The Case Of The Mistaken Identity

My longtime reader may remember me mentioning, a few days ago, a little incident with something called Facebook that had one of my classmates from high school, Karen, trying to figure out who I was.

Karen went through so many initials trying to narrow it down. Then she finally got to my correct initials. Six of us had the same initials. One by one Karen picked the wrong name. At one point she eliminated me and another "D" and said she'd finally figured it out. That I was the guy you see in the photo.

Yikes! I thought. That guy in the photo was a nice guy. But a real doofus.

At this point in time I was thinking to myself that either my appearance has changed drastically or that Karen has met so many people through the years that some, like me, have fallen out of her memory.

Now, to be fair about it, I'll admit that that picture that I use at the top of my blog doesn't look all that much like me. I was down at Enchanted Rock State Park, it was February, windy and very cold when I snapped that picture with my very old Casio digital camera that cost an appalling, now to look back on it, $599. That camera was bought back in the last century, so you can imagine how low wattage resolution wise it was.

When Karen was making all those guesses as to who I was, I assumed, in addition to the Enchanted Rock photo, she'd also seen the slide show that runs on the right side column of this blog. But she hadn't.

Karen returned yesterday, well-rested, from 3 days in Seattle, and last night realized she'd misread one of my earlier replies, then looked at the blog again, then saw the slide show, then recognized me.

Karen said her next guess would have been David Sutton. I doubt Karen would remember this, but at our 5 year class reunion a guy named Ray was lamenting about how when he first came to our school, in grade school, he was picked on and nicknamed "Nipples." Karen overheard part of this and thought it was I Ray was complaining about. Karen began to sort of chastise me for my bad behavior when Ray told her, "No, he was the only one who stuck up for me." To which I said, "Yeah, it was that weasel, David Sutton who called him Nipples."

I wonder what became of David Sutton? I saw him once, in the late 70s or 80s at this disco called Duffy's. He sat with our group and was being all Mr. Friendly. I think he was talking about being in the army. After about 10 minutes I told him to go sit somewhere else.

Ancient High School History

I've previously mentioned that a couple days ago, while looking at a thing called Facebook I inadvertently sent out a thing called a "Friend Request" to some names I recognized. I only actually knew 3 of the people to whom I sent one of those "Friend Requests."

One of the 3, who I actually knew, has been trying ever since to figure out who I am. This amuses me. She keeps sending me initials. Like are you MO? FC? SW?

This identification problem has caused both of us to dig out our long buried high school annuals. Or yearbooks. It's been so long I forget what they are called. I only have 3 of them, somewhere along the way I've lost my Freshman yearbook.

So, this morning I started looking through the yearbook from my Senior year, thinking there might be a picture of myself and the person who doesn't know who I am. I found numerous ones of both of us, but never in the same photo. Near as I could tell.

But, what was unsettling was reading the things people wrote in my yearbook. A lot of it made no sense to me, because I couldn't remember what they were talking about, about things I did or some wanted me to do. Were those years so painful I've blocked the memory? Or is it a function of time? Since I can't remember, I don't know the answer.

After I was done looking at the Senior yearbook I looked through the Junior one. That got even more confusing. Most of the people writing comments sign with only their first name, leaving me clueless as to who they are. Apparently I went to various places with someone named Laurie. On one of those occasions, apparently we were at the home of someone named Sue. For some reason a smacking noise was made and Sue popped around the corner all excited because she thought smooching was going on.

Another comment was from Beth. I remember Beth. I don't remember the incident Beth commented on, about me being a good sport taking someone named Lila to some prom/ball thing. along with Beth and some guy who's name I've already forgotten. I've no memory of going to a dance thing with someone named Lila.

I do remember Linda and I knew what she was talking about in her comment about Linda and me sitting in the front seat of my car for way too long, unaware that the windshield had been broken and we were sitting on glass.

A running theme in all these comments is the majority seemed to feel I have a good sense of humor. And repeatedly I am being advised not to ever change. But then there was one who commented that I had changed so much that year, and for the good. I don't remember changing. I do remember sort of being my mouthy self all the time, where earlier I only acted like that to the ones who really knew me.

Many commented on a fun event that happened to me my Junior year that gave me some bad boy notoriety that I'd never had before. That may have been the point where I decided to be my mouthy real self all the time.

In my Sophomore yearbook the comments really made me realize where the term sophomoric comes from. The Sophomore yearbook is the only one where I saw a comment from the Facebooker, Karen P.F., who can not remember me.

Apparently a friend of mine from grade school had spoken of me. In her comment in my Sophomore yearbook, Karen P.F. said that she ".....really had fun this year and one of the reasons is because I met you! I was scared of you at first and felt dumb, but after Wendy talked about you all the time I had to get to know you---glad I did!!!......"

Okay, now I know who Wendy is. Wendy and me were practically neighbors. Sometimes I rode her to school on my bike, with her sitting on the handlebars. Later we often rode the bus together to high school. And by the time I was 16, and had a car, I'd, ever so often, give Wendy a ride home. But, Wendy and I had a very, well, sarcastic sort of way of talking to each other. She'd make fun of me, I'd make fun of her. I can't picture her speaking of me in a way that would want someone to get to know me.

An example of Wendy sarcasm is what she wrote in my Sophomore yearbook..."Dearest (ooops, I can't type my name, that'd give Karen P.F. too good a clue) Let's start over....

Dearest X,
I don't know how I could have managed to complete the year without seeing your shining smile and knowing that your presence was not too far away. You really made my year and I don't know how I managed all the others without you. Your really a great guy. Good luck in absolutely everything. May the sun always shine on your path.
Just me,
Wendy

I remember exactly where the above was written. We sat next to each other in the back of the room in Geometry. All year long we bickered. I remember when I read what she wrote, I pointed out that "your" is a possessive pronoun and that she should have used "you're." In grade school I always got straight A's. Wendy usually got straight A's. I think she thought I was smarter than she was, so correcting her grammar was really annoying.

The last I saw Wendy was in 1991. She was looking real good. If I remember correctly we spoke pleasantly to each other. I actually don't remember for sure if I talked to Karen P.F. on that occasion. I do remember talking to her brother.

Okay, it is time to put these ancient annuals away for another couple decades, unless Karen P.F. comes up with some more initials for me to decipher.

Who Cares About the Civil War?

Yesterday I was appalled to read that a recent survey discovered that a majority of American high school students did not know when the American Civil War occurred.

To me this spoke not to the sad state of our students, but instead to the sad state of our teachers. The college I graduated from was a big teacher's college. As in it is one where many grade and high school teachers got their credentials.

I remember a very telling incident. It was in a 300 level U.S. History class. The professor was passing out the graded results of our first test. Before he did so he said something like "I'm going to show you how well I read minds."

Before he'd handed a person their test results he'd say, "You're a future teacher, aren't you? And the person would answer yes. He'd give another their test and say, "You're not future teacher, are you?" And the answer would be no, I'm not.

I answered "no" when it was my turn.

When the professor was done he asked does anyone know how I knew the future teachers from those who aren't going to be teachers? I meekly raised by hand and suggested that "Since I got an A and I'm not a future teacher, I'm gonna guess that those you guessed were future teachers did not get A's."

"Not only did they not get A's, they did not get B's. All the future teachers got C's, D's and F's."

So, you've got C and D students teaching kids the essentials. But these are people who don't really have all that great a grasp on the essentials themselves. So, something as essential to understanding America as the Civil War is somehow not taught in a memorable way to a majority of students. That is appalling. If you don't understand what happened between 1861 and 1865 how can you understand the Civil Rights Movement that came along a century or so later?

More on this later, as in yesterday I asked several adults if they knew when the Civil War occurred. I was not universally appalled at the answers, but appalled nonetheless.