Monitored

I wrote earlier about my fear of earning a bad grade. The anxiety blossomed during a 1968 incident. My Parents and my Best Friend's Parents were Nixon supporters during that autumn's campaign. Although Mom had barred me from engaging in activities in which I mixed with the public—no lemonade stands, solicitations, or the like—my Best Friend and I hatched a plan. In the late afternoons, after school, we stood on a busy intersection corner near our homes and waved "Nixon's the One" signs at the passing commuters. Many drivers honked; their attention encouraged us to continue campaigning.

My Best Friend and I decided we needed professional-Nixon gear. My Best Friend's older sister—who at that time may only have had a learner's permit—drove us to the Nixon campaign office on Fifth Avenue, in Maywood, Illinois. The workers there gave us straw hats, signs, and paper bags—lunch sacks—filled with "Nixon's the One" buttons. We continued our corner patrol. As cars approached the stop sign, we handed out fistfuls of the buttons.

I had great fun during the campaign season, but the political distraction ate into my study time. In late October, I took an essay exam in my fifth-grade American History class. I wrote my name, date, and home room number neatly on the first three lines of the loose-leaf page. In the upper right corner, in tiny letters, I wrote "Nixon's the One." I added three exclamation points after the phrase, and I underscored the word, "One." I don't remember the specific question the teacher had posed, but the exam tested our knowledge of the Monroe Doctrine.

 

I got a "D" on the exam. The Rec Room rumbled when I showed the score to my Mom. Mom implemented a regimen of supervised studying. Initially, she required me to sit next to her on the sofa, where she listened for an hour or so as I read my American History lessons aloud, nightly. The oversight eased over time—Mom gradually allowed me to read silently—but for many years, she watched me as I studied next to her in the Rec Room, ensuring that I didn't lose my focus.

Suburban Chicago, April 1970. Mom looks annoyed here, but she's probably just focused on her knitting. She's also reading; Mom often "multi-tasked."

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Suburban Chicago, May 1978. I prepare for a final exam in a History and Literature of Religions course. My leg is in a cast because I fell out of window on campus. It was a foolish incident; I'll write a post about it later. Mom is on call because the phone is within reach.