Furness Junior High School could have been a prison. It was an old stone building that was surrounded, or should I say locked in, by a black, Iron Gate that had each spoke sharpened at the end in the shape of a spear; A Roman Legion rampart had to be the inspiration for the design. In fact, there where quite a few episodes of kids getting partially impaled in the attempts to climb over the top to make an unauthorized break off the grounds.
All the windows were also gated with steel mesh. If you sat near the window in the spring, the reflection of the sun that struck the window would leave an imprint that looked like a German waffle on your face.
I can only describe the interior as a dingy, marble gothic; water fountains that looked like miniature horse-troughs lined the hallway to supply water that had to be pumped directly from the Nile. I can recall an underclassmen once asking my why the water was yellow and I replied that the administration was kind enough to pump Tang through the system to keep us all happy. It was a believable explanation considering Tang had just been invented as a result of the Space Program. It’s just too bad that Tang wasn’t as yellow as the water—I might have drunk more of it.
Yeah, the only thing we were missing was a Principal who looked like George Raft to make our own Film Noir.
It was in this environment that the groundwork was laid which established my future psyche. The experience that made me the man that I am today—a man steeped in democratic tradition, a man who would fight for truth, justice, and the American Way.
Yuk, you kidding’ me? What, me worry?
1961 was my breakout year. I earned my jock strap just on the basis of a few things that changed with my body—you know, that puberty thing. It also was the one and only time that I participated in a grade school ritual of stupidity called Elections. The whole process of creating a student, elected body, at least in those times, was to impart the experience of the democratic process into our pubescent heads. And, indeed, this special course in brainwashing had its affect on many of us. After all, Vietnam was just around the corner. Many of my friends happily and proudly marched off to that endeavor vowing to make New Jersey safe for Democracy. I don’t hold those souls guilty for such emotions, just the adult fools who filled their heads with those blind, thoughtless motivations.
Student administration was nothing more than a shell of the American governmental experience. You could say or propose anything you wanted to—as long as it was pre-approved and reviewed by your teacher-sponsor. In modern language we refer to this person as a Censor, and, as we know, Censors do their best work in totalitarian states. But, realistically, there wasn’t anything to censor. Everyone was programmed to say all the right things—“this process is going to instill in us the spirit of the U.S. Constitution and Yada, Yada, Yada.” And all who ran for whatever office, Prez, Treasurer, etc., dutifully fell in line and played by the script; that is, until “yours truly” threw his hat in the ring and brought on change that rocked that tiny educational community on its butt—I decided to run for President of the school!
This was a decision that had a lot of people scratching their heads—students and teachers alike. I was a good student, but wasn’t part of the intellectual cadre—for the most part, they were the sons and daughters of the neighborhood’s professional people. I was a street kid. All of my friends were street kids. We played football with no equipment and occasionally would get into quarrels with kids from other neighborhoods; you know, fights.
My opponents for this race were formidable. First there was Jerome. Jerome was a geek before the word existed. I’m sure he went on to open a tech company of some description. Secondly, we had Brenda. She was one of a set of bookend twins. Together, she and Jerome represented the “Jewish Vote.” My biggest obstacle, however, was the fourth candidate, Renate Keifer. Renate was the Marlena Dietrich of the 8th grade. She was born in Germany, and spoke with a slight, German accent. If it is possible to be sultry when you’re 13, she was sultry.
I knew that if I were to win this contest I would have to take a different course—a course that would offer change and a new beginning to the tired, pedantic urgings of our teachers and administrators.
The day of our campaign speeches, which was an address to the assembled student body, went exactly as I had expected. My 3 political opponents towed the line and talked about democracy and all the wonderful things they had learned from our grade school political primer.
And then it was my turn. My teacher-sponsor did not have a copy or clue that the speech I had given her was a sham. I was going to go wide out! And I did. In the course of the 8 minutes allotted to make my case, I promised to refurbish the entire school—and get rid of those damn fountains, add a new gymnasium where we wouldn’t have to take our shoes off when we wanted to dance, and lastly, and most importantly, shorten the school day by 1 hour.
My opponents had an opportunity for questions and rebuttal, but all I had as a response was, “What, me worry.” Alfred E. Neumann had entered my body never to leave!
After this auspicious beginning things got into the muck, the way of a normal political election. Somehow the rumor got our that Jerome, who was Jewish, was really Japanese. The Second World War was still fresh in a lot of memories, so this was an easy sale; and, besides, he looked Japanese. The bookend twin, Brenda was said to be one-half of a Siamese set and her counter-part sister, was said to have the brain. Now Renate, she was difficult to overcome—but not impossible. It soon got around school that her parents had escaped the allies soon after the war. It wasn’t my fault that her Dad kind of resembled Martin Boorman. As a for Renate, she was caught kissing in the cloak in the same term as the election. It wasn’t long before the prostitution rumors started. Thirteen years old and already in the pits!
To put it in historic and political context, I ran away with the election in a landslide.
Although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I guess I made a big impression on the National political scene. It seems like everyone has followed my lead over the years as to how to run an effective campaign. Just remember the Truth is relative—and I don’t like my Relatives!
Alfred E., where are you when you’re needed?
Billy P
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