When I was in the seventh grade, I took drafting. I have no idea why. Was it required? I doubt it. I went to Nova Junior/Senior High School, an experimental school in Ft. Lauderdale that had been funded by the Ford Foundation in response to Sputnik’s launch. Everyone was suddenly afraid of the Russian superiority in space.
(An aside: my brother was an astrophysicist who did a lot of defense department work that he couldn’t talk about. But he told me that when he talked to a Russian at a conference—and how did that ever happen?—the Russian said, “You are afraid that we will push button. So are we because perhaps nothing happens.” That conversation recalls the movie made of John LeCarre’s novel, The Russia House, in which a CIA guy says that news that the Russians have less than stellar nuclear capability isn’t something that their “clients”—the defense industry—wants to hear. Is EVERYTHING dirty? Yes.)
Let me wrench you back to the story. In any event, I took a class in drafting. The days escape me now, but I recall a couple of details. One, the teacher was in his 40’s, perhaps, and his name was Robert Schaefer. He combed his dark hair over his head, but he wasn’t bald; he just combed it harshly that way. He had large, protuberant teeth. Not that he was smiling. He wore a suit and tie; in those days, 1966 or so, the teachers tended at least to wear ties. I did when I taught through the mid-70’s at Auburn, and, though I wasn’t alone, it wasn’t necessarily the done thing.
I wish I hadn’t worn a tie. I genially mismatched them with my shirts. I’ve always had a casual relationship with fashion.
One day or days, my classmates and I were tasked with creating, in effect, a box. But first we had to draw lines on a sheet of paper, very precisely, then cut along the lines. Then we would fold the sheet of paper into a box, and then tape it together.
This has always, to this day, presented me with a challenge. Yet, seventh grader that I was, and raised by authority-respecting parents as I had been, and because I am a lawyer, I followed instructions.
Yet, yet, I am hindered by my abilities. I did the best I could, but there were shall we say defects. It’s hard to recall now, but I’m pretty sure that, for instance, the sides did not end at the tops but ended up above. There were other defects, I’m sure; I bet that my box was a little lopsided.
I presented it to Mr. Schaefer, who examined it perfunctorily. He made several comments, none of which I recall. Except the last, spoken in a raised voice: “You take no pride in your work!”
Oh. Imagine, if you will, my seventh grade self. I had maybe turned 12. My mother threw me out of the house to go to first grade when I was five; after two other kids, she was probably sick to death of me. She sure acted like it later. So I was a young seventh grader.
Not to plead for mercy, but it was a new school for me, in a new city: we had moved from Morgantown, West Virginia, the previous summer, to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, as big a change as one could imagine. I was still carrying around some baby fat. I didn’t know anything about being cool, or even that one could be cool. Even a couple of years later, I thought it was a good idea to match the color of my socks with that of my shirt. I was bullied. Some kid told me to “go blow a dead bear”, surely one of the least efficacious sexual acts imaginable. I was so clueless that I didn’t realize how unhappy I was. When I told my mother I wanted to leave, she told me to give it some time. Still, it was junior high school. How happy could I be, no matter what?
I didn’t react to Mr. Schaefer. He was an authority figure, and I had been taught to respect authority figures.
That has changed radically. Now I ask, “Why does that person have so much power? Who lets them get away with that?” I’m too old to put up with bullshit like Mr. Schaefer’s anymore, but then, it wasn’t a fair fight.
I suppose I took my misshaped box and went back to my seat. The rest of the day, week, year, takes up very little of my memory.
Oh, I did fall victim to the most stupid of pranks. I attended a junior high school football game, where there were no bleachers. I stood on the sideline with everyone else. A fellow holding the first down marker looked at me and said, “Here, hold this a minute, I’ll be right back.” I did. Of course he never returned. I’m guessing he’s in Club Fed on a securities violation now.
At some point, I started to move, thinking that a first down had been signalled, but I was wrong. An upperclassman sneered at me, “A typical seventh year stunt!” It took the officials a couple of minutes to sort it out, but what the fuck, it was a junior high school game in south Florida, and no one died. Why do I recall it so clearly?
For the same reason I recall Mr. Schaefer’s blistering appraisal. I’ve only wondered over the years why he treated me so harshly. I was just a chubby, nerdy little seventh grader. I was no threat to Mr. Schaefer.
I’m guessing that he was enraged not by me but was frustrated by his own life. Consider Mr. Schaefer: middle aged, no future, no hope, his wife probably hates him, his kids are rebelling (it’s 1966, after all), and he’s underpaid and underappreciated. Still, that’s really no reason to take it out on me. Still, Mr. Schaefer is human.
I wish I knew him now. He could have reviewed the briefs I wrote for litigation, carefully researched, eloquently written, efficiently completed, and winning. I took pride in that work, for sure, Mr. Schaefer. (Though my assertion “Defendant’s motion is the kind that makes the general public hate lawyers” was cut on demand of a partner.)
And my books: I meticulously researched, painstakingly wrote, constantly revised, constantly revised. Find fault with those books, Mr. Schaefer. Did you write any books, Mr. Schaefer?
The fact of the matter is, I’m no good at drawing lines on paper and cutting it out and taping it together. I also freely admit that I can’t do math, any science, or much of anything except write, teach, and edit. But those I do awfully goddamn well. Also, I’ve taught myself how to cook and how to invest. I know a lot of really bright people who can’t do either of those.
I’m in conflict about that moment. It was unfair of Mr. Schaefer to embarrass a chubby little guy in front of his peers, most of whom laughed at his last name and teased him. Yet Mr. Schaefer must have had an objectively awful life. Yet he shouldn’t have taken it out on me. What should he have done? Not demolished what remained of my self-esteem, for sure. Maybe patted me on the back and said, “Think about trying to line up everything better next time, OK?”
Much better than telling a 12 year old that he takes no pride in his work. That’s pretty sad. Obviously we need to be paying our teachers more. No mystery there.
The picture below is of a generic high school taken off of the Internet. I couldn't find a picture of my high school, so I just pulled one off of the Internet. Nova may or may not look like this. I wanted to provide a caption to that effect, but my fucking blog host changes everything all the time, and I can't figure out how to do it. I hate America.
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