like being banished from the kingdom. The chatter and the fun, all seemed to take place in the infield. A kid could spend an entire period in right field, and never touch the ball. Of course the truth was, that he hoped he wouldn't have to touch the ball. It was probably the fear of failure, that actually kept Junior from being a good player. The thought of dropping the ball, or throwing it wildly away, caused him such stress that he couldn't perform normally. A self-fulfilling prophesy was created, and executed. So it was, that most of those banished to the outfield, hoped throughout the game that the ball would not come their way. Better to be not seen at all, than to look foolish.

Dodgeball was a different thing. Junior was, for some reason, world class at Dodgeball. He managed to avoid getting hit, by anticipating his opponent. He'd watch their eyes, and maintain his balance on the balls of both feet, not moving really, but just swaying and feinting from side to side, until he saw the throwers arm commit. Then he'd move. But only enough to side-step the ball. Then it was important to turn and face the opposite direction, get to the back of the court, and prepare for the next throw. The dodgers that got hit early, did too much running around, and didn't focus on the ball. Junior was totally focused. He could feel the flow of the game, and made it a point to get into position quickly. When it was his team's turn to man the throw line, he was deadly. He'd scan the other team for the player not paying attention, and take him out. He could look one way, and throw another, using peripheral vision to hit his target. He really enjoyed it, if he was able to knock another player off their feet. He loved Dodgeball.

The rest of the Phys. Ed. activities held no attraction for him. He hated running laps, and doing exercises. Tumbling and wrestling weren't too bad, but for the most part, gym class sucked. Maybe it was because he had to interrupt the day, change clothes and get sweaty, then get showered, and go to another class with a wet head. He particularly hated getting naked in front of everybody, it was so demeaning. Plus, no matter how hard he tried, he could not make his hair look right after gym class. You could not be cool after gym.

At last, his favorite subject, study hall. Junior found it especially relaxing because there was no agenda in study hall. No one making you stand up to read something. No one asking you questions, about things you knew nothing about. No one deliberately trying to embarrass you in front of everyone else. In study hall you could decide for yourself what to do. Why you could even do nothing at all, as long as you pretended to be doing something. Some of the guys liked to act up, and generally clown around in study hall, eventually getting into trouble, or at least earning a detention. Junior just enjoyed his own company, and tended to ignore the foolishness around him. Study hall was like a sanctuary to him, to be treated with respect. Sometimes he actually did some work. He found it a good time to lose himself in the classic of the month, that Mrs. Donovan always seemed so proud of.

The truth was, he liked to read. He was like his father in that regard. His dad had read to him a lot when he was younger. He would sit for hours in the living room, listening to his dad read from his set of Tarzan Books. His dad had a copy of everything written by Edgar Rice Burroughs. The Tarzan series was all hard bound copies, while some of his other stories were paperbacks, collected over the years. His dad was also fond of Twain, and read Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn to him, when he was about seven or eight. His father would go to the library weekly, and always come home with a stack of books. Junior often thought back on those days, and wished things could be like that again. Somewhere along the way that relationship was lost. It was replaced by one of indifference to each other. His whole family now existed in a sort of disconnected state. They lived in the same house, and usually had meals together. Physically they were a family. Mentally, he didn't know what they were. He did know that something was missing, he was just too young to know what. Thank God for study hall.

The last period of the day was always a favorite of his. Not because of the subject, just because it was last. This semester it was math ~ Business Math. In elementary school it was plain old arithmetic, now they had to have different names for dealing with numbers. He wondered to himself, if using Business Math would result in a different answer when multiplying a couple numbers together? If the answer came out the same as it would in arithmetic, then why the name change? This class was a prerequisite for algebra. According to his counselor, it was necessary for him to take it. Why, he had no idea. He had seen some algebra problems, and wondered why anyone cared what an imaginary "x" was equal to. It made no sense. To him it seemed like pure busy work. Work for work's sake, as they say.

The teacher walked in, and the room got quiet. She didn't have to say anything, it just got quiet. Standing there in front of the class, was perhaps the largest colored women Junior had ever seen. She had on a tent-like black dress, with glasses hanging around her neck, much like Mrs. Donovan. She was larger than Donovan, and he sensed immediately that she was happier, friendlier, and in general more approachable than Mrs. Donovan. This women had something he couldn't put his finger on, but it was obvious from the first minute, that Mrs. Irmateen Johnson was going to be fun. She radiated it like a mini-sun, shining so brightly, that even her dark skin couldn't hide it. He liked her, and she hadn't even opened her mouth yet.

Mrs. Johnson put her hands together, in front of her chest as if in prayer. It seemed to Junior, that this was no easy feat to accomplish. Then with a large smile, and a booming voice, she introduced herself.

"My name is Mrs. Johnson, and I will be your math teacher this year. Those of you going on to Algebra, will probably see me there too. I love math, and hope to help you feel that way too. But hear this, I want us to have fun in here, but I don't put up with no sass! If I say do something, then I mean for you to do it, just that way. In here we do things my way, the Johnson way. Now, if there are no questions, let's get those books open to Chapter 1."

Junior was impressed, but not alarmed. He sensed that even though he would often get on Mrs. J's last nerve, that she would be a fun teacher, and a friend to him. She talked tough, but couldn't hide how she felt about her job, and her kids. This would not be a bad way to end each day.

He felt better about his chances of surviving Junior High School. The fear he felt earlier, had retreated to the level of simple apprehension. He was still concerned about not measuring up, but no longer in dread of the changes he faced, or the challenges on the horizon.
He thought to himself, as the final bell rang, "This ain't so bad."