In 1964, the year I turned 17, I kept a diary. What had happened was this: At a convention of high school journalism students from around the state of Ohio, a teacher had recommended that the best way to make oneself a good reporter was to keep a daily journal. The teacher said that the discipline of making yourself write down exactly what happened to you every day, even when you didn`t feel like writing, was good training.
So for that one year I did it. I would write the diary late at night, just before going to bed. I didn`t tell any of my friends about it; there were probably millions of teenage girls who were keeping diaries that same year, but for a boy to admit to his buddies that he was keeping a diary would be–to use the only appropriate term of the era–queer.
When 1964 was over I finished the last day of the diary, and that was that.
Years later, I found the diary in a drawer, and I read it again. It startled me. I realized that what I had here was something money could not buy: time preserved. Most of us tend to look back on our teenage years as if they were some pleasant, seamless movie made up of endless pleasure, bathed in a warm, unfocused glow of nostalgia. My 1964 diary gave me no such luxury. Yes, the great times were there, in generous quantity, but they were mixed with heartache and hurt, one set of emotions sometimes replacing the other within a 24-hour period.
In short, I had that year available to me, as current as the days when I had first written about it. And that diary is what led to my new book, ”Be True to Your School: A Diary of 1964,” from which this article is excerpted. The closest I can come to explaining how I wrote the book is to say that it felt very much like restoring a cracked and faded old photograph. All of the characters and events and quotations were in the original 1964 diary, but they were not in narrative form. It was startling to me how the cryptic sentence fragments and disjointed conversations and hurriedly written descriptions of emotions in the diary brought back so vividly the days and nights when they had first happened. I used the details in the diary as notes. I have done my best not to stray from the spirit and the sequence of events in the original diary. And most of all I have tried to retain the voice of the boy who kept that diary.
Everything happens in Bexley, Ohio, a suburb of Columbus. Bexley was–and is–a town of approximately 15,000 people, virtually all of them white. It was the kind of suburb where teenagers generally didn`t have to worry about where their allowance money was coming from; by and large, Bexley, like so many suburbs of the `60s, was composed of stable families where the fathers brought home ”comfortable” paychecks every week. Bexley High School had a student population of 800 or so; everyone tended to know everyone else.
America in 1964 still had one foot in the `50s. The sexual revolution, the urban race riots, the campus activism and the pain of Vietnam that define the `60s had yet to happen. As 1964 began, my friends and I were still listening to folk music on our car radios as we cruised the streets of Bexley. But later in January, the first Beatles music came over the airwaves, and changes followed changes.
All of us, no matter when we were born, have years that touch us in a similar way to how 1964 touched me. It was a year of frustrated romance, and a year in which I had my first real fight, drank my first beer and liquor, grappled with a teenager`s powerful curiosity about sex, and juggled conflicting needs to be a varsity tennis player and to pursue my interest in journalism. I got my first columns printed in a local teen magazine and had an encounter with a woman 10 years older than I.
All of the people and places are real, precisely as they appeared in the original diary. In several cases–where I felt that, even all these years later, the events depicted might prove embarrassing to a person–I have changed names. Some of the things that happen in the course of this book I am, in retrospect, not especially proud of. But my decision was not to censor myself, either in terms of events or emotions. The following is
based on my diary entries from April:
April 1
Tennis practice after school was hard–Coach Weis ran us around the track so many times that I thought my chest was going to explode. David Brown and Chet Crosby were hanging around giving the stare.
April 2
Back in the daze that I get into when I can`t get Lindy out of my mind. In school today Mrs. Amos asked Judy Furman and me to stay after English class. When the rest of the class had left, she said that she wanted us to be co-editors of the Torch for next year. That feels pretty good.
After school we had an unbelievably hard practice–if you pushed me now I`d fall right over. David Brown was hanging around again, and we stared at each other again.
After dinner I had to walk over to Main Street to get some note cards. I walked into the drugstore–and there was Lindy. We just stood there face-to-face. She was wearing her summer jeans, and she looked beautiful.
She spoke first. She said, ”Will you mind if Wendy and I come to see you play on Tuesday?” Tuesday is our first varsity tennis match of the season, against Chillicothe.
”No, I wouldn`t mind,” I said.
People were walking past us in and out of the store. She said, ”Someone rang our phone last night, and I called to see if it was you, but your sister answered, so I hung up.”
”Yeah, Debby said that someone hung up,” I said.
”Do you still hate me?” Lindy said.
”Hate you?” I said. ”No, I don`t hate you.”
”Are we good friends?” she said.
”Lindy, I don`t know,” I said.
We walked out of the drugstore together. Mrs. Lemmon was sitting in the car, and she motioned me over.
”Hi, Barb-I,” I said. That`s what she asked me to call her before Lindy and I broke up last fall.
”Lindy said that you have a tennis match next week,” she said. ”May I come and watch?”
”Sure,” I said. ”You can come.”
Lindy got into the car and they drove away. It`s midnight now, and I`m still awake thinking about her.
April 3
Today was the day.
School was average. We had an algebra quiz, and then second period I answered some questions right in chemo. I handed in a paper in English.
After school we were supposed to have tennis practice, but it was raining. So Coach Weis pulled the divider across the basketball court, and we practiced indoors. We were supposed to hit against the divider wall.
I was walking up to the wall to pick up a ball that had rolled over there; I picked it up and turned around to walk back–just as Dan was leaning into a hard forehand. He was only a few feet away from me; the ball smashed full-speed right into the middle of my face. My nose started bleeding like crazy; there was blood all over the place. I had to go into the locker room and lie down on a bench; it took about half an hour for it to stop.
Dan came in and kept apologizing; I told him it wasn`t his fault. I got dressed and went home and had dinner, and after dinner Dan called again to say he was sorry. I told him not to worry about it, and we said we`d meet later on.
After dark Pongi picked me up. Dan and Chuck were in the car, too, and we cruised around Bexley. We were driving down Powell when, at the corner of Dale, we saw Lindy and Wendy Clowson and Janie McKenney standing with some other girls and talking under a street light.
We kept driving. Dan said, ”Greene`s in his daze.” We drove around the block, and they came up with a plan. It wouldn`t be cool for me just to get out of the car and start talking to Lindy. So they said they`d make it look like they were pushing me out. That`s what they did; we circled the block, and when we got back to Powell and Dale, Pongi stopped the car, and Chuck opened the door, and they all pushed me out.
I pretended that I didn`t want them to do it, and after they`d driven away I turned around to talk to Lindy.
Except that the girls weren`t the only people there.
David Brown was standing with them.
We were under the street light, and the girls weren`t saying anything, and Brown and I were looking at each other.
”Anytime,” he said.
He had been spreading the word for months that he wanted to fight me, and I thought that it had gone on long enough.
”How about right now,” I said.
We weren`t going to fight with the girls standing right next to us, so we crossed Powell and stood in somebody`s front yard. The girls were still under the street light, looking at us. I moved toward him, and he threw the first punch. It landed on my cheek. I threw a punch at his face, and it connected. Then he landed a solid punch right on my nose, and I started spurting blood.
I don`t think it would have been so bad if that thing hadn`t happened at tennis practice. But I had bled so much in the afternoon, and all it took was that one punch to start it again. I was spurting blood like a fountain.
It was strange; it didn`t hurt very much, and even though Brown is bigger than I am, I didn`t feel like I was being swarmed over. We kept hitting each other, and I got him good once–his nose started bleeding, too, and pretty soon both of our shirts were covered with blood. I could hear the girls screaming across the street.
He started fighting pretty dirty–he was kicking and choking. I`d say it was about a tie, although I looked much worse because of all the blood. Then all of a sudden Pongi`s car came driving up Powell. Pongi saw what was going on, took a hard left onto Dale, threw the gearshift into ”Park” and came flying out of the driver`s side of the car. His engine was still running.
”Come on, Brown!” he said. His fists were up.
I pushed him away. ”It`s my fight,” I said.
”Come on, Brown!” Pongi said again. He really wanted him.
By this time the girls were coming across the street. I was completely covered with blood, and Brown was almost as bad. I had swallowed a lot of my own blood, and I could taste it. We were both breathing hard. I wasn`t real anxious to continue, and I could tell that he wasn`t, either.
Dan came out of Pongi`s car. ”It`s over,” he said. ”That`s it. It`s over.”
Brown and I looked at each other one more time. Then he walked back across Powell, and I walked to Pongi`s car. I got in and we drove away.
”Are you okay?” Chuck said.
”I`m fine,” I said. ”If I hadn`t bled so much this afternoon at tennis, I wouldn`t look nearly this bad.”
They drove me home. Luckily, Mom and Dad were out for the evening. I rang the front door and Debby answered. When she saw me she started crying.
”Cut it out,” I said. ”It looks much worse than it is.”
I went upstairs into the bathroom. I could see why Debby had been scared; my whole face was caked with blood. I changed clothes. Timmy came across the hall from his room and said he`d wash the clothes out so that Mom wouldn`t see the blood. I told him that if he couldn`t get the blood out, he should just throw the shirt away.
Chuck and Dan and Pongi were waiting for me downstairs. We got back in the car and drove off. ”Well, at least that`s over,” I said. Pongi`s parents had some beer in their garage, and we each had a bottle.
April 5
Dad let me drive his Thunderbird all afternoon today! I picked up Chuck and Pongi, and we cruised around Bexley for hours. I`m real nervous driving that car; I keep thinking what Dad would do if I banged it up. But I love being in it.
The Searchers were on ”Ed Sullivan.” They sang ”Needles and Pins”–
really great.
April 6
After tennis practice today I was walking back toward the locker room, and there was David Brown on the track. We were walking right toward each other. Everybody stopped to watch–they all know about the fight.
As we passed each other David looked at me and said, ”Hi, Bob.”
”Hi, David,” I said.
Just like that. All those months of stare-downs and insults; all that thinking about a fight. And now, just because we hit each other for a few minutes, we`re suddenly friendly.
I sort of understand it–it has something to do with the fact that he and I were involved in something that nobody else was a part of, and that binds us together in a funny kind of way. Because we fought, we`re now in a club that no one else belongs to. Something like that.
Still . . . it doesn`t make a lot of sense. But all of a sudden it`s obvious that we aren`t going to fight again. That`s over; I think we both knew it the moment we spoke today.
April 7
Sixth period the lineup went up in the boys` locker room: Jon Kaplan and I were listed as playing second doubles. That`s the bottom slot on the lineup –there are first, second, and third singles, and first and second doubles. Still, I was glad to be playing.
After school Coach Weis handed our uniforms out. That`s one of the greatest things about playing varsity–wearing the Bexley uniform. The shirt is all right–it`s a regular white tennis shirt with ”Bexley Tennis” in blue on one side of the chest. But it`s the warm-up jackets that everyone loves.
The warm-up jackets are white and are made of this soft, fuzzy material
–everyone calls them ”white fuzzies.” To walk out of the locker room and onto the courts with everyone looking, wearing your white fuzzy–it`s the best feeling I know of.
So we walked out to the courts, and there was a pretty good crowd there. Tennis doesn`t draw anywhere near the crowds that sports like football and basketball and baseball do, of course, but there were people sitting by all the courts waiting to watch. We started our match, and I saw Lindy and Wendy Clowson walk up and join the people at our court.
That made me play great; we won easily, 6-1; 6-1. The team won, too.
Lindy left as soon as the match ended, but tonight she called my house and I called her back. She told me that for good luck she had put a note in her pocket; the note had said, ”I know you will win, Bobby. Love ya, Lindy.” There it is, right there. Not ”Love, Lindy.” But ”Love ya, Lindy.”
”Love, Lindy” is what someone would sign if she really meant it. ”Love ya, Lindy” is what you sign in someone`s yearbook, just to be polite.
April 8
During algebra class first period, Mr. Schacht started talking about the English Co-op tests that everyone in the junior class took a few months ago. The results came back, and the teachers have seen them, but we haven`t.
”You know,” Mr. Schacht said, ”there was one person who got the highest possible score on those tests. The highest you can get–the 99th percentile. But that person is in one of my classes, and that person usually does miserably in here. I just don`t understand it. Usually if a person does well in the English Co-ops, he`ll do well throughout school. But if I hadn`t seen this person`s score with my own eyes, I wouldn`t have believed it.”
The next period I had study hall. I got a rest room pass, and I was on my way to the boys` room when I heard a voice call my name. It was Mr. Schacht. I walked over to him and we stood by the stairwell.
”You know who I was talking about, don`t you?” he said.
”Who?” I said.
”You,” he said.
”Oh,” I said. I guess it made sense.
”I really don`t understand it, Bob,” he said. ”If you can do so well on that test, why don`t you do better in my class?”
”I don`t know,” I said.
”No, I`m really curious,” he said. ”What do you think the reason is?” I didn`t know what to say. He had asked me the same kind of thing before, after he had heard that I was the statistician at the Ohio State basketball game. I got the impression that my bad work in Algebra really disappointed him.
”Well,” I said, ”I like to write. That kind of thing comes easy to me. When I write something, I feel like I`ve done something that no one else has done before. The words are mine; they didn`t exist before I wrote them, and now they do exist.”
I hesitated. I thought I might be sounding dumb. But Mr. Schacht nodded for me to go on.
”Math`s not like that,” I said. ”Even if I do everything exactly right, what`s the result? I`ll come out with the same answer as everyone else in the class.”
”And that doesn`t satisfy you?” Mr. Schacht said.
”I guess not,” I said. ”I mean, I feel bad when I screw up, and I don`t get the answer. But getting the answer right–I don`t know, it must not appeal to me that much, because I avoid working on my math homework as much as I can. You must know that.”
”Is it hard for you?” he said.
”Yeah, it`s very hard for me,” I said.
”And writing isn`t hard?” he said.
”Writing`s different,” I said, ”It`s just different.”
He smiled. He patted me on the back, which surprised me. He doesn`t do that much.
”Do me a favor,” he said. ”Just try a little bit harder. You only have until the end of the semester, and then you`re done with math.”
”Yeah, but there`s physics next year,” I said.
He laughed. ”Worry about that when you get to it,” he said. He looked at me. He was still smiling, and then he walked away.
April 9
At practice after school Mike Melton and I were teamed against Weston and Herwald. We won the first set 6-3 and were ahead 4-2 in the second when Coach Weis ended practice. That means that we`ll play first doubles tomorrow against Portsmouth.
Lindy walked by the fence next to the court where we were playing and said, ”Those shorts.” I was wearing the shorts that I used to wear all the time last summer when we were together. Melton looked over at me and just shook his head.
