In August of 1969 I turned eighteen years old, and like every law-abiding, red-blooded American I hustled down to the Selective Service office and registered for the draft. Yes, the draft.....everyone's favorite way to get matriculated into military service. But wait, I'm going to college and have been granted one of those great incentives for staying in school, a student deferment! No problem here.
Fast forward a couple of years; "Yes ma'am, I'm still in school and should still have a deferment. No ma'am, I have not dropped out. Yes ma'am, I've transferred twice within the last year......What?"
In August of 1971 Miss Elizabeth and I were married and were preparing to move to Tulsa where I would be attending the University of Tulsa. The conversation above took place in October, two months after we had exchanged our vows. Possible change of plans.....
Thirty-four nervous young men from southeast Kansas were huddled outside waiting for the office door to open. We were told to be there by 8:00am. It was now 8:05, and the lady inside finally ambled to the front and clicked the lock to open the door. I was still holding out hope that my student deferment had been reinstated, but I had heard nothing, so I joined the group as we shuffled through the door and into the large waiting area.
The woman walked to her desk, sat down, and said, "You are all going to be boarding that bus parked outside which will then take you to Kansas City for your induction physical. When I call your name, step forward and sign your name on the sign-up sheet." She was very matter-of-fact, and very efficient.
As the names were being called, in alphabetical order of course, I stood near the back, halfway listening and hoping my name had not made the final cut.....Wait, she had jumped right past the Ns, and my name was not called. I knew it, I would be going back home soon. "Westin, David", my good friend's name was called....probably last on the list, poor guy.
"Newcomb, Jack, would you come up here please?" She was looking at me over the top of her glasses. This was it, I was headed back home instead of Viet Nam!
"Mr. Newcomb, you are now in charge of this group of young men! They are your responsibility." she said as she handed me a large manila envelope. Wait a minute, there's been a terrible mistake....I don't even belong here....I'm enrolled in college! She continued, "In the envelope you will find everyone's meal tickets, bus tokens, room reservations"........her voice droned on, but I heard little of what she was saying.
A few minutes later we were on the bus and picking up speed as we headed to Kansas City.....a mistake to be sure, but what did I know?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
At age five, words like segregation and integration meant nothing...
Recently, there's been a great discussion among many of my facebook friends regarding race relations in the small community of our youth. It's been incredibly interesting to glean from the posts how each of us came away with a different perception of our lives in the fifties and sixties. Some views are very negative, while others are overly rosy. I fall somewhere in between.
How is it that people who grew up literally across the street from each other in our small town have such different memories? I suppose it all depends on which side of the street you were on.
I started elementary school in 1956, just two years after our elementary schools became integrated. At the age of five, words like segregation or integration meant nothing, and color was something we were trying to learn from the old color-wheel. You know, red, green, yellow, blue.....and yes, black and white.
I guess, based upon the facebook discussion, there was indeed racism, bigotry, and segregation in our small town. Looking back, the Black population resided primarily on the east side of town, although there were some Black families scattered throughout the community. I never really gave that much thought, it was just the way it was.
My neighborhood was quite different. I lived in the far northeast part of town, in a modest house situated within the shadows of the oil refinery and set back about thirty feet from the road to the city dump. The tank cars clanged along the railroad tracks about 50 yards from our front yard. But, most of all, our neighborhood was an eclectic collection of people of color. Within two square blocks I had friends who were Black, Indian, Hispanic, and even a few White folks. That was my world, so when integration came along it was simply an extension of my life.
When I started school, I was joined by the friends from my neighborhood and a whole lot of other kids who looked just like them. Nothing different, just more of the same. I know now that the situation was different in other schools, but at the time, that was outside of my little world.
Sometimes I wish we could go back to those simpler times and live like those kids of all colors who played together, fought together, and lived life without regard to race. I know we've come a long way since then, but the young kids in that fully integrated neighborhood of my youth already had it figured out.....
But then, we grew up and made it complicated. Too bad, but what do I know.
How is it that people who grew up literally across the street from each other in our small town have such different memories? I suppose it all depends on which side of the street you were on.
I started elementary school in 1956, just two years after our elementary schools became integrated. At the age of five, words like segregation or integration meant nothing, and color was something we were trying to learn from the old color-wheel. You know, red, green, yellow, blue.....and yes, black and white.
I guess, based upon the facebook discussion, there was indeed racism, bigotry, and segregation in our small town. Looking back, the Black population resided primarily on the east side of town, although there were some Black families scattered throughout the community. I never really gave that much thought, it was just the way it was.
My neighborhood was quite different. I lived in the far northeast part of town, in a modest house situated within the shadows of the oil refinery and set back about thirty feet from the road to the city dump. The tank cars clanged along the railroad tracks about 50 yards from our front yard. But, most of all, our neighborhood was an eclectic collection of people of color. Within two square blocks I had friends who were Black, Indian, Hispanic, and even a few White folks. That was my world, so when integration came along it was simply an extension of my life.
When I started school, I was joined by the friends from my neighborhood and a whole lot of other kids who looked just like them. Nothing different, just more of the same. I know now that the situation was different in other schools, but at the time, that was outside of my little world.
Sometimes I wish we could go back to those simpler times and live like those kids of all colors who played together, fought together, and lived life without regard to race. I know we've come a long way since then, but the young kids in that fully integrated neighborhood of my youth already had it figured out.....
But then, we grew up and made it complicated. Too bad, but what do I know.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
The epitome of cool....
Fall of 1967....I'd just turned sixteen years old and was driving the 1957 chevy I'd spent all summer getting ready.
The transformation was a sight to behold.....new blue paint, new white interior, new carpet, new chrome reverse wheels, and a V-8 engine with a throaty growl thanks to newly installed dual exhaust with glass packs.
What had started as a $95 "Needs a little TLC" project was complete! I'd spent every penny earned that summer, and had enlisted the help of everyone I knew to get it done, and now.....
Junior year, here I come.....epitome of cool.....at least in my mind's eye. That's all that matters, right?
The first few weeks of school are filled with all kinds of administrative necessities; changing schedules, home room assignments, class elections, etc. etc. Of course, we also started football practices right after school, everyday.....busy times.
Typically, we would finish practice around 5:30pm; I'd drive to the A&W for a large root beer (and to show off the car), then drive home where Mom would have dinner on the table by six.
You could always tell when Mom was upset by the way she moved around the kitchen, a little too much clanging of the pots and pans, a little too much force when setting the plates on the table, and not a hint of a smile......hmmm, wonder what's wrong? I'd done nothing, so I assumed it was something unrelated to me and I could rest easy. But, as I settled into my place at the table, I was met with "that look"......Uh oh, what had I done? My mind raced, but came up blank. "What?" I said as she continued to give me the silent treatment.
Finally she said, "How are things at school?" Now I'm only sixteen, but even at that age, I knew this was a loaded question....."Fine" I said, as my mind continued to frantically search for a reason for this interrogation.
"I ran into Johnny's mother at the grocery store today." Again, I've got no clue. Johnny is my best friend, but as far as I knew we were innocent of any recent wrong-doings, I swear! Then, Mom said, "The first thing Mary said to me was congratulations on Jack being elected as class president. I was so embarrassed because I didn't even know what she was talking about!"
Ahh, a sin of omission, I can live with that! I'd simply forgotten to mention the results of the election at school.
It wasn't the first time I'd failed to divulge things that had happened at school....like that big fight in the 8th grade, or that time we set off the M-80s right outside the window, or perhaps a thousand other things if I was being completely honest. So, I said I was sorry, she forgave me, and all was back to normal.
A few weeks later, this very same class president, driving his very cool '57 chevy, was idling through the aforementioned A&W. The place was packed.....I was cool....
I was out of gas!
Everyone who gets a little too big for their britches, such as the sixteen year old "epitome of cool", knows the feeling of wanting to be able to disappear. But, instead you become fodder for the school newspaper, ratchet yourself down a couple of notches, and learn a little humility.
Could happen.....but really, what do I know?
The transformation was a sight to behold.....new blue paint, new white interior, new carpet, new chrome reverse wheels, and a V-8 engine with a throaty growl thanks to newly installed dual exhaust with glass packs.
What had started as a $95 "Needs a little TLC" project was complete! I'd spent every penny earned that summer, and had enlisted the help of everyone I knew to get it done, and now.....
Junior year, here I come.....epitome of cool.....at least in my mind's eye. That's all that matters, right?
The first few weeks of school are filled with all kinds of administrative necessities; changing schedules, home room assignments, class elections, etc. etc. Of course, we also started football practices right after school, everyday.....busy times.
Typically, we would finish practice around 5:30pm; I'd drive to the A&W for a large root beer (and to show off the car), then drive home where Mom would have dinner on the table by six.
You could always tell when Mom was upset by the way she moved around the kitchen, a little too much clanging of the pots and pans, a little too much force when setting the plates on the table, and not a hint of a smile......hmmm, wonder what's wrong? I'd done nothing, so I assumed it was something unrelated to me and I could rest easy. But, as I settled into my place at the table, I was met with "that look"......Uh oh, what had I done? My mind raced, but came up blank. "What?" I said as she continued to give me the silent treatment.
Finally she said, "How are things at school?" Now I'm only sixteen, but even at that age, I knew this was a loaded question....."Fine" I said, as my mind continued to frantically search for a reason for this interrogation.
"I ran into Johnny's mother at the grocery store today." Again, I've got no clue. Johnny is my best friend, but as far as I knew we were innocent of any recent wrong-doings, I swear! Then, Mom said, "The first thing Mary said to me was congratulations on Jack being elected as class president. I was so embarrassed because I didn't even know what she was talking about!"
Ahh, a sin of omission, I can live with that! I'd simply forgotten to mention the results of the election at school.
It wasn't the first time I'd failed to divulge things that had happened at school....like that big fight in the 8th grade, or that time we set off the M-80s right outside the window, or perhaps a thousand other things if I was being completely honest. So, I said I was sorry, she forgave me, and all was back to normal.
A few weeks later, this very same class president, driving his very cool '57 chevy, was idling through the aforementioned A&W. The place was packed.....I was cool....
I was out of gas!
Everyone who gets a little too big for their britches, such as the sixteen year old "epitome of cool", knows the feeling of wanting to be able to disappear. But, instead you become fodder for the school newspaper, ratchet yourself down a couple of notches, and learn a little humility.
Could happen.....but really, what do I know?
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