Threshing The Wheat From The Chaff

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Suddenly I'm a 'college boy'. Imagine me, never having attended a college or university before and coming home with a report card marked 'A'!

''A' means 'Excellent',' said the wife, almost as if she was proud of me. 'I've had twelve years of university and I received only 'B' in my course,' she laughed.

It so happens that the wife, being a teacher in the Junior High school and now appointed head of the school library, has been having to take some additional courses in library administration to qualify. I have been just the chauffeur, driving her to and from these courses, thumbing the well-worn pages of Iron Man Albums and Gas Engine Magazines in the school hall-Way while she was matriculating within the ivy towers of higher learning.

'Why not sign up for some kind of class?' she said. 'It would be better than just loafing around while you're waiting on me.' (Reading Iron Man Albums isn't loafing.)

I argued that it would be a waste of time for me to even try to learn anything, let alone futile for the professor who tried to teach me. But the wife argued back that once she had taken her dog to school with her and the dern dog went through the Whole university (in the front door and out the back) in one day. I felt that if a common pooch could pass all the 'entrance examinations', attend all classes and graduate with a soup-bone diploma by licking the professors' feet for a 'cum laude' between sunrise and sunset, I ought to be smart enough to polish the teacher's apple and come off with a 'bum laude' for a single course in nine weeks.

When I told the professor I'd sign up for English-Composition, he replied that the beginning course in that was held on another evening. This, of course, defeated our purpose, and I felt relieved of my university obligation. But the 'prof' suggested that I take the examination on the beginning course and, if I passed it, I'd be eligible for course eleven, which would be held the same evening as my wife's class.

'Get in there, here's your papers you have thirty minutes. Begin,' snapped the university administrator, shoving me into an isolated cubicle and walking away without giving me any instructions.

After wasting ten minutes and not answering a single question, I decided I'd better return to the beginning and read the instructions. It was all Greek to me. I was so disgusted, I was ready to toss the papers out and say 'Come 'n get 'em.' At least he could've shown me how the thing was to be marked.

Finally I began answering first one, then another, and kept right on going. All too soon he returned and shouted, 'Time's up. Hand me the papers.' I walked out of there and strode across the long hallway, telling my wife to grab her coat that I had failed, and we were getting out of there.

But the 'boss man' yelled back across that hallway 'Sir, wait a minute you've passed. You answered twenty-six, and only fifteen were required. My first university exam had taught me that the secret of modern education was to orient oneself as rapidly as possible in a given situation, without advance instructions, and follow through by answering as many questions accurately as was possible in a certain given time. This was more important than having all the time I needed to answer all the questions at a more leisurely pace. And here I had passed a test that normally it would require nine weeks to prepare for.

But my problems were not over. In fact, they were just beginning. For, after attending five weekly classes, I received a phone call from the university administration office, stating that I had been actually attending English-Composition thirteen, when I was supposed to be in course twelve. Here I had skipped two courses and been attending the advanced course and liking it, as the result of some mix-up in the head office.

Although I was at a disadvantage with my other classmates who had graduated from the two other courses leading up to the advanced one, I did have the somewhat proud experience of having written the only theme on one book Which was ever read by the professor to the class as what he called a 'very fine treatment' of the subject.

Let me say here, it is one thing to merely read a book for enjoyment. But it is quite a different matter to read that same book and then write a five-hundred word theme on it from whatever angle the professor directs and get it right with all the proper punctuation till it's a finished product worthy of a passing grade. Our course was 'Negro Literature', we had seven volumes to read, after which we were to write our themes of analysis, injecting our own ideas, our own criticisms or praises, according to the wishes of the professor as each succeeding class unfolded.

When it came to the final class, the professor announced, 'Next week you are to present your finest theme, summing up all we have read and discussed.' You can choose your own subject and approach, writing about several of the novels or all of them. If you want to write about parallels in the various novels, all right or if you wish to write about the contrasts that will be also acceptable. The choice is up to you, as is also the subject matter you wish to bring into focus from all we've read and discussed in this course.'

'Any questions?' the professor asked. 'I hear a groan from this corner over here,' he mused.

'Yes, I have a question,' came my reply. 'What am I going to write about?' This brought a whimper of mirth throughout the classroom, like a safety valve popping on an overloaded boiler.

Here I was at a distinct disadvantage. The others in the class, some of whom were also adults, had bought all their books from the university storeroom. I had merely borrowed mine from the public library, had returned most of them and now it was up to my memory to know what to write about, making my quotations without benefit of referring back to the textbooks for reinforcement. Like in my entrance exam, I now had to orient myself in all the melee of pages we'd studied without benefit of props the others had to lean on. But I faced up to the task, and was most surprised when the report card came back with an 'A'.

Now, what did I learn from my one and only university course, above and beyond what was in the books? Well, first of all I learned that there was not sufficient time in the day for both productive study and the kind of goofing off that results in picketing, rioting and the 'sit-ins' that the T-V cameras focus on. The video camera men ignore the thousands engaged in serious study on our nation's campuses, in order to sensationalize the few who never crack a book or attend classes, but spend their time bringing shame and disruption to the educational institutions of our land. These are the ones who go about tearing down but never building up. They scream and yell their degradations and shout 'change! 'but change for what? Should anyone ever once ask them what changes they envision, they'd have no answer, for they haven't studied any of the things they propose changing, and therefore are least qualified to give orders and least of all do they have any right to tear down what more intelligent people have labored to build, simply because they have nothing in mind to replace it. This, indeed, is truly the 'lost generation'. They are lost, first of all, because they never have really lived and wrestled with life's problems, and therefore are not qualified to give counsel. But these are the very ones that our news media T-V cameras, newspapers, radios focus on as the sensations of our generation. If I were to ask youth about what changes they deemed pertinent to our times, I would indeed ask some of the serious students in our colleges and universities who had come face to face with classroom and campus discipline sufficient to pass a few required examinations and get a few good grades and from these I'd get no doubt some decent answers about what improvements might be beneficial to all.

Recently my wife and I were asked to help chaperone a Junior High School party. The students were allowed to pick an orchestra of their own choosing. The amplifiers blared forth in all their fury, the blue and purple lights flashed weirdly and nauseating in rhythm as some longhaired, slinking figure, looking like an apparition, shouted into the microphone as 'it' jumped about. Parents watched horrified at their own daughters and sons jumping up and down, arms stretched upward as if they were reaching up for release from their torture. It wasn't dancing as Mom and Dad had known, nor was there any singing or melody to cheer the heart and soul. There was only noise. Some of us tried to converse with each other in that din, but we had to retire to another room in order to converse and be heard. Surely, were these the same fair-haired, nice looking students we saw in the classrooms and hallways of our school, earlier that day? Were these the same students we heard playing lovely marches and waltzes that afternoon, and singing so beautifully in the school music groups? Yes, they were. They had been educated to good music, melody, harmony and counterpoint and taught to play fine instruments but that evening they appeared among the damned. I was reminded of when I was a lad, leafing through my Grandmother's big Bible, and seeing Gustave Dore's masterful etchings depicting the crying and suffering of those lost in Hell. Surely this was not music, not fun, not youthful exuberance and joy that we were witnessing at the party of our school youth. And I knew even the students weren't enjoying themselves, but nevertheless they felt compelled to participate in the decadence that is dangerously gnawing at our civilization. Finally one of the students just couldn't take it any more and she came to us asking, 'Does anyone have some aspirins?'

My wife and I took some Future Teacher girls over to Capitol University, a Lutheran college, at Columbus, Ohio. Throughout the halls of this church university there were posters announcing the celebration of Black Week. That was good, for I've always been for equality of citizenship, as granted by our constitution. But I notice there were huge pictures of Malcolm-X and Rap Brown also posted on the walls, and numerous books advocating the use of 'Whatever Means Possible' for the overthrow of our national organizations. I looked in vain for the picture of the Negro Christian leader, Dr. Martin Luther King, but it was not displayed in this Christian institution. When we attended the afternoon session, in Music Hall, instead of being treated to something educational and uplifting, we discovered a hippy combo occupying the entire stage, tuning up. The noise was so terrible, many could not stand to enter, and left early.

I am convinced that our youth is being trained very well in our school musical groups. But when left to their own tastes, they fall flat and are wanting. This reflects a lack, not in our schools, but in our homes. Parents no longer preach ideals to their children, and children lack heroes to mould their lives after. Every kid is a hero-worshipper without the hero to worshipand therefore they fasten onto only half-heroes as their models. That is why we have images of Rap Browns and Malcolm X's hanging in our college hallways, when men and heroes of real stature are most desperately needed.

I guess I must have been spoiled. When I was a kid, my heroes lived in the pages of the Bible or were crucified on the cross to redeem mankind. And, in the field of music, Pawerewski, Rachmaninoff, Fritz Kreisler and other eminents in the world of great music were my matinee idols, whether my Mommy had to bundle me up and take me on the interurban to the big city concert hall, or I had to crank up the parlor victrola to hear 'em.

After all, it's largely up to what Mommy and Daddy do in the home for lassie and laddy, whether or not our youth have the proper ideals for the future of our land.