Chapter 4 - Education
Very early in my life, my education felt shameful. Back then, I didn’t know what to call it, but I felt shame. My body knew it even if my mind didn’t.
My academic performance in Junior High School was not wonderful, but it was acceptable. However, once I got into high school, the report cards I brought home were dreadful. My parents never condemned me verbally, but, as I recall, my mother would always get a little sad and look away. In our community, growing up Jewish meant facing high expectations for academic achievement. Most of my friends were also Jewish, and I imagined they were all destined to do well in school and to have successful, well-regarded careers.
The Guidance Counselor
An experience in 1954 deeply affected both my mother and me. On that day, all eleventh-graders in my high school were scheduled to meet with our guidance counselor. Students and parents inched toward her office in a snake-like procession, past the reek of gym body odor and the formaldehyde fumes of the biology lab. I was upset and worried about what she would say because I was pretty close to the bottom of my class. Perhaps that’s why the smells got to me that afternoon. Right behind my mother and me were my mother’s friend and her brainy, dark-haired daughter, who got all A’s and knew what she wanted to do with her life. With her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, my mother’s friend looked at us and said, “My daughter will have her pick of the best colleges, just like her brothers.” My mother nodded but did not look at me. That looking away always felt louder than anything she might have said.
When we finally got to the head of the line, we saw my guidance counselor, sitting at her desk, arms extended, fingers intertwined. She looked blankly out of the window, joining me, I imagined, in my desire to be somewhere else, and said, probably for the fiftieth time that day, “What are your plans?” I hesitated, then said, “I... uh... want to be a journalist.” She turned sharply toward me and exclaimed, “That’s a bad idea, Gene,” punctuated by the taps of the eraser end of her long, yellow pencil on top of my grades. “Perhaps something more practical would be better – something more practical.”
My mother’s lower lip and jaw jutted uncharacteristically, and her hands clenched. She looked straight ahead, not at me, not at her friend, who stood in the doorway with her daughter, and not at the guidance counselor.
I shook my aching head and whispered, “You asshole,” or, perhaps, those are the words I now put into the mouth of the kid I was back then, a seething underachiever, feeling sick, sad, and stupid. I was destined, it seemed, to be like my father, whose hands were soiled and whose shirt collar was stained after every day of work. At that time in my life, I didn’t think much of the work he did, although he and my mother had no problem with it. I thought it reflected his meager education, as he had only reached third grade. I wanted to be better than that. I wanted to be professional.
Continuing Academic Distress
I don’t think anyone in that school thought I would amount to much, and neither did I. I graduated from high school in the bottom fifth of my class. Educators seemed to think that such numbers were objective and accurate reflections of a student's worth, and at the time, I agreed that the number reflected who I was—someone at the bottom.
Aside from participating in many intramural sports while in high school, I played on the school’s football team.
Out front scoring a touchdown 1
My friends identified me, and I also identified myself as a “jock.” My athletic activities during that time were not restricted to school. At the Wilmington Jewish Community Center (then called the YM-YWHA), I placed first in the decathlon for boys ages 15 to 18 and received the Arthur M. Blatman Memorial Award as the “outstanding athlete who best exemplifies the spirit of good sportsmanship.”
As is often the case with jocks, I did not do well. However, this was not related to preoccupation with sports or diminished intellect. Rather, as I later learned, it was related to having a vision impairment that prevented me from reading effectively.
I had trouble getting into college. The University of Delaware, my state school, indicated that I could be admitted, but only on probation. I went to another, apparently less selective, school for my freshman year, but not liking either it or the distance I had to travel, I transferred to the University of Delaware on probation for my sophomore year.
I tried to succeed and initially hoped to earn grades good enough to get into medical school. I was a member of the University of Delaware’s Jewish fraternity, Alpha Epsilon Pi, which consistently ranked highest academically among all fraternities on campus. I felt like an irresponsible member of this group.
It got so bad in the first semester of my junior year in college that I nearly flunked out. I remember sitting at home, waiting for my grades to arrive. I was terrified, expecting the worst, which did arrive. On my report card were two Cs, a D, and two Fs. Sadness swept over me. Seeking distraction on that dreadful day. I went outside and got into my 1949 black Mercury with white walls, which I wanted my parents to buy because it was the car Jim Stark, the perpetually upset teenage character in Rebel Without a Cause, owned. I drove through the streets of Wilmington. past old friends’ homes, and over to Warner Junior High, where I had last done reasonably well.
I was actually a scholastic star one day at Warner, but an illegitimate one. When I was growing up, my parents would rent rooms in our house. The tenants, whom we called roomers, were like family members. My favorite was an army officer, Colonel McCauley, who lived with us when I was in eighth grade.
The Korean War was underway, and President Truman, whom I liked even then, had just fired General MacArthur for insubordination. I was working on an essay for school in which I intended to defend Truman. While sitting at the dining room table, Colonel McCauley walked by and offered to help me. As it turned out, he wrote the entire essay himself. No big deal, I thought. Lots of kids get that kind of assistance with their homework. I knew that it wouldn’t help me, but it got the job done.
I took my essay to school and, along with others in the class, I read it aloud. I don’t remember my classmates' reactions, but my teacher loved it. She really loved it. She arranged for me to read it to another class, and the other teacher loved it too.
They marched the entire school down to the auditorium to listen to my plagiarized piece of writing. The place was packed, and I was relishing this undeserved admiration. I read the defense of Truman for the third time that day. The kids probably didn’t like anything about this. Here I was getting all this attention and not for anything they valued. Besides, the essay was undoubtedly over their heads as it was over mine. Perhaps a few of them might have appreciated that I put one over on the teachers, but they were unaware of the subterfuge.
I probably understood that if I had been found out, I would have been in deep trouble. It would not have been pleasant if this ruse had been discovered. But it wasn’t.
It seemed to me that the whole episode was thrilling, and I do not recall any sense of guilt, but there’s not a single doubt in my mind that Harry Truman would not have approved.
Anyway, while I was parking by Warner Junior High, I saw a red-tailed hawk soaring slowly in circles across the street over Brandywine Park. I walked into the park, found a bench, and watched a little black worker ant trying to cart a tiny twig toward his hill, only to drop it, pick it up, advance, drop it again, and repeat the process. When he finally reached his hill, still clutching the twig, I heard a high-pitched screech, looked up, and saw a hawk suddenly speed silently toward a squirrel scurrying up a tree trunk, much too slowly. I said to myself, comparing the hawk and ant to my own struggles, “Boy, they don’t fuck around. They know what they want, and they know how to get it.
I decided I had to do something dramatic. In the 1950s, young men in the United States were required to register for the military draft, but the law allowed student deferments, letting me finish college before being drafted. If I flunked out, I thought, I would get drafted and spend at least two years in foxholes . Enlisting in the military reserves seemed a better option than being drafted. It required only six months of active duty, assuming there was no armed conflict in which we were involved. It was a rational decision to choose voluntary hardship rather than have something more onerous imposed on me. If my timing was perfect, I could serve six months and get back to school before the following fall semester. It turned out that my best option to accomplish that goal was to join the Marines.
In February 1958, at the age of 20, I was sent a train ticket for transit to Parris Island (PI) in South Carolina. Two others from Wilmington, Delaware, my hometown, were on the same train. I could see that they were both excited, picturing themselves like John Wayne in the popular film “The Sands of Iwo Jima.” However, I found the trip stressful because I knew that about two years before, in April 1956, a recruit platoon at PI had been marched to a swampy creek at night. Most walked along the creek bed, but some drifted into deep water, fully clothed and wearing heavy boots. Six men drowned.
When the train arrived in South Carolina, a Marine Corps bus was waiting for us. When we arrived at PI, a drill instructor (DI) jumped onto the bus and started shouting insults and demands. We were herded into a large room where more screaming DIs were waiting for us. I had never been so confused and terrified. Their unnerving behavior lasted from that moment until the last few days of our 13-week stay on the Island, during which I received instruction in Marine Corps history, customs, core values, and essential skills.
For me, the worst day was when we had to demonstrate proficiency in shooting rifles. We spent a week in marksmanship training, and, on qualification day, we tried to hit the targets with enough accuracy to score at least 180 points out of a possible 250. A score of 180 was passing, but just barely, like getting a D in school. The DIs had a lot riding on the outcome, having made bets with competing DIs, whose recruits all scored well. In our platoon, I was the only one who failed to qualify, getting a pitiful 179. Beginning that day, the DIs were hyper-critical about my performance and referred to me as “Aronowfuckinwitz.”
That single missing point confirmed my continuing belief that failure in one endeavor, such as underachievement in school, could eclipse my many competencies. After graduating from that thirteen-week life-altering experience at PI, I spent the remainder of my six months of active duty undergoing infantry training at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. After completing my active duty at Camp Lejeune, I served for an additional five and a half years, one weekend per month and two weeks every summer. I felt fortunate that I was never activated and, therefore, never saw combat.
In the Marines
After finishing my active duty, I headed back to college. Unfortunately, I didn’t do any better academically. I had already recognized that being a physician was out of the question because of my grades, particularly flunking organic chemistry and getting a D in physics. Letting go of that dream made academic failure feel even worse.I knew I had to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, first wondering whether I could become a dentist instead of a physician, and then, more realistically, a lab technician. However, even that would have required more science courses, which scared me. My lack of any acceptable future was a continual source of anxiety and sadness.
My Eyesight as Explanation
I thought obsessively about possible explanations for my dismal academic performance. In a eureka moment, it occurred to me that my inability to read might be the cause. I had poor eyesight since childhood. I wondered, for the first time, whether the problem might be something other than ignorance. I immediately went to the school’s reading lab for an evaluation. It showed that I read with one eye and then the other, losing my place during the switch. I had the reading ability of a tenth grader. I read very slowly and had poor comprehension. That knowledge gave me a strange but welcome sense of relief. I went to an ophthalmologist who indicated that I had a condition called exotropia, a misalignment of the eyes. I decided to have the operation he recommended, which he said would strengthen and focus my eyes. I didn’t know if it would solve my academic problems, but I thought it was worth a try.
The results, you should pardon the expression, were eye-opening. My double vision disappeared, and people told me I wasn’t squinting anymore. Nevertheless, having suffered for decades from bad reading habits, I still couldn’t read. I went back to the reading lab and signed up for reading instructions and exercises. The results were dramatic. I didn’t read that much faster, but my comprehension increased to an appropriate level for a college senior.
Change of Course
I decided to switch my major to education, not because I wanted to become a teacher, but because I thought education courses would be easy, and I hoped to earn decent enough grades to graduate. I was not aiming for fulfillment but for survival. Changing my major and reading more effectively resulted in my getting good grades the following semester.
As an education major, I was required to complete student teaching, and in my senior year, I taught high school biology. I got along great with the students, and my teaching seemed to be going well until the day I was to present material on which I had failed an exam the previous semester. My familiar concern about appearing stupid took over, and as I began the lesson, I had difficulty speaking, periodically gasping for breath. Even though it was cold outside, I opened the window to let in some air, and, while it was easier to speak, I paused frequently to catch my breath. The students were patient with me and seemed sympathetic, but I was distressed and embarrassed. From that day forward until the end of student teaching, I was over-prepared for each class and kept the window open at least a crack. A good day in my classroom was when I could say what I needed to say without gasping for breath.
It was clear to me that I didn’t want to be a teacher, not because I looked down on it, but because the thought of speaking all day in enclosed classrooms filled me with dread. I considered several alternatives to teaching, and one appeared unexpectedly. I had spent many summers working at the Jewish Community Center of Wilmington, Delaware, primarily as a camp counselor, lifeguard, and swimming instructor. I saw a flyer on a bulletin board at the Center asking whether I liked doing work like that, which I did. It said that I could enjoy a career much like that by becoming a social group worker. Additionally, it said that fellowships were available if I was willing to work at a Jewish Community Center for two years after earning a master’s degree. I liked the idea of spending my time in such a setting, and social group work as a career seemed appealing. I hoped to get into graduate school, but that seemed challenging because I just barely graduated, 334th out of 404 students in my class.
Social Work
I applied to six graduate schools of social work and was accepted by only one, which, at the time, was threatened with the loss of accreditation. Because reading was no longer an impediment, I received an A in 12 of my courses and a B in the other 8.
With my master’s degree, I began a good career, but not good enough by the standards I thought my friends had achieved. Invitations to high school reunions were as welcome as jury notices. But things did begin to change. I got a job at Hull House in Chicago, and in 1966, my work as a group therapist for children there was being noticed. My practice was based on significant research at Case Western Reserve University. A graduate of its doctoral program, Paul Gitlin, was teaching at the University of Chicago, School of Social Service Administration. He knew the researchers and the contents of their study. He brought his students to observe my practice, and other faculty became interested in my work as well. A paper I wrote about my practice was published in that school’s highly regarded journal, The Social Service Review. I was on a first-name basis with many faculty members, and the relationships were cordial.
I applied for admission to the doctoral program at the University of Chicago. Because of my low undergraduate grades, they asked me to take their statistics course to demonstrate my intellectual ability. I did very well in that course, and I was admitted.
When I entered the program in the fall of 1967, the first-name basis disappeared, and I was referred to as Mr. Aronowitz, which I perceived as a distancing gesture. The widespread presumption of my competence also disappeared. Whereas they previously saw me as competent unless I demonstrated otherwise, they then considered me incompetent unless I passed their examinations or wrote excellent papers. I was offended by how I thought I was being treated, which led me into a whole series of activist activities, which I will cover in Chapter 6.
Activism notwithstanding, I approached my doctoral education methodically. My dissertation was about self-observation capacity, a subject that really interested me, but I was committed to keeping work on my dissertation as short as possible. I figured out a way to collect data in a few weeks. I also decided to make appointments with my dissertation committee rather than waiting for them to read my drafts and get back to me. I was able to get my dissertation approved and graduate in two years and nine months, close to a record for the school.
Graduation day with my mother and father
I graduated in 1970, 15 years after high school. I had already received three invitations to high school reunions, which occurred every five years. But for reasons that continue to elude me, I still didn’t think my career measured up to what my friends had presumably accomplished. I also skipped the fourth reunion, but in 1978, 23 years after graduating from high school, I got myself a very high-profile job. That achievement, my degree, and the effects of a very successful diet seemed to support my attending the next reunion, the 25th.
I was shocked when I arrived at that reunion. I expected everyone to be as I remembered them, and shook my head in disbelief when I saw the women in muted dresses that reached well below their knees, a sight that stood in stark contrast to my recollection of crinolines ballooning like parachutes in time with the rock-and-roll music popular when I was in high school. Around the dance floor were about 20 large round tables, each one commandeered by some reconstituted clique. I didn’t know where to sit and, recalling similar anxious moments in the high school cafeteria, my old jealousies and animosities erupted.
And then I saw her.
Instinctively, I stepped toward my old high school guidance counselor, the one who told me to forget about entering the professional world. I strutted across the dance floor to where she stood, exhaled deeply, extended my hand, and said, a bit disdainfully, “I’m Gene Aronowitz.” She took my hand, but her head tilted slightly, and her eyes narrowed. Then, she glanced at the high school yearbook picture on my name tag, raised her head slightly, either grinned or smirked – I’m not sure - increased the firmness of her handshake, and said, “Yes, Gene, how are you?”
Her hands were swollen, and her thinning hair was gray. There were vertical crevices down her face and above her lips. I had imagined what I could say to her hundreds of times, preparing to produce the perfect punitive impression. But the words cleaved to the inside of my mouth like peanut butter. I hesitated a moment more, nodded, and said “I’m fine……… I’m fine.” That was it.
I asked how she was, but barely heard her response. I was upset, angry about all those torn-up high school reunion invitations, all that self-doubt, and all those years feeling vindictive. I regretted not saying something to her about my achievements. As time passed, I hoped I would see her again at the 30 th reunion and practiced telling her how wrong she had been.
In the five years between the 25 th and 30 th reunions, I had my 15 minutes of fame. I was the Commissioner of Mental Health in Westchester County, New York, and was frequently called on by the local and national media for comments on mental health issues both locally and nationwide. When I attended the next reunion, I was elated to see my former guidance counselor show up as well. She must have seen me on television, because she greeted me warmly, and I was shocked to hear her say, “Gene, I knew that all you needed was a little push.” In her mind, she took credit for my higher education and achievements. As she spoke, I realized that her actions during high school had done much to shape me emotionally. Nevertheless, as we spoke, something changed, and my pointless anger evaporated. For that wonderful moment, I was no longer living inside that old wound. I was a changed person, feeling good.