Senior Year in High School

I was elected president of the student council in the senior year (1965-6) at Brookfield Central High School. It was easy to be elected because no one else ran. Clark Beier was the president of the senior class (he attended Dartmouth).

During the summer between my junior and senior year in high school, there was a State of Wisconsin meeting in Madison for potential student leaders.

• I had a roommate, and he talked about using mild drugs; that confused and frightened me. I had never heard anyone speak of the subject, nor was I aware of anyone who used drugs.

• We were broken into small groups, and I greatly enjoyed meeting bright kids from wider backgrounds. Groups were told to make beautiful table cloths, and our group made a pure white one, partly to show beauty and partly to state that national political approaches were narrow and boring. We were not praised.

• On the drive home the radio announced the racist riot in Los Angeles. I started to understand massive national turmoil.

A few seniors from several high schools were invited to a regular meeting with a county judge. We skipped some classes and drove out to Waukesha. The judge was late and unimpressive. The next day, my school principal asked me what occurred and what my thoughts were. When I told him my negatives, he appreciated my comments, and canceled all future meetings with the judge.

My algebra teacher, Joe Foss, made a 25-cent bet that no one could solve a particular problem. No other student took the bet. It snowed that night, school was cancelled the next day, and I figured it out. The teacher complained that I had unfair extra time to work on the problem, but he reluctantly gave me a quarter. That same firm teacher, at another time, told me to keep my foot off of the desk in front of me. I showed him the cast on my leg; he was embarrassed, and dropped the request.

In my role as president of student council, I was assigned to introduce people performing various entertainments in front of the entire school. It was a straightforward job. However, whenever I introduced someone for a performance of some kind, I always made a joke or light-hearted comment. They were not dirty jokes, but they were not expected. My English teacher was upset with me for such an approach. She demanded that I review with her my planned comments prior to any meeting. I ignored her. On a sad note, several years later, this English teacher committed suicide. My only guess is that she was grumpy and depressed.

I was asked to lead an evening dinner program to recognize individuals involved in sports. Students and parents attended, as did some faculty. It was a big gathering. During the meeting there was a thunder storm; lightning hit the gym roof and made a small hole. It reminded me of a joke.

An old man lived in a small house. An enormous thunderstorm approached, and a huge lightning bolt struck his house. The man was terrified and furious, and he stood and pointed to the sky, and shouted. “Why me lord? Why me?” From the sky a hand appeared, a large finger pointed at the man, and a loud voice shouted, “Because you piss me off.”

A couple of men in the audience laughed very hard, but in general there was a very painful silence. The principal of the school passed me a note and demanded that I apologize. I did. My parents drove me home and my mother may have made a critical remark, but I particularly remember my father. He drove the car, and said calmly that making the slightly inappropriate joke was not a big deal, and not to allow the criticisms to hurt my feelings. It was very kind, and it helped me.

One day in April, I was called to the Principal’s Office. Mom handed me college letters; I was accepted to Harvard, Yale, and Northwestern.