Mr. Barham was my elementary school principal and his death (was it during the sixth grade?) was a shock to all the children. The teachers and PTA moms, as always, did their best to counsel us on the proper way to deal with such a loss. School was let out for the funeral, and as always, Kenny’s mom was my driver. She provided sweet, wise counsel to us children, that at a funeral we may feel like crying because we’re reminded of others that have died and whom we miss. I’ve had several reports in recent emails of the funeral. Here’s Serena’s:
Remember when Mr Barham died?? We all went to the funeral. I had never been to one and was scared to death. They made us sing " Faith of Our Fathers" during the funeral. I still remember his sons at the church.
And it seems like Steve W. said it was an open casket funeral, which must have been a shocker. I don’t remember if Mrs. Williams thought to encourage her little group to walk up front.
Clipping from Reinhardt Library. June 11, 2007.
We were at the center of the world on November 22, 1963. I think I was in my eighth grade geometry class. Our teachers did the best they could, filled with grief as they were. Kenny, who had a wonderful mom, on that day was more influenced by his Republican firebrand dad. When the teacher left the room to find another adult to hug and cry with, Kenny walked to the blackboard and drew a “hangman” game drawing. It seemed to a be sort of John Bircher’s comment that Kennedy got what he deserved, but I may be misinterpreting and will leave it to him to decided if it was one of his mea culpas.
When I was in the tenth grade, I had a wonderful English teacher Sue Braden. One week, everyone was required to compose a poem and then read it to the class. Here’s mine:
Dallas, once a city of love and wonder.
Now, Dallas, a city of hate.
You see, Kennedy was shot here.
When I finished reading the poem in class, Mrs. Braden said, “Don, you are so cynical.” This was really a very insightful comment and I’m glad she made it.
Dana was with many of us in the Reinhardt classrooms. I remember in the sixth grade sitting with him each day in homeroom in a small cluster of boys. During my adult worklife, I’ve pretty much kept my nose to the grindstone and not spent much time in water fountain banter, but it seems like in the endless hours of classroom sitting, we children had to find ways to amuse ourselves. One day, I was leading my nearby group in how we could use our faces to do something odd and funny. My trick was to snap my tongue, which I could do with an amplitude that matched Janie Wilson’s finger snap. Dana’s trick was to suck his jowls into his mouth, pucker his lips, and move them up and down like a fish. He also may have been able to keep his nostrils sucked together, which added to the effect. We all agreed his was the funniest.
Dana’s father was a physician. I know because one time my mom took me to him when I had a painful ear infection. Dr. Lair almost killed me by stuffing some type of medical wadding into the ear to clean it. He did not strike me as man who had much sympathy or empathy. In the sixth grade, Dana told us that his family had gone skiing in Colorado, I think during the Christmas break. For the times, going to Colorado skiing was a significant differentiator of a family’s social class and wealth. I though it odd, but because Mrs. Hardy commended Dana for his trip to the entire class, I began to grasp that going skiing in Colorado was a sophisticated thing to do. The best my parents could do was to take me and my brother to a Galveston beach.
Dana killed himself, I think several weeks after his graduation from BA. I know nothing about the circumstances. I do have great empathy for him because I know the ways BA could be hard on a boy like that.
I don’t really regard BA as having been a place filled with bullies and mistreatment of kids by other kids. It was a place that would allow you, in your adolescent angst over awkwardness and uncertainty, figuratively to shrink into the wall and disappear. It was a mega high school among mega schools, I think the largest in the state in the early 60’s.
Dana (and me too) might have done better in a smaller high school with small classes and much more intensive adult interaction. And of course, those of us who had warm, loving and communicative parents always weathered our storms more successfully. More about how schools then might have done a better job with children with special needs in the next blog, “The Dark Underbelly of Reinhardt.’
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