It was a warm, sunny morning in October 1956 in Pasadena, California. My big brother and I climbed aboard the school bus, bound for St. Bede the Venerable, our Catholic grammar school. School had started about three weeks before; my saddle shoes still cut into my feet after a barefoot summer.
Paul was in seventh grade and I was in second, so we didn't associate publicly as a rule. Walking to the bus stop together was a BFD for me, and I concentrated on not embarrassing him. On the bus, he sat with the coolest big kids, of course; I shuffled off to already-nerdy little kid purgatory. Whatever was, was right.
But this morning, for reasons I've never fathomed, was different. As I was climbing the steps onto the bus, I could see that it had become a howling wilderness (more than usual, that is). And every kid on the bus seemed to be yelling the same thing, "ARE YOU FOR EISENHOWER OR FOR STEVENSON?" I can still see their wide open mouths and their eyes, glaring inimically at us, waiting to identify us as In The Group, or Not.
I quailed. I was always quailing in grammar school; bad at sports, lacking any social skills, tone deaf, goofy hair, big teeth -- I had nothing (until a few years later, when my Rainman-like ability to diagram any sentence gave me a geeky cachet). And what were Eisenhower and Stevenson?
But Paul was an athlete and a confident kid, like our high school age sisters. "Stevenson, of course," he said, coolly, and strode to his usual seat.
He might as well have announced a preference for Jack the Ripper.
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