2.1.2015 & 11.24.2020

In the spring of 1970, when I was sixteen and a senior at Hopkins, I received a telephone call informing me that I had been chosen to be one of 115 high school students through the country to be named Presidential Scholars by President Richard Nixon.  The ceremony was scheduled for June 4, the day of my planned graduation.  I had mixed feelings about going due to my feelings about Nixon and his policies, but my parents gently pushed me to go to Washington D.C. and forego my high school graduation.

Because I was to be the class valedictorian, it was my duty to present a valedictory speech, literally a “well-wishing” at the commencement.  Because I was going to be absent, Mr. Victor Reid, one of the senior members of the faculty, suggested that he videotape my speech beforehand.  Unlike today, videotape was in its infancy, and so there was an air of novelty about this idea. I prepared a speech, and on a mild sunny day we stood outside Lovell Hall on the side of the hill and he taped my speech.

The speech was about an experience I had going to a kind of mini-Woodstock music festival which was being held at the nearby Edgewood Park.  The event was held a few months after Woodstock itself, and drew a healthy crowd.  There were complaints at the gate that an admission fee ($2) was being charged, and charges of “rip-off” were flung.  The organizer complained to me “How am I supposed to make up my expenses?”  I concluded that the notion of a free gathering of idealists was kind of a myth, and that it was our duty as idealists to try to bring our utopian values to our day-to-day lives.

It was not the best thing I’ve written, but it’s what came out of me at the time. I worried briefly about what the response might be, then let the thought pass.  I had no control over that anyway.

The Presidential Scholar experience, which lasted two days, was, in a word, bizarre. I will write about that separately. Today I am focusing on my experience of missing my graduation.

The year before, in my junior year, I won eight awards at the school’s awards assembly: English, Math, History, German, the Rensselaer science medal, and three more that I cannot recall.  It was a very strange experience for a few reasons.  For one thing, I had completely lost my voice several days before playing in a tennis match with a cold.  Secondly, the headmaster, instead of consolidating the presentations into one or two trips, insisted on giving a lengthy introduction to each prize.  I was sitting in the middle of the aisle halfway to the back, and so I had to push by a bunch of classmates each time I went up to accept the award.  And I couldn’t even say “excuse me”. With each trip there was less and less applause until finally there was only a smattering of half-hearted clapping.  For me it was less an affirmation than a reminder of how much my family’s pursuit of excellence had distanced me from my schoolmates.

The following year the headmaster did grant me my unspoken wish and consolidated my numerous awards (I do not recall how many) into one presentation, in which my brother Harold was invited to the front of the gym to accept a red wagon full of my prizes.  When I returned from Washington I was greeted with a photograph on the back page of the New Haven Register of Ha looking like someone had punched him in the stomach pulling a little red wagon down the aisle.  I felt that he had spared me this mortifying experience.

I never got a single word of response to my valedictory speech, nor any contact with my classmates. I came back from D.C. after a confusing and disturbing experience, having learned that Washington did not really care about the feelings and the views of even the most high-achieving high school students, and I don’t remember even having the chance to share these feelings with anyone–I did not have a “best friend”–I had my brothers, who for some reason I did not entrust with my feelings.  My parents were not surprised by my experience, but had long ago learned themselves that politicians were not necessarily to be trusted.

I found myself feeling isolated that summer. I remember being interviewed by a radio personality in Hamden about my D.C. experience, only to be cut off by her whenever I was trying to make a point that was not conventional or rote.  As in D.C. I felt that my voice was not being heard.

I don’t remember any discussion about whether or not to accept the award. Just recently I learned that my parents were split on the issue. My dad felt that I should stay in New Haven and graduate with my classmates, while my mom wanted me to go to Washington to accept the award. The tie was broken by the headmaster, Mr. Sherk, who felt that the award reflected positively on Hopkins, and that I should therefore accept it. I wish that I had had a say in the matter.

Now, looking back fifty years, at least part of me wishes that I had attended my graduation, to shake hands with my fellow graduates, their parents and families, to give my speech in person and to take in whatever responses it drew, to enjoy a sunny day with my family and acknowledge the end of six long years in the life of a sixteen year-old.  To any of my classmates who might read these words, Alan Spatz, Paul Sciarra, Brian Smith, Thom Confrey, Hans Riemer, Craig Rutenberg, David Kimberly, Denny Lawless, Bob Murray, Paul Kirchner, Pete Sargent, Jim Lapides, Dick Wingate, Gareth Glaser, Phil Kuttner, Brad Gallant, Tim Nolan, Ted Shaffer, Simeon Komisar, Brook Reams, John McGrail, Don DiPalma, Marc Kasowitz, Phil Harvey, Steve Kasowitz, Bryant Boyd, Matthew Katz, Aaron Lipstadt, Steve Katzman, Ike Deas, Richard Hexter, Terry Zanes, Knobby Walsh, Chris Nolan, Tim Donahue, Hugo Dwyer, Bob Caligan, Chris Bluhm, Win Davis, Eric French, Joe Greene, Bob Harrington, Jack Heath, Don Jacobs, Carl Pantaleo, Pete Price, Paul Rehnberg, John Resnik, Larry Pryor, Bob Westlund, Adam Walsh, Danny Vlock, Les Tyler, Jack Tweed, Randy Stone, Bill Schmiedel, Phil Salisbury, and Tim Minor, I wish you a happy graduation, and much happiness and fulfillment in your lives to come. And to my friends and schoolmates who have since died, Dave Sears, Pete Jarowey, Paul Brown, Bob Winters, Doc Gillis, Paul Maresca, Keeley Myers, and Gary Schoenknecht, may you rest in peace and may your families be comforted by happy memories with you.