It may surprise you to learn I went to high school with Donald, Bill, Bernie and Hillary. Little known fact.
But for those of us in that class, the election results of 2016 came as no surprise whatsoever.
The writing was on the wall, even then.
Back then, Hillary was voted "most likely to succeed" and Bill was in the marching band and the debate club.
I liked Bill because he was always willing to talk about things, "principles" he called them. He was very earnest, sort of boy preacher trying out his spiel on his friends. He was a fat boy, didn't have much of a shot with the girls, but you couldn't help but like the guy.
Bernie was more interesting. He was captain of the track team and the cross country team. Kind of a bean pole, but he has more nerve and fire, and tended to disagree. You put Bernie and Bill in the same room and Bill always started preaching and Bernie would listen with this knowing smile, like he'd heard all this before, and then he'd ask a few questions, and back Bill into a corner and pretty well shred whatever Bill said.
So, Bill, you think if we raise expectations of the colored in the South and are then, inevitably, unable to meet those expectations--you know, like desegregated schools, voting rights-- then we've made matters worse? So, then where are we? Just do nothing?
That sort of thing.
The Donald was sort of invisible. Well, not invisible, actually. All the parties were at his house Saturday night. He had a really big house. They had a boat in the basement, like a cabin cruiser. It was not really a basement, because you could walk in from the back yard, so it was mostly above ground, but anyway, all the girls would be there. They had something called a "Pot Luck" which was sort of like a sorority, and they would all go over to Donald's house, and around 8 or 9 PM guys like me would drift in. And Donald would sort of stand in front of the bar with a big mug in his hand with a family crest or some such thing on it and he'd mostly just smile, surveying the scene. He wasn't a guy who seemed to have any ideas, actually.
He wasn't really good at much of anything.
Sort of a second stringer--tried soccer, football, baseball. Not much of a threat. An easy out.
He tried wrestling one year, which is where I knew him from.
In wrestling you had to either know what you were doing, or you had to be very tough and he was certainly not that.
Before I'd step out on the mat, my heart was pounding at, like 130 beats a minute. All my teammates were watching. My coach was watching. Maybe even the stray cheerleader who had been assigned to cover the wrestling matches was watching. There was the possibility of humiliation.
But not so much for the Donald. Didn't seem to matter to him he wound up on his back most of the time. Actually, now that I think of it, with the perspective of years, I bet it did matter to him.
When we read "The Short Happy Life of Francis MacComber" junior year, I thought immediately of Donald. I looked over toward him in class, but he just looked down at his book. You may not know the story. Hemingway writes about this guy, Francis Macomber, who is out on safari in Africa, with his wife and the white hunter/guide. MacComber is all dressed up in his expensive safari clothes, and he's got the best gun (and the best words) and he walks into the bush, but then he's faced with an actual, living, roaring lion and he drops his gun and runs and the guide has to shoot it. But all the hired natives carry Francis back to camp on their shoulders as if he's the big hero in that scene, because, after all, he may not be a brave hunter, but he is paying all the salaries.
That's sort of Donald's story, you know? He never really has to stand his ground and fire the shot that brings down the lion. Someone else has to do that, but it's Donald who gets hoisted up on the shoulders.
For guys like me, it was our manhood on the line, on the mat. We wanted to be heroes. We wanted to stand our ground and win.
Donald seemed to know there was no way he could be a hero. Just not tough enough. Never had to fight, never learned how.
So, why should he suffer and struggle to be a hero when his parents could just buy him the costume?
He was fat and happy. Not as fat, physically, as Bill. Fat in the spiritual sense.
He never had to try very hard, never had his back to the wall.
Bernie pushed himself. Bill did too. Hell, even Hillary did.
But the Donald was just sort of the slow, fat kid. He seemed to figure he didn't have to do much. It would all come to him eventually. They'd carry him on their shoulders no matter what.
And, given the money, it did sort of play out that way. So, as I said, the results November 8, came as no surprise to anyone from our high school.
But for those of us in that class, the election results of 2016 came as no surprise whatsoever.
The writing was on the wall, even then.
Back then, Hillary was voted "most likely to succeed" and Bill was in the marching band and the debate club.
I liked Bill because he was always willing to talk about things, "principles" he called them. He was very earnest, sort of boy preacher trying out his spiel on his friends. He was a fat boy, didn't have much of a shot with the girls, but you couldn't help but like the guy.
Bernie was more interesting. He was captain of the track team and the cross country team. Kind of a bean pole, but he has more nerve and fire, and tended to disagree. You put Bernie and Bill in the same room and Bill always started preaching and Bernie would listen with this knowing smile, like he'd heard all this before, and then he'd ask a few questions, and back Bill into a corner and pretty well shred whatever Bill said.
So, Bill, you think if we raise expectations of the colored in the South and are then, inevitably, unable to meet those expectations--you know, like desegregated schools, voting rights-- then we've made matters worse? So, then where are we? Just do nothing?
That sort of thing.
The Donald was sort of invisible. Well, not invisible, actually. All the parties were at his house Saturday night. He had a really big house. They had a boat in the basement, like a cabin cruiser. It was not really a basement, because you could walk in from the back yard, so it was mostly above ground, but anyway, all the girls would be there. They had something called a "Pot Luck" which was sort of like a sorority, and they would all go over to Donald's house, and around 8 or 9 PM guys like me would drift in. And Donald would sort of stand in front of the bar with a big mug in his hand with a family crest or some such thing on it and he'd mostly just smile, surveying the scene. He wasn't a guy who seemed to have any ideas, actually.
He wasn't really good at much of anything.
He tried wrestling one year, which is where I knew him from.
In wrestling you had to either know what you were doing, or you had to be very tough and he was certainly not that.
Before I'd step out on the mat, my heart was pounding at, like 130 beats a minute. All my teammates were watching. My coach was watching. Maybe even the stray cheerleader who had been assigned to cover the wrestling matches was watching. There was the possibility of humiliation.
But not so much for the Donald. Didn't seem to matter to him he wound up on his back most of the time. Actually, now that I think of it, with the perspective of years, I bet it did matter to him.
When we read "The Short Happy Life of Francis MacComber" junior year, I thought immediately of Donald. I looked over toward him in class, but he just looked down at his book. You may not know the story. Hemingway writes about this guy, Francis Macomber, who is out on safari in Africa, with his wife and the white hunter/guide. MacComber is all dressed up in his expensive safari clothes, and he's got the best gun (and the best words) and he walks into the bush, but then he's faced with an actual, living, roaring lion and he drops his gun and runs and the guide has to shoot it. But all the hired natives carry Francis back to camp on their shoulders as if he's the big hero in that scene, because, after all, he may not be a brave hunter, but he is paying all the salaries.
That's sort of Donald's story, you know? He never really has to stand his ground and fire the shot that brings down the lion. Someone else has to do that, but it's Donald who gets hoisted up on the shoulders.
For guys like me, it was our manhood on the line, on the mat. We wanted to be heroes. We wanted to stand our ground and win.
Donald seemed to know there was no way he could be a hero. Just not tough enough. Never had to fight, never learned how.
So, why should he suffer and struggle to be a hero when his parents could just buy him the costume?
He was fat and happy. Not as fat, physically, as Bill. Fat in the spiritual sense.
He never had to try very hard, never had his back to the wall.
Bernie pushed himself. Bill did too. Hell, even Hillary did.
But the Donald was just sort of the slow, fat kid. He seemed to figure he didn't have to do much. It would all come to him eventually. They'd carry him on their shoulders no matter what.
And, given the money, it did sort of play out that way. So, as I said, the results November 8, came as no surprise to anyone from our high school.
No comments:
Post a Comment