This month’s colors are a continuation on the 25th anniversary of my family’s move to Houston (the big story on it is still undergoing its first draft, sorry). For September, I chose my first high school which was really an atypical Houston experience, Strake Jesuit.
First of all, my family wasn’t and never has been rich since most Houstonians know of this place. My parents chose to send me there because they thought it would be a good place for me to attend as my dreams of attending Griffin were dashed and I hadn’t been to public school except for Kindergarten. Catholic schools in the Seventies also loved to instill their students with fear about public education; I remember a teacher at St. Matthews making them sound like Beirut duing its civil war. Anyway, my grandmother volunteered to foot the several thousand-dollar tuition bill to make this feasible. I think their real reasoning on this place was the Jesuits’ strong reputation as educators. They’re the driving force behind Loyola, Marquette, Fordham, Georgetown, Creighton and many other American universities. My parents probably thought these guys would straighten me out. Ha! Tougher nuns and teachers had tried and failed but I wasn’t Bart Simpson, I was just coasting on mediocre grades with an authority problem, as do most 14 year-olds. Even so, I’m confident Mom must have felt pretty humiliated and irritated going to the administration of St. Agnes for some assistance on getting me admitted to Strake; I had a pretty long record of trips to the principal’s office, especially in eighth grade.
Strake was an interesting and eye-opening time despite it ending in failure according to my parents. The school was my first real exposure to the Jesuits and they were a lot less uptight than the other Catholic orders I’d interacted with, except for vice principal Father Crabbe (no joke), a grade-A Masshole. My favorite staffer was principal Father Orlando, nicknamed Father Gilligan by the upperclassmen because he resembled Bob Denver. Orlando was a huge Rush fan and he drove the Magic Bus to the Who farewell concert at the Astrodome since many of my classmates lacked a ride. I have a great story about him and Adam Ant that I’ll save for a later time.
Back to the year I spent. The whole plan with Strake was to prepare students for college so it wasn’t really a high school according to the marketing. In many ways they did prepare me. All freshmen had to take Speech and Typing which meant no more handwritten papers and stage-fright excuses sophomore year. Biology was taught freshmen year too; my parents said it was reserved for sophomore year when they were growing up but I think it’s the norm now. With everybody bumped up in Science, senior year would be an AP class of something. The way it was nothing like college was the schedule, this six-day mess resulting in every class but the one after lunch shifting around. The other argument for the schedule was to keep people from zoning out every Friday afternoon on the same subject. The collegiate element my parents hated was a blessing and a curse, taking responsibility for one’s own free time between classes, probably something 14 year-olds aren’t skilled at using effectively. If your GPA was 1.6 or lower, you lost the free period and had to report to Study Hall in the library; the junior class made it standing-room only in October. All freshmen had to go during their first quarter and if your first GPA was 1.8 or higher, then you were free to opt out. Much to Mom and Dad’s annoyance, I chose freedom with my “impressive” 2.8 and wandered around campus instead of studying.
I quickly learned the more painful, universal lessons of high school: jocks v. nerds, rich v. non-rich (poor and middle class), legacy v. nobodies, so on. If I stayed in Springfield, I would’ve had a strong shot at playing on the freshman basketball team at Griffin since I was good defensive center with St. Agnes. At Strake, I was nobody and had to start over. Being a small school, there was a strong ratio of talent. Turned out they recruited non-Catholic students to strengthen the football and basketball teams which I had only heard of happening in Chicago. My interest in sports after being on the track team evaporated and my old man never got over it.
I could think of a dozen other tales regarding Strake but this story is running too long for my liking, maybe when it’s the 30th anniversary I’ll write more. I do recall how much I cried when Dad told me I wasn’t returning for the Fall of 1983. His daily commute was wearing him out and it would be cheaper to live closer to his job in the Gulf Freeway area. My so-so grades were the official excuse yet if I had a 3.5 or higher, he’d make up some other bullcrap reason. We had only been in Houston for a matter of months and I really wasn’t keen on having to start all over again in high school with friends, the routine, etc. My parents had little perspective when it came to social lives. Little did I know that transferring from Strake to Clear Creek was only the beginning of an annual routine in my life.
When I left the campus for good in May, I think everybody thought I didn’t learn didley-squat from Strake, myself included. Looking back now, I think I did come away with more than just grades since it influenced my decision to enroll at Marquette, another school with delayed benefits.
Recently, I found the official website for Strake (where else did I get the colors and logo?) and saw there’s still one original teacher remaining, Mrs. Yankow, the wife of my rather odd Latin teacher who I will only discuss on a request basis.
