This early fall day, I was sprawled in one of the comfy chairs in the high school library waiting for the end-of-day bell. I was killing time with the Philadelphia Inquirer, reading the lead story about violence inflicted on Freedom Riders in the South. I put down the newspaper, attached to the ubiquitous wooden scrolls found in every school library in the 1960’s, and gazed out through the floor to ceiling windows. The shocking images of police bludgeoning the Freedom Riders still stuck in my head.

The marching band was practicing on the football field, members struggling to stay in step to the off-key soundtrack of horns, drums, and whistles. The school stretched out across a huge clearing halfway up Bald Eagle Mountain in the Appalachian range of North Central Pennsylvania. The headwaters of the Susquehanna River’s West Branch converged into the valley below, passing numerous farms and small towns on its journey to meet the North Branch, providing a stunning panoramic view of mid-20th century Americana.

Turning from the window, eager to clear my mind of the disturbing article, I picked up my worn copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Moments later, I felt the press of fingers digging into the pocket of my denim jacket. Expecting to catch one of my buddies looking to prank me, I whipped around and was shocked to see Mrs. Foresman, the longstanding school librarian, hovering only a couple feet from my face. Her huge eyes peered down at me through thick reading glasses perched on the edge of her skinny nose. Taking a few steps back and using her library voice, she said: “Okay, Mike; where is it? Hand over the radio. You should know better. It’s quiet time.”

Jumping up from my chair, I responded: “What are you talking about Mrs. Foresman? I don’t have a radio!” My response caught the attention of a few classmates in other lounging chairs and the nearest library desks. Crackling laughs broke out as I played the moment to its fullest, gesturing outside. “That’s the marching band, not a radio!”

Embarrassed, Mrs. Foresman, raised her voice, and said: “Now you are disturbing everyone in the library! And what is that book you’re holding? That’s not a library or class book! Library time is for library books or newspapers!”

I replied loudly, “Mrs. Foresman, YOU disturbed MY peace when you came over here accusing me of having a radio. This book is from the town library. Is there something wrong with that?”

“You are just like your older brother, needy for attention and rebellious. Look where that’s landed him! And to think, you are running for president of student council! I am suspending your library privileges for one week and reporting this incident to the principal.”

Boiling inside, I said: “Mrs. Foresman, you have no right to bring up my brother! And, yes, I am running for student council president!”

My brother, Doug was one of the smartest guys I’ve ever known. True, he always spoke his mind. And, like me, he was raised on Old Testament standards to hold your ground whenever offended or threatened. But he finished high school on top of the world with a load of friends, particularly ladies who were drawn to his tall, muscular physique and jet-black hair that he combed with an Elvis flare. He could woo them in a heartbeat simply by spinning lines of sweet poetry like a soft serve at the Dairy Queen.

Doug got a great job out of high school in management training at the local steel mill but fell on hard times ever since a near fatal car accident left him busted-up and unconscious for days. Pain has been his sidekick ever since along with heavy drinking to cope with it. I knew what Doug would do if Mrs. Foresman berated him like that in front of the students. I’m sure she did too.

The bell rang just when Mrs. Foresman, shaking her head, turned to go back to her desk and no doubt, write me up. She doesn’t know how lucky she was that the bell sounded and Jimmy, my pal who was an artistic, thoughtful classmate as well as the starting pull guard on our football team, grabbed my arm saying: “Come on Mike, let’s get out of here…. Classes are over. Let’s go by Mr. B’s classroom …. He’s probably holding court.”

Buck Byham’s arrival two years ago was a godsend to students, particularly for guys like Jim and me. Like us, he had a hardscrabble life while loving both books and sports. He made it to college on a baseball scholarship, played double-A before injuring the elbow of his pitching arm, and returned to college to finish his degree and earn a teaching certificate. In the classroom, he made American history jump off the pages with his ability to connect the current turbulent times to our country’s past. Even more important than his teaching skills was his genuine interest in our lives and well-being, a focus of his open classroom after school.

Mr. B was my mentor, teaching me how to throw the hook shot on a basketball court and guiding me in transition from a rough boyhood to a savvy, responsible adulthood. Along with a few other new teachers, he was troubled that family status shaped student status at the high school and that a group of longstanding teachers and school administrators controlled the narrative of achievement and recognition. He knew that I was subject to this code and the limits it imposed on me, and other students like me.

Not long after Jim and I arrived from the library, Mr. B took me aside, sensing that I was boiling over. I told him about the incident in the library. He looked concerned, hesitating before saying, “I’ve been meaning to talk with you about your running for student council president. You know I’m supportive as are lots of students.” But he quickly added, “Expect an ordeal. The old-guard teachers have their own favorite, Marvin Garret, and plan to push their choice.

Next year, the state-wide meeting of student councils will be hosted by our school. A big deal for them. It’s not right, but you don’t fit their bill. I’m not saying the incident in the library is related to your running; but it could be. Politics is like this at every level. You need to stay cool and realize that the decision ultimately rests on candidate debates and the vote of the entire student body.”

I said, “Well, Marvin gets all A’s and is one of the most accomplished sax players around. His parents are big boosters of the band. His dad is on the school board, right? I get it. But I’m still gonna run! It’s time for students to have more say, you know; the school newspaper, clubs, assemblies. Marvin’s not into that. So much is going on in the world, but you would never know it from in here! Student council is supposed be the voice of us students. I wanna make it so, at least for our school.”

After hanging out with Mr. B and the guys for a while, I headed for the exit doors with Jimmy. As they slid open, I could still hear the marching band which had moved on to rehearsing the school fight song for tomorrow’s big football game. On the surface I was calm, but inside I was seething with anger and a strong desire for revenge. This desire was a family trait running for generations and bolstered by the culture of my Appalachian hometown.

I struggled to closet this emotion, having seen how it played out over the years for my family. But I also knew where Mrs. Foresman lived and how much she and her husband prized their new, fire engine red Buick Skylark Convertible.

 

Michael Musheno has published extensively in university presses, including the University of Michigan and Chicago Presses, on issues of public affairs that draw upon the stories of others, mostly frontline workers in the public sector. He has turned to writing his own stories in preparation of a memoir.