1960 Short Story
Hop in the time machine and enjoy a short historical story about the 1960s…
Every girl in my high school wanted to belong to the popular clique, but that required being pretty and appealing to the opposite sex. Alternatively, there were the fast girls, who wore piles of makeup. Some even bleached their hair. Most smoked an occasional cigarette in the girls’ bathroom, and all were rumored to have done it. I wasn’t sure what “it” was, but no matter. My hawk-eyed parents would never let me wear enough paint and powder to run with this crowd. By default I drifted into a small group of self-styled smart girls. We thought of ourselves as studious, since never having a date leaves a lot of time for hitting the books. Smart girls did homework during study hall instead of passing notes to reveal who liked whom.
Athletes wore their letter jackets on the day they were awarded. For the remainder of the year, the jackets would be worn by the popular girls. A boy who wore his own jacket in the hallway thereby signaled he had broken up with his popular girlfriend. In a week or so the trophy would pass to another member of the in-crowd. The previously disgraced male of the species could resume hauling a double load of books. He would again fit in.
I’m still not certain why I signed up for a semester of physics. The interesting sound of the word may have been enough. It sounded collegiate, pretentious, self-important--so me. Maybe it was because only seniors could take physics, or it could be I cherished the ambition of solidifying my standing as a smart girl. Regardless of the reason, on the first day of school, first period, I reported to Mr. Krause’s physics class.
The bell rang, and the formidable Mr. Krause strode in. He was a great bear of a man with a wide, Teutonic face, and a shock of unruly white hair. His eyeglasses looked like the bottoms of coke bottles mounted on wire rims. They magnified his eyes into great blue blobs. There never had been, never would be, any discipline problem in Mr. Krause's classroom.
Taking a seat behind his desk, Mr. Krause straightened his tie and began to speak. His voice was deep and strong, with just the slightest trace of the Old Country lingering. He spoke deliberately, making eye-contact with each student. “Physics is the study of matter and motion. It is the foundation of the discipline of mechanical engineering. It is not a class for girls.” He stopped talking, and my heart stopped beating. The ten boys smirked.
JoAnne Wilson made the unfortunate selection of a desk on the front row, directly in front of Mr. Krause. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that would melt asbestos. JoAnne blushed. She averted her eyes. She fidgeted. After what seemed forever, she quietly closed her notebook, stacked her books, picked up her purse, and left. Everyone knew JoAnne's next stop would be the school office, where she would drop physics.
If Mr. Krause turned to me next, I would surrender. At seventeen I did not have the backbone to take on a teacher, particularly Mr. Krause. Instead, he turned his head to the side of the room opposite me and blew a blizzard of visual icicles toward Kitty Blackwell. While I was frantically trying to decide what to do, a hitch-your-wagon-to-a-star decision came to me. If Kitty went, I would follow her out the door. If she toughed it out, I would stay too.
Other Katherines were Kathy or Kate, but Miss Blackwell was always Kitty. She was a member of the most elite girls’ group, the chosen few who were both smart and popular. Kitty was a cheerleader, the steady girlfriend of a football star. Her family had money and social status. With no apparent effort, she made excellent grades. Most enviable of all, Kitty was beyond pretty. She was beautiful, gorgeous, stunning.
This girl had been stared at before, and she knew exactly how to handle it. She met Mr. Krause’s gaze not defiantly, but coquettishly. Without dropping her eyes, she slowly began to smile at him. I did not know the word seductive, but recognized the concept in action nevertheless. So did the ten young men in the room. So, apparently, did Mr. Krause. He reddened ever so slightly and dropped his glare. Perhaps he mistook me for one of the boys, or maybe he knew the game was over. In any case, he never looked in my direction. Kitty stayed. Therefore, I stayed.
I’ll say this for old Mr. Krause; he didn’t fudge on grades. The students who knew the answers passed the tests. At the end of the semester there were five A’s in the class. Kitty breezed to hers with her usual aplomb. I worked like a dog for mine.
Not long afterwards, bras were burning, women were marching, and teachers like Mr. Krause were hastily retiring. An awakening started for me on that September morning, when I began to understand quiet perseverance is a possible right answer to unreasonable exercise of authority. Could that be the basis of mechanical engineering? Anyway, that’s what Mr. Krause taught me in high school physics.
Every girl in my high school wanted to belong to the popular clique, but that required being pretty and appealing to the opposite sex. Alternatively, there were the fast girls, who wore piles of makeup. Some even bleached their hair. Most smoked an occasional cigarette in the girls’ bathroom, and all were rumored to have done it. I wasn’t sure what “it” was, but no matter. My hawk-eyed parents would never let me wear enough paint and powder to run with this crowd. By default I drifted into a small group of self-styled smart girls. We thought of ourselves as studious, since never having a date leaves a lot of time for hitting the books. Smart girls did homework during study hall instead of passing notes to reveal who liked whom.
Athletes wore their letter jackets on the day they were awarded. For the remainder of the year, the jackets would be worn by the popular girls. A boy who wore his own jacket in the hallway thereby signaled he had broken up with his popular girlfriend. In a week or so the trophy would pass to another member of the in-crowd. The previously disgraced male of the species could resume hauling a double load of books. He would again fit in.
I’m still not certain why I signed up for a semester of physics. The interesting sound of the word may have been enough. It sounded collegiate, pretentious, self-important--so me. Maybe it was because only seniors could take physics, or it could be I cherished the ambition of solidifying my standing as a smart girl. Regardless of the reason, on the first day of school, first period, I reported to Mr. Krause’s physics class.
The bell rang, and the formidable Mr. Krause strode in. He was a great bear of a man with a wide, Teutonic face, and a shock of unruly white hair. His eyeglasses looked like the bottoms of coke bottles mounted on wire rims. They magnified his eyes into great blue blobs. There never had been, never would be, any discipline problem in Mr. Krause's classroom.
Taking a seat behind his desk, Mr. Krause straightened his tie and began to speak. His voice was deep and strong, with just the slightest trace of the Old Country lingering. He spoke deliberately, making eye-contact with each student. “Physics is the study of matter and motion. It is the foundation of the discipline of mechanical engineering. It is not a class for girls.” He stopped talking, and my heart stopped beating. The ten boys smirked.
JoAnne Wilson made the unfortunate selection of a desk on the front row, directly in front of Mr. Krause. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that would melt asbestos. JoAnne blushed. She averted her eyes. She fidgeted. After what seemed forever, she quietly closed her notebook, stacked her books, picked up her purse, and left. Everyone knew JoAnne's next stop would be the school office, where she would drop physics.
If Mr. Krause turned to me next, I would surrender. At seventeen I did not have the backbone to take on a teacher, particularly Mr. Krause. Instead, he turned his head to the side of the room opposite me and blew a blizzard of visual icicles toward Kitty Blackwell. While I was frantically trying to decide what to do, a hitch-your-wagon-to-a-star decision came to me. If Kitty went, I would follow her out the door. If she toughed it out, I would stay too.
Other Katherines were Kathy or Kate, but Miss Blackwell was always Kitty. She was a member of the most elite girls’ group, the chosen few who were both smart and popular. Kitty was a cheerleader, the steady girlfriend of a football star. Her family had money and social status. With no apparent effort, she made excellent grades. Most enviable of all, Kitty was beyond pretty. She was beautiful, gorgeous, stunning.
This girl had been stared at before, and she knew exactly how to handle it. She met Mr. Krause’s gaze not defiantly, but coquettishly. Without dropping her eyes, she slowly began to smile at him. I did not know the word seductive, but recognized the concept in action nevertheless. So did the ten young men in the room. So, apparently, did Mr. Krause. He reddened ever so slightly and dropped his glare. Perhaps he mistook me for one of the boys, or maybe he knew the game was over. In any case, he never looked in my direction. Kitty stayed. Therefore, I stayed.
I’ll say this for old Mr. Krause; he didn’t fudge on grades. The students who knew the answers passed the tests. At the end of the semester there were five A’s in the class. Kitty breezed to hers with her usual aplomb. I worked like a dog for mine.
Not long afterwards, bras were burning, women were marching, and teachers like Mr. Krause were hastily retiring. An awakening started for me on that September morning, when I began to understand quiet perseverance is a possible right answer to unreasonable exercise of authority. Could that be the basis of mechanical engineering? Anyway, that’s what Mr. Krause taught me in high school physics.
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