Where Were You When?.....

In the fall of 1963, preparations were underway for the annual football clash with DeWitt Clinton High School, Stuyvesant’s arch-rival in the New York world of scholastic athletic competition. Traditionally, the usually sedate studious nature of the would-be scientists at the school would throw off the yoke of their studies for a week and galvanize into a supportive pillar for the football team with rallies held on a daily basis. Usually these rallies would culminate with some prank like the overturning of a Volkswagen beetle or the stopping of traffic in Union Square on the Friday before the big game. That year, however, as the rallies increased in intensity day by day, until on Thursday a thousand cheering students burned an effigy of DeWitt Clinton in Union Square Park, the faculty became quite apprehensive of what would occur on Friday. Preparations were made, with plans for a massive display of vitriolic splendor directed at our opponents. After all, Stuyvesant wasn’t particularly noted for its athletic leadership, but rather for scholastic achievement. Thus, the rally assumed more importance than the game itself since everybody assumed we would lose the game no matter what happened on Friday or Saturday. However, on this particular Friday afternoon, there was to be no rally. At 12:30 or so in the afternoon, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was shot down in Dallas, and all thoughts of athletics were suddenly banished from the world.

One day, in my senior year, while I was working on a term paper in my bedroom, I needed to ask my Mom a question about some obscure historic fact. She was cleaning the house as usual on Saturday (since she worked during the week), and I went looking for her. I found her collapsed in a reading chair in my parents’ bedroom, dead or about to die from a massive heart attack. She was 47 years old at the time and her heart attack was not entirely a surprise. Mom had had rheumatic fever as a child and was always aware that she had a heart condition stemming from this illness. She was a very courageous lady who gave birth not once but twice after being told that she would probably shorten if not lose her life in the process. Of course, at 17, I didn’t appreciate that and actually felt that 47 wasn’t so young anyway. Nonetheless, I was really surprised by my lack of emotion at the time. I knew I loved her deeply and could only imagine what life would be like without her, but I protected myself by relating to it as a ‘bad break’ and concentrated on how ‘life goes on’.

Shortly after her death, I graduated high school. My grades weren’t strong enough to get me any scholarships for college. In fact, they weren’t even strong enough to get me into a regular four-year college. However, I did gain entry to Bronx Community College as a non-matriculated night student. Probably I was more affected by her passing than I realized, since in my first term at night school, I managed to finally hit my stride as a student, receiving A grades in both my courses. In my second term, I was allowed to matriculate and attend the day session. This was important, since it not only meant that I wouldn’t have to spend four or five years getting a two year degree, but I could get my higher education for free. The City University of New York, in the middle 60s, was a terrific place to get a college education. For the first time, I was allowed to pursue my own scholastic interests, and this was reflected by my actually learning the subjects I registered for.