A Gifted Student

On Friday I read an article in the Saint Petersburg Times about a local young lady named Jem Lugo. She just had graduated from High School and was the class valedictorian. She graduated with an un-weighted 3.98 grade-point average and is going on to Harvard University on a scholarship.

Not many students from this neck of the woods will ever be going to Harvard, let alone on a full scholarship. This is a gifted young lady.

Valedictorians must give a commencement speech at the graduation ceremony. The School Administrators had informed her several months before, that she was graduating at the top of her class; so she did some research on the internet. She read some former Valedictorian speeches (High School, as well as College) to get ideas and found them all to be blasé and unmoving. She wanted to say something that made a difference to her classmates.

She, of course, had to submit her commencement address to the “powers that be” prior to graduation. These powers rejected the speech as being too realistic and asked her to tone it down. This she did, out of deference to the ‘powers that be”. Not only was she a good student, she also respected the system.

I have read both the original and diluted versions. You should also! - click here

Back in my day, our speeches were not censored or even read by the teachers or administrators before they were given. My class Valedictorian was a girl named Marie. She sat directly in front of me in many of our classes (we were seated alphabetically – for what reason, I never understood). When taking a test she would move her head to the side so that I could see her paper. This was not to cheat, but to see if my answers were reasonably correct.

Marie was a real Plain Jane and she was considered to be a Wallflower (what we irreverently called a mouse). She never went to High School Football games or came out for Pizza with the gang. She was always at home or in the library studying. We were friends in the classroom, but not on a social level.

Her commencement speech was excellent. She quoted and/or paraphrased some of the lines in John F. Kennedy’s New Frontier speech (when he accepted the nomination for President in 1960).

“We can have faith in the future only if we have faith in ourselves.”

Marie's own words were also very stirring; this I never expected from her, as she was never outspoken about anything. I sat entranced and wondered why I had never gotten to know her better on a more personal level. She spoke powerful words; spoken by a seemly un-powerful (but extremely intelligent) person. A Dormouse!

Recently, I spoke to one of my former High School teachers. Both he and his wife, who also taught at the same high school, remembered Marie. They didn’t remember me, only my name, although I finished in the top 12% (64th - probably thanks to Marie, and the class Salutatorian Mikki who were my study partners in several of my classes) of my class of 532 students.

You always remember the number one (student or athlete), and sometimes forget about the others as the years pass.

I was a good, but not an exceptional student. Marie was exceptional, and her commencement exercise words still ring in my mind to this day.

I hope that Jem Lugo’s teachers and classmates will remember her commencement address also.


The Beach Bum

I Still Have Some RAM Remaining

A month ago I wrote a Blog about my High School days. An old friend (much older than I am) had attended the same Chicago High School but graduated the year before I entered. Using the nom de plume of Hardware Bob he left a comment on the aforementioned Blog.


In his comment he questioned my memory about our Journalism teacher’s first name. Like me, he was on the Herald staff as a Junior and Senior. He was going to find a Yearbook (Harrisonian) and look it up to prove me wrong.

My yearbooks are well hidden away somewhere in my sister’s attic. The last time I went looking for something in my sister’s attic I was missing in action for three days; this attic makes Fibber McGee’s closet look barren and well organized. Therefore there was no sense in calling her and asking her to find one of my old yearbooks.

I tried calling a few old High School friends with no avail; they agreed with me about the first name. Next I tried to find some of my old teachers. Most of them had common surnames and it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

However I did find a telephone number for my Biology teacher (he had a unique surname), who was also my academic advisor. I tried three different times within a two week period without any success. I left messages on the answering machine; stating my name and the years that I attended the high school. No reply! I gave up and said “Oh well.”

Finally, this past Saturday, we made contact.

Much to my chagrin, he remembered my name, but not me personally. I’ve always thought that I was an unforgettable character. How could anyone forget, in my opinion, one of the most brilliant Biology students in his class? Of course, I was in a classroom full of geniuses (Honors Students) who got upset when they only received an E (B). In fact our class Valedictorian (Marie Z) received only 2 E’s in High School, the rest S’s (A’s). My former teacher said jokingly that the E's were probably in Gym.

We spoke about several of my other classmates including my old friend and co-conspirator Mykhiala (Micki). She was our class Salutatorian (she probably got 3 E’s). She and I went together (as Forrest Gump would say) like Peas and Carrots. Her brain power (not that I wasn’t a genius) and my quick wit made a good team. We wrote a one act play together in our Sophomore English class. I found that teaming up with her (as a study partner) would improve my grades.

Ironically, my former Biology teacher’s wife was one of my Sophomore year English teachers. I had forgotten that he had married her in my junior year (and was forced to transfer to another school in my senior year – some silly Chicago Board of Education rule). She remembered the play well, as many of the characters in the play were loosely based on our perception of our teachers. It was a comedic farce about attending high school in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. Unfortunately the Drama Club never preformed the play. I wish I still had a copy (it may be in my sister’s attic)!

After more than an hour long pleasant conversation, I got to the bottom line. “Do you remember Mr. Wiley, the Herald Staff Faculty Sponsor?” “Of course I do, Joe and I were friends, and he also was in charge of the Yearbook Staff (this I didn’t remember).”

Shortly thereafter I call Hardware Bob to crow.

The Beach Bum

High School Daze

The last two Guest Blogs by Loopy made me reminisce to the first semester of my Junior Year of High School.

At the close of the sophomore year we had to choose our elective classes for the following Fall Semester. My Student Advisor suggested that I take Journalism; he said that I should do well. The teacher of this course was one of my past English teachers and I thought that he was pretty cool; so I said OK.

That left a half credit (minor) class, and there weren’t many to choose from on the list, for me to select. Most minor classes only met two or three days per week. Looking over the list, I noticed that Public Speaking was taught 2 days per week. It was also a ninth period (last of the day) class. When you didn’t have a ninth period class, you could go to the Library, study hall or go home an hour early. The light bulb above my head lit up and I chose Public Speaking as my second elective.

The first four weeks of Journalism class were easy; mostly reading and lecturing by our teacher and very little homework. After the sixth week we were given assignments to write about various events that were happening in our neighborhoods; using the journalistic principles that we had already learned in class. I spent a lot of time reading the Chicago Newspapers to learn how to write a good new story. Prior to this time I would only read the Headline stories, the Sports section and the Comics.

Someone in our class dubbed our journalism teacher Superman (Disguised as Joe Wiley, the mild-mannered Faculty Sponsor for a great High School newspaper; fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way!) because he was tall, in good physical shape and wore Clark Kent style glasses. He even like the sobriquet.


After 8 weeks of class, 3 of us were invited (by Superman) to join the newspaper (Herald) staff because three seniors were graduating at the end of the semester. I felt honored to be chosen. The three of us were given the worst assignments and not allowed to write anything that would be printed (like Jimmy Olsen; we were gofers). However, the senior staff would often plagiarize articles that we had written.

We felt that this was unfair so we rebelled. Our complaints to Superman were of no avail. The leader of the revolt was the second best (GPA wise) student in our high school (the first being a Polish girl named Marie). Mykhaila was of Russian/German ancestry; she entered High School at the age of 12 and had just turned 15 years old.

Her plan was simple; we would fabricate a plausible news story and let the senior staff read it. They would, of course, reject it and then re-write it and publish it (which they did).

When the next edition of the Herald was published, our story was on the front page. We took the paper and our original draft to Superman and told him that it was a spurious story that we had written to get back at the seniors. He laughed!

The next semester Mykhaila was the Herald’s editor-in-chief and I was promoted to galley editing. These were both senior student positions and we were second semester juniors. We had won the battle!

Later, as a senior, I wrote the Sports Column (which Superman basically called a Gossip Column – I was a name dropper) and continued my galley work.

Mykhaila and I were also in the same Public Speaking class (we had the same advisor). She went on to be the Captain of the Debating Team in the second semester of our Junior Year. I was an alternative until the last semester of my senior year; after she graduated a semester early.

In a mini reunion with some of my High School classmates, some 40 years later, I was told that Mykhaila graduated from the University Of Chicago at the age of 19. The question was posed; why hadn’t I stayed in contact with one of my favorite high school friends? For lack of any other answer I said “I wasn’t physically attracted to her”. It’s a sad commentary, but it’s true.

The Beach Bum

High School Crush

In my sophomore year of high school I was mandated to take an Art Class. It was a half credit class, just like gym.

The teacher of the class was a hot babe named Connie (probably about 24 or 25 years old, at the time). There were not many hot babes teaching high school in the early 1960’s. I immediately developed a crush (my first and only) on my teacher. I hung on to every word that she uttered.

After four weeks we were assigned to draw a portrait (in pencil on a sketch pad) of someone we knew or admired. I chose Carl Sandburg. I went to the Chicago Historical Society and copied a portrait of Sandburg that was hanging on one of their walls.

Connie was impressed with my artistic ability and suggested that I take classes at the Chicago Art Institute. I was so madly in love with her that I begged my Dad to foot the bill for the courses. He reluctantly agreed.

Now let me preface this by saying that I had absolutely no interest in Art at this time, my interest was in Connie, my teacher. I took the classes at the Art Institute just to please her.

I tired of just sketching and moved on to oils. I don’t know about now, but back then the Chicago Art Institute would allow you to paint in the galleries as long as your canvas was of smaller size than the original masterpiece. My first attempt was a Cezanne, which I gave to Connie, as a gift. She said it was good but I should take my own direction and stop copying other works.

Connie didn’t realize that I had no artistic talent of my own. I was a mimicker. I could see what others saw and copy their feelings and emotions, but I couldn’t actually feel the same emotions for myself when I painted. I was not a true artist.

I have painted 4 masterpieces. The Cezanne copy which I had given to Connie. My copy of a self portrait of Vincent Van Gogh that was given to my senior year English teacher Eugene,and hung on his living room wall until his passing (his wife later put it in the attic, she never did like it hanging in their living room), my lame attempt of doing a portrait of a good friend (he said it was surrealistic) and the following (Below) which I did from a Playboy Magazine Photograph in 1965. I gave it to a friend when I joined the Army in 1966. It currently hangs,above his bar, much to chagrin of his wife, in his rec-room.

I found a photograph of this painting today and copied it. I believe that it is one of my best original works. I had only two original works, so what am I saying?

If you don’t enjoy viewing the human female body naked (the scan (JPG) doesn’t really do justice to my painting ), scroll down no further. Hey, this is art not porn!