by Bob Purssell
My underdeveloped social skills, combined with my solitary nature, affected my sexual development. Unlike many of my peers, until well into my junior year I had little romantic and no sexual interest in boys.
Much of that would change in my third year at the high school.
* * *
Wondering if I should stay for my senior year or leave for college a year early, the first day of classes that junior year, I surreptitiously evaluated the high school and my place in it. Two of the seniors on the girls’ ice hockey team, who were logical candidates, told me they felt I should be the captain. Since I had not considered that possibility, their expression of confidence simultaneously amazed me and boosted my morale. The new assistant principal, Mr. Bernstein, enthusiastically greeted me by name. Later, I would realize he did that routinely to virtually everyone. However, at the time, I was very impressed and much appreciated his consideration.
Ultimately, what swayed me the most was the general attitude of my fellow students. They actually seemed to want me around. That was very much a revelation to me. By the end of the second day of my junior year, I realized that I truly liked the school and did not want to leave prematurely.
At dinner, I announced that I did not want to go to college a year early. That amused my parents, so I asked, “Why are you smiling? Did I say something funny?”
“No,” answered my mother. “It’s just that we were not sure how you would decide.”
“I like it around here.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” warned my father. “Before you know it, you’ll be off to college.”
After I explained the factors influencing my decision, my mother observed, “That brings us back to the question that started all of this: what are you going to do about your studies next year?”
Since I hadn’t given the matter much thought, figuring I had to say something, I suggested I would take courses at a local community college during my senior year. Neither of my parents evinced any enthusiasm for my idea. My father asked, “Have you looked into what courses they offer?”
I had glanced at the online catalog; it had not impressed me. Not wanting to admit that my idea was a non-starter, I answered, “I’ve just started looking.”
My father’s reply, “You still have time, but I wouldn’t dillydally,” left me with the impression he already knew I would not find what I was looking for at the community college.
I looked at my mother who gave me a knowing nod. Getting the hint, I responded, “I understand. I’ll start looking.”
* * *
That evening, I started searching the Internet for online advanced placement courses. For the first time in my life, I got a dose of financial reality, education style. The Advanced Placement Calculus course I was considering cost $1,500 per year, not counting books and calculators. Confronted by the reality that a single course would cost nearly $2,000, I realized my budding desire to take three AP courses came with a $6,000 price tag. Education expenses, I was quickly learning, could rapidly run into serious money.
A few days later, when we had finished dinner, I admitted to my parents that the local community college was not the answer. Moving on, I explained, “I’m thinking about taking some online advanced placement courses.”
“Which ones?” asked my mother.
“French, calculus, and computer science,” I replied. “Unfortunately, they’re expensive.”
Ignoring my observation, my mother asked, “Do you know anything about these courses?”
Rather lamely, I explained, “I found them on the Internet. They seem okay.”
After saying, “Well, you’ve made a start,” my father asked, “Would you mind if your mother and I look at what you found?”
“No—I mean sure. I’ll give you their Internet addresses.”
* * *
A month or so went by. To my surprise, during that period neither of my parents brought up the subject of my taking advanced placement courses in my senior year. A couple of times I had been on the verge of initiating a discussion, but for some reason, I let the matter slip. Then my father unexpectedly asked, “Your mother and I have done some research on your proposal to take advanced placement courses. Would you like to hear how we’ve made out?”
I almost said, I thought you’d forgotten, but, instead, I replied, “Sure.”
After a nod from my mother, my father began, “I spoke to the teacher at your school who teaches AP chemistry.”
At one time, my high school had an extensive advanced placement program. A series of budget cuts and the retirement of several older teachers had eliminated all the courses save AP chemistry. Around the school it was common speculation that when the not too popular, elderly teacher retired, AP chemistry would likely disappear also.
“In confidence,” my father continued, “the instructor told me that he would stay on, but only if the school board funds the AP chemistry course.”
Once again, there was that link between money and education. Aloud, I wondered, “Do you think they will?”
“There’s a possibility, but only a possibility, that the school board will fund the course. I’ve written them a letter supporting the funding for AP courses.”
I asked, “Do you think they’ll listen to you?”
“Hard to say,” observed my father. “Traditionally, our school district has had a bias toward athletics and special education. The former superintendent made no secret of the fact he felt advanced courses were elitist. However, the NAEP[21] scores were down for the third time in five years, so, perhaps, the new superintendent will see things differently.”
My father’s newfound interest in my high school came as a surprise. He had always viewed the local public schools with disdain. Now, he was actively encouraging them to change.
My father switched the subject. “You had calculus on your list. I did some exploring on the Internet. The course looks okay, but you will have no one to help you if you got stuck.”
“You could help me.”
“Barbara, I’m not comfortable with that approach. I believe you’d learn more from a professional.”
My father’s objection was a stunner. On matters technical, he had always been my expert. Before I could counter his assertion, he continued, “I’ve found an Indian firm that provides tutors.”
“But, Father, that’s for kids who are failing.”
“Yes, remedial education constitutes the bulk of their business. But the president of the company told me he can arrange for an associate professor of mathematics to tutor you in AP calculus.”
Stunned that my father had gone halfway round the world to find me a tutor, I exclaimed, “Cool!”
“Good, I’ll have the fellow I’ve been talking to set up a phone interview.”
Overwhelmed, in a rare display of the impulsive, I jumped out of my chair, went around the dinner table and gave my father a hug. Amazed and beaming, he told me, “Your mother has been busy, too.”
With my arms still around my father’s neck, I looked at my mother. She explained, “I had a conversation with a very nice woman who works at the French consulate in New York. She made a number of suggestions, each of whom I spoke with.”
I could imagine the woman’s reaction to an American who was both fluent and literate in French. Beaming, even more excited, I asked, “And?”
“One of the recommends impressed me: an online school that teaches French using an Internet classroom. It will give you a chance to develop your linguistic skills.”
My mother did not give out compliments lightly, so the words “impressed me” were high praise indeed. Recognizing what my parents had done for me, I blurted out, “I thought—I mean—you went to a lot of effort.”
Seconding my thought, my father said, “Your mother certainly did.”
“No—I mean yes—the both of you did.” Then I ha
d a realization. Slowly, tentatively, I asked, “This is going to cost a lot, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied my mother, “but it’s an investment that your father and I want to make.” Then she gave me one of her motherly warnings, “I’m glad that you recognize all this comes at a price, a very considerable price.”
In bed that night, I reflected on my good fortune. At school, my classmates often picked apart their parents. Reflecting on what my parents had done and would do for me, I realized how lucky I was to be a member of a family with both the means and the desire to fund my education.
* * *
Since they were unstinting in their financial support, since they had done so much to get me tutorial support, I did not press my parents about my third choice, AP computer science. If I continued to do well in school—I was confident that I would—and if I did well on the AP calculus, chemistry, and French exams, I would have a strong high school academic record. Figuring I did not need advanced placement computer science for acceptance at a good college, I decided not to pursue that subject.
* * *
My decision lasted a week. All during that week, something gnawed at me. Maybe I was being prideful; perhaps I was displaying an independent streak; but all the while, I toyed with the idea of studying AP computer science on my own. You see, to get college credit for an AP course you had to take an examination given by the College Board organization. Your score on that exam, and that score alone, determined if you would receive college credit. How you prepared, if you took a course or not, was entirely up to you and had no direct effect on whether you did or did not get college credit.
Finally, I decided to see how far I would get on my own. Frugal by nature, I had saved some money from my allowance and babysitting. Using those savings, I bought a used book from an Internet retailer that specifically addressed the AP computer science exam. On the Internet, I purchased and downloaded the reduced price, academic version of a JAVA compiler. Far from finding the computer science material difficult, I enjoyed programming and working with data structures. In fact, what began as an effort to get college credit turned into a life-changer. From that modest start, until I got involved in national politics, I was heavily involved in some aspect of information science on an almost daily basis.
* * *
Before my junior year, the longtime coach of the boys’ hockey team unexpectedly retired and moved away. The school district tried to hire an experienced replacement, but, for whatever reason, they could not find anyone to take the position. In desperation, they gave the job to a man who perfectly fit my mother’s definition of average.
To the dismay of the players, the new coach had neither an interest in nor an understanding of the game of ice hockey. The first two practice sessions were little more than pickup games after a few warm-up skates around the rink. One did not have to be an expert on the game to figure out that if this situation did not change the season would soon become a disaster.
Since the girls practiced before the boys, I saw firsthand what was becoming of the boys’ team. Now a most loyal booster of my high school, I, like the boys, was much annoyed and felt that the coach was letting the team down. When I said as much to the coach of the girls’ team, she told me, “There’s nothing I can do. It’s his team.”
On the third day, after telling the boys to warm up, the new coach excused himself to make an “important call.” This was too much for me. Without anyone asking me to get involved, I put my skates back on, got on the ice and blew the whistle the coach had left on a clipboard.
Amazed, the boys looked at me. One asked, “What are you doing, O’Leary?”
Fibbing, I said, “Your coach told me to start the practice.”
“Bull,” said the goalie.
“Who made you the coach?” mocked a defenseman.
“What’s a coach?” was a wing’s retort.
“Do what she says,” growled George, the team’s leading scorer.
More out of relief that order had replaced chaos, as opposed to any confidence in my leadership, the boys began the ritual of skating drills. Occasionally, I glanced over to see if the coach had reappeared. He had not.
Toward the end of the practice session, I organized a scrimmage in which I dropped the puck, refereed the action, and changed lines and defenses. When our practice time was up, I blew the whistle and said, “Practice is over.”
“Thanks,” said a grateful senior.
“Your check is in the mail,” was another player’s comment.
* * *
The next day, three of the seniors on the boys’ team approached me as I waited in the lunch line. The captain of the team told me, “We want to talk.”
“Now?” I asked.
“Yeah,” replied George.
The four of us sat at an empty table. When another student tried to sit down with us, the defenseman bluntly told him to, “Beat it.”
“Okay,” said the captain, “here’s the deal. We talked to our coach. We told him we want you to be our team manager.”
Anticipating my objection, George explained. “It means you’ll be our real coach. That way, our imaginary coach doesn’t have to do diddly squat.”
Incredulous, I asked, “Your coach agreed to this?”
“We told him it was you, or we were going to the administration,” boasted the defenseman.
Warily, I asked, “You’ll do what I say?”
“We recognize it offends the natural order of things.”
“Can it, George,” growled the captain.
“Will you do it?” pleaded the defenseman.
Flattered, amazed, I agreed and so began my career as team manager and de facto coach of boys’ hockey.
One might think the appointed coach, nicknamed Imaginary Coach by his players, would have objected to my usurpation of his position. To my astonishment, that was not the case. Content to do little, he let me run the practices.
* * *
Just before the beginning of the winter sports season, the high school held a pep rally in the gymnasium. As part of the program, each team’s captain was expected to say a few words. The goal of these orations: motivate the students, particularly those who were not athletes, to attend the games and cheer the school’s teams to victory.
Usually, the obviously unprepared captains would shuffle to the microphone and awkwardly say a few generalities. Often these extemporaneous speeches would include grammatical errors, irrelevancies, Freudian slips, and logical inconsistencies. Some of these gaffs were so memorable that they became part of the high school’s lore. For example, one time a captain referred to his obese coach, Mr. Hughes, as Mr. Huge. When misstatements like this happened, the nonathletic students seized upon these blunders as proof positive that anyone proficient at playing organized sports consequently possessed moronic intelligence.
Since I was the newly elected captain, a week before the event, the coach of the girl’s hockey team informed me that I was to speak at the pep rally. That evening, in passing, I mentioned this fact at dinner. My mother asked, “What do you intend to say?”
“I don’t know; I’ll think of something.”
“How many will be in attendance?” asked my father.
“Everyone in the school.”
My mother inquired, “Does everyone include the teachers and the school staff?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
My mother asked, “Let me understand, you intend, without any preparation, with no real experience in public speaking, to get up in front of hundreds of people and hope something appropriate comes out of your mouth?”
The light went on and I blurted out, “Oh.”
* * *
Galvanized by the exchange at dinner, that evening I wrote down a first draft of what I would say. I showed the draft to my father, and he asked me to read it aloud. Embarrassed by my own wor
ds, before my father could make any critique, I retreated to my room.
Two evenings and many drafts later, I read my latest version to my father. After telling me, “You’ve made a good start,” he talked to me about cadence and rhythm. Back I went to my room; the next evening I read to him again. After telling me, “Better yet,” my father instructed me to repeat my speech from memory. When I protested I had not memorized it, he said, “Try it anyway. See what happens.”
Most of the speech came out. Some of it sounded good, but other parts were awkward. My father explained, “Not every speech can be spoken by every speaker. Work on the rough spots until you feel comfortable.”
Feeling I was getting somewhere, I edited and rehearsed. With only two days left until the pep rally, I once again presented my speech to my father. He summoned my mother, and I repeated it for her. When I finished, she asked me to do it again. After saying, “I like it,” my mother suggested, “You’ll have to speak louder; throw your voice. Also, as you talk, remember to look about the audience. Make eye contact.”
After I nodded that I understood, my mother asked, “What are you going to wear?”
I answered, “What I always wear to school, I suppose.”
My mother gave me a look and then suggested to my surprise, “Your black pantsuit with the gold blouse would match your school colors.”
Surprised my mother would suggest I wear pants, fearful of looking overdressed and out of place, I observed, “All the other captains will be wearing ordinary stuff.”
“I take it then that the pep rally isn’t important to the other captains.”
In my conversations with my counterparts, I had also gotten that impression. Nonetheless, I asked, “Why do you say that?”