Back then, they weren’t geeks or nerds, they were known as dorks, and I was one of them. I became a dork at age eight when my parents moved the family to a new part of the city from a two bedroom apartment at Fransisco and Diversey to our new home near Austin and Belmont on Chicago’s northwest side. It was a new neighborhood, new kids and, most traumatic of all, a new school. “You’ll make new friends.” my parents said. But what they didn’t know is that I would make new tormentors: the school bullies. So I prepared for my first day, of a mid-3rd grade transfer, at St. Ferdinand Catholic School.
On a bright and sunny morning I stood in front of thirty boys and girls my age in a white shirt, blue clip-on tie and neatly pressed ribbed brown corduroy pants, the kind that make funny noises between your legs when you walk, as Sister Mary Humiliation announced to the class who I was by mispronouncing my last name. I was doomed, and would suffer from that error my entire grade school experience.
If you ever transferred to a new school, you get the idea what my problems were. Kids can be mean. I was an outcast and, in order to survive the daily harassment and push and shove dares from the school bullies, I learned how to use humor. If I could make them laugh, perhaps they wouldn’t beat me up so often.
I became, basically, the class humorist or clown. Always a joke or funny story outdoors and responsive funny faces and gestures in the classroom. I made few friends in that school and the few close friends I had lived on my block and attended a nearby public school.
Eventually, by eighth grade, I had gained recognition as a story teller and funny guy and was told by several of my departing classmates at graduation that I would be missed while giving me a final punch in the arm approval. The ordeal was over. I was graduating. I was relieved. I had survived.
The experience did lead me down a path of writing. By sixth grade I was writing short stories and poems based on my experiences. I wrote fictional accounts where I dealt with the frustrations and anger I could not express any other way. It was a great outlet for my feelings and still is. I don’t remember all the stories, or what ever happened to them, but realize they were amateurish and perhaps better they did not survive, but they were a start.
Although I had been selected by lottery as one of the lucky ones to attend the new and prestigious St Patrick’s High School, I turned it down an went to Steinmetz. I did not want to deal with what I considered sadistic teachers (Brothers they were called) who could slap and punish you, in an all-boy environment of repressed individuals and former class bullies. How I accomplished this without my parents finding out was a bit of maneuvering and dodging.
High school was on the horizon and I wondered what would be in store. Would I run into new bullies to deal with for four more years; would I hopefully meet new friends, and would there be intimidating and condescending teachers? I would soon find out. But I knew, whatever lied ahead, I would be prepared with an arsenal of jokes, humorous anecdotes and a good pair of running shoes.
