THE HIDDEN HAND OF GOD
CHAPTER one:
SENIOR YEAR CRISIS
Written by Rick
Archer
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Miracle
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A
surprising and quite welcome event that
is not explicable by natural or
scientific laws. It is therefore
considered to be the work of a divine
agency.
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A
highly improbable or extraordinary event
that brings very welcome consequences.
Rick Archer's
Note:
The Hidden Hand
of God
tells the story of how my life was dramatically enhanced by
unexpected Acts of
Kindness. What is curious about these
Acts of Kindness is that they were
accompanied by unusual coincidences that
challenged my sense of Reality.
Please
be aware this book addresses the issues of
Fate and Divine Intervention. Since the Existence of God is an area
of doubt for many people, I do not wish to insult anyone's
intelligence by claiming to possess special
insight. Nor do I expect the Reader to
agree with every conclusion I make.
All I ask is for you to allow me to
share the events that led
to my unusual belief system, then decide for
yourself what to think.
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Crisis
Our first chapter
covers the worst crisis of my life.
The time is my Senior year of high school,
1967-1968. Following two
extremely bad decisions on my part
compounded by several tough breaks, I have
just seen my dreams of college go up in
smoke. Adding to my misery, my
mistakes were responsible for my
cruel setback. Filled with rage
towards myself for sabotaging my future, I
became mired in depression and
helplessness. Thoughts of suicide
shadowed me like the grim reaper night and
day. How was I ever going to escape
the trap I was in?
Our story concludes
with a dramatic event that changed the course of my life.
To me, it was a Miracle. However, in
these sorts of matters, certainty is
impossible.
I will let you be the judge.
Rick Archer
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
1959, Age 9,
4th Grade
blackmail
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Ironically, I owed my elite
education to my father's mistress.
Should I thank her? No, probably not.
She came very close to ruining my life.
In fact, her vindictiveness played a major
role in my Senior year Crisis.
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To understand this
story, let's go back to
1959, the start of my nine
year career at St. John's. To be quite
frank, I had no business being at this
school. My admittance was what most
people would call a fluke. St. John's
is an
outstanding private school located in Houston,
Texas. It is considered the
top academic school in Houston, perhaps the
state. Due to its lofty reputation and
limited class size, SJS is
exceptionally difficult to get into.
It is also very expensive. Given there
was no possible way my father could afford
this place on his middle-class income
selling electrical equipment, what was I
doing here?
Did I know about the
mistress? No. But something was
definitely wrong. My life had been pretty good until
she came along. Now I was
miserable. I was 9 when this woman's
presence shattered my parents' marriage.
For the past year, my mother and father
had fought like dogs virtually every night of
the week. It started when my father asked for a
divorce without divulging the real
reason (take a guess).
When my mother said
no, my father decided to make her acutely
miserable. His tactic was to criticize
my mother in every way possible as a lousy
mother and lazy housekeeper who lived a life of
comfort while he worked himself to
exhaustion every day.
Dad assumed he could make her so unhappy she
would give up.
My father's nasty
tactics made me crazy. Listening to
them argue each night, I turned into a
sullen, deeply insecure kid. As
an only child with no family friends or
nearby relatives, I had no one to turn to.
Forced to live alone in this house of
horrors, I became very disturbed. Sad
to say, I acted out in school. My
grades were mediocre and I disrupted my 3rd
Grade class so often that my parents were
called in and read the riot act.
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Upset over my poor
grades and severe discipline problems, my
parents sent me to their psychiatrist.
After testing me, the doctor had a
surprising solution. What I needed was
a stiff challenge. Send me to St.
John's and let the competition work its
trick. That is where his two boys went
and they thrived. Mom was for it, but
Dad was against it. Given my father's
low opinion of my intelligence, he was
stunned when I managed to pass the SJS
entrance exam and receive an invitation to
attend. The thing to understand is
that admittance to this school was highly
coveted. Even back in those days the
waiting list was out the door. But it
meant nothing to my father. Dad said forget it, there was
no way on earth he could afford the tuition.
Let the kid stick to public school where he
belongs.
Mom was fed up.
They had been arguing for a year and getting
nowhere. Sick and tired of the
impasse, Mom stunned my father with an
ultimatum. "Pay Richard's costly
tuition for three years and you can have
your divorce." Dad immediately
balked. He would have to go deep into
debt to pay for this. Mom countered
with blackmail. "Jim, I know about
your mistress. I will take you to the
cleaners and ruin your life unless you
cooperate. Do the right thing for a
change and let's put an end to this
bickering."
It turns out my mother
was bluffing. She had her suspicions,
but no proof. She just "knew"
in that instinctive way women sense things.
However, up till now she had said nothing.
Convinced my mother had the goods on him, my
father turned pale white.
Unwilling to defy her threat to go scorched
earth, my father caved in. For the
next nine years, St. John's School would
become the center of my life.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
1962, Age 12,
6th Grade
CONSEQUENCES
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My father did not appreciate being
blackmailed.
Feeling strong-armed
into compliance, my father turned his back on me.
He was bitter at being forced to pay three years of
tuition far beyond his means. He saw it as a
disgusting waste of money despite the fact
that the
psychiatrist's prediction came true.
I made the Honor
Roll for nine years.
Equally upset was the
mistress. As promised, my father married her, but what
the shrew did not expect was being forced to keep working in
order to help my father pay the SJS tuition.
Convinced my father had made a bad deal, the
mistress was livid and did not mind saying so at every
opportunity.
It galled her no end
to realize every cent she earned was spent on my behalf.
Her honeymoon was budgeted, there was no money to buy a
house and they had to delay starting a family.
Infuriated, the mistress took it out on me. Lacking a
backbone, Dad decided it was easier to abandon me than stand
up to his domineering wife. The wedge caused by her
relentless bickering caused my father to limit our
interaction to lunch four times a year. I
gained a school, but lost a father.
For the next nine years, St. John's would be my sanctuary.
It was
the anchor which kept me glued together while my mother fell
to pieces after the divorce. She quickly remarried, a
huge mistake. The new husband was an ex-con with a
fondness for excessive drinking and passing hot checks.
He beat my mother several times when he had been drinking.
One night in desperation, Mom called my dog Terry for help.
One snarl from Terry put a quick stop to the violence.
As for the man's parenting skills, he tried to get me hooked
on cigarettes and stole my cherished silver dollar
collection to buy booze. One day the cops came looking
for him. Although the marriage only lasted half a
year, the misery continued due to my mother's neverending
penchant for collecting losers and bringing them home to
live with us. You might think I am kidding.
Guess again. My mother's desperate search for a man went on for nine years.
In addition to my mother's bad habit
of picking up strays, she had trouble holding a job longer
than a year. My mother did not have a college degree.
When my parents married, she dropped out of college to
support my father while he got his degree. Her lack of
credentials cost her dearly in the job market.
Due to her frequent
unemployment, the bills mounted. One way to solve the
problem was to skip out whenever the unpaid rent grew too
high. We moved 11 times in 9 years. The problems
did not stop there. Every three months or so I would
come home to find the electricity turned off. Or the
water. Or the gas. I am fairly certain I was
poorest kid to ever attend St. John's.
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Given my mother's emotional
problems, she did not have much energy left over for me.
With many of her nights devoted to cruising the bars, I
was often left alone to take care of myself starting at
age 10. Abandoned by one, neglected by the other,
I had no parent to offer common sense advice on how cope
with my underdog status at the rich kids school.
Here is an example. I was consumed with envy at my
classmates' lives of privilege. It would have been
nice to have a parent willing to remind me to look on
the bright side. Unlike a lot of kids in this
world,
I never went hungry
and I always had a roof over my head. Plus I was
getting a great education. Rather than appreciate
what I did have, I grew bitter from daily reminders of
how much better my classmates had it than me.
It was obvious from
my appearance that I came from a different walk of life.
Although we all wore the same uniform at St. John's, one
look at my shoes was usually enough. My chipped
tooth removed any remaining doubt. Given that my
mother was too broke to have the tooth fixed for two
years, it sent a clear message that money was scarce in
my home. By definition, every child at my school
(but me) was well cared for. Best clothes,
impeccable social skills, contact lens, braces, the
latest haircut, dermatologist, etc. And here I go
with the chipped tooth, hair that sticks up straight,
cheap clothes, thick glasses, plus eyes that don't match
due to my blind left eye.
Starting in the 6th Grade I became low man on the social
totem pole. Fortunately I was never bullied. Nor
was I insulted to my face. But I was ignored.
The moment my privileged classmates realized I wasn't one of
them, it became tough to turn casual acquaintances into
friends. Academically I belonged at SJS, but socially
I was out of my league. Although I appreciated my
wonderful education, I hated my loneliness. Unable to
play sports due to my blind left eye and untrained in the
social graces due to my deplorable parents, I will be the
first to admit I did not fit in at this school. Over
the course of nine years I developed a severe sense of
social inferiority.
A
key event in my future Crisis took place at the end of the
6th Grade. Dad's three year tuition ordeal was over.
No longer legally obligated to pay, my father told me his
money was better spent placed in a college fund.
Referring to this as his "College Pledge", my father
promised the money saved would be waiting for me when the
time came. Broken-hearted at being forced leave SJS, I
begged him to change his mind, but got nowhere.
Fortunately I caught a last-minute lucky break.
Informed of my father's decision, Mr. Chidsey, the
Headmaster, took note of my good grades and offered a
scholarship. This explains how I was able to attend
St. John's for six more years till graduation.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
September 1967, Age 17, 12th Grade
MISTAKE ONE:
THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS
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My
Senior year Crisis was not the product of
one particular event, but rather a
complicated series of problems that
snowballed. The first problem occurred
in September 1967. Mr. Salls was the
new Headmaster, taking the place of Mr.
Chidsey. We knew each other well.
Mr. Salls had been my German instructor for
three years prior to his promotion.
Although we never spoke on a personal basis,
I could tell he appreciated how hard I
worked in his class.
Mr.
Salls made it a point to meet with each
Senior early in the school year to discuss
college preferences. I had my heart
set on Georgetown University in Washington,
DC. My beloved Aunt Lynn and Uncle
Dick lived just across the Potomac River in
McLean, Virginia. I wanted to be close
to them. I had been working as a
grocery sacker after school for the past two
years. By the end of my Senior year, I
estimated I would have $2,000 at my
disposal. That was a lot of money back
in those days. That plus six years of
savings in my father's College Fund should
be enough to pay for Georgetown. Or so
I assumed.
For
some mysterious reason, during our meeting
Mr. Salls completely ignored Georgetown
despite my explanation why this school was
my one and only choice. He insisted I
also apply to Johns Hopkins, a college I had
never heard of. The moment I
discovered it was a men's-only school, there
was no way I was interested. Due to my
sense of inferiority, I was already fearful
of rejection were I to ask one of the
flawless debutantes for a date. A
serious case of teenage acne put a swift end
to any remaining courage. Given that I
never
had a
single date in high school, the thought of
going to a men's school was out of the
question. Sensing my reluctance, Mr.
Salls took the extraordinary step of asking
me to apply to Hopkins anyway as a favor to
him. I agreed to do so, but why was he
bullying me?
I was
very angry when I left his office. Mr.
Salls
had made me promise to apply to a school I
had no interest in. The thought of
wasting $75... two weeks of work at the
grocery store... on a senseless application
fee made me sick to my stomach. It was
standard procedure for my classmates to
apply to ten schools, maybe more if they
felt like it, but that was Daddy's Money.
This $75 was coming out of my own thin
pocket. I was so bitter that I
unwittingly made a serious mistake. I
had intended to apply to the University of
Texas as a backup option. However, to
save money, I decided to forget UT.
Using the money to apply to Johns Hopkins
instead of UT, four months later I would
deeply regret this decision.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
NOVEMBER 1967, Age 18, 12th Grade
little Mexico
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My error regarding the
University of Texas was my first mistake.
I would make a second mistake in the coming
Spring (we will get to that shortly).
The second mistake was so costly, I could
not understand why I had taken leave of my
better judgment. Perplexed by my
extraordinary stupidity, I asked myself what
went wrong. The best explanation was
extreme stress related to an idiotic move on
my mother's part. This is the story of
'Little Mexico'.
Late in my Junior
year, my mother finally found steady
employment in Houston's famed Medical
Center. She decided to buy a
ramshackle house in a largely Hispanic part
of town. Mom wanted to move here as a
way to make her Mexican boyfriend Ramon more
comfortable. Given her shabby credit
history, I have no idea how she persuaded a
bank to loan her the money.
Say what you will
about my father, but he deserved credit for
his reliability on child support. He
never missed his $100 per month payment and
was always on time. My mother and I
were extremely dependent on this money.
Its appearance would allow us to get the
lights turned back on or make a much-needed
visit to the grocery store. In
November 1967, for the first time in eight
years, Dad's monthly check failed to appear.
This was serious. Without my father's
child support, my mother could not afford to
pay her house note.
My mother was so
blind-sided, it took her two days to realize
my father had not sent a November check
because he was no longer legally obligated
to pay child support after my 18th birthday.
Oops. When she bought the house, my
mother had assumed the child support would
continue until I finished high school seven
months down the road. My mother was
panic-stricken. How would she
ever make up the difference?
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I stared at her in
utter astonishment. Well aware she had purchased this house with
no margin for error, my mother should have
had the sense to anticipate this child
support problem. Too late now. I
offered to make up the difference with my
grocery store money, but my mother said no.
Without telling me, she had already cooked
up a wild scheme. My mother's solution
was to invite Janie, 18, and Linda, 21,
Ramon's younger sisters, to come up from
Mexico. They were expected to get jobs
as waitresses in one of the nearby cantinas
and pay rent.
I was never told.
I found out when I came home one night to
find the sisters had moved into bedrooms
next to mine. Within two weeks, Janie
and Linda had boyfriends. My mother
gave their boyfriends permission to come
live with us as well, a decision that
included Enrique's 2-year old boy Manolo.
I was never consulted, probably because my
mother knew I would scream bloody murder.
The ensuing culture
shock flipped my world upside down. I
had grown up as an only child accustomed to
silence. Suddenly there seven other
people in this house besides me. This
included my mother and six Mexican
immigrants, none of whom who spoke English.
Given their fondness for loud Ranchero and
Mariachi music, the place was a madhouse at
night. Given how hard the racket made
it to study, College could not come soon
enough.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
JANUARY 1968,
Age 18, 12th Grade
the Jones
scholarship
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At the turn of the
20th Century, a visionary named Jesse H.
Jones proposed turning Houston's slow-moving
Buffalo Bayou into a world-class ship
channel. It was a brilliant move.
The massive widening process was completed
in time to allow ships from the new Panama
Canal to visit. Shortly after that
came World War I with a massive demand for
oil. Thanks to the Texas Oil Boom, the
Houston Ship Channel exported tons of
barrels overseas. This is how Houston
became the Energy Capital of the world.
Now a very rich man,
Jesse Jones looked to his legacy by creating
a scholarship fund. Every year one
graduating Senior from each Houston high
school would receive a $4,000 stipend
($1,000 per year for four years). I
counted heavily on winning this award.
In addition to my good grades, I assumed my
status as the poorest kid to ever attend SJS
guaranteed I was a shoo-in. However,
I was worried something was wrong. It
was January and so far no one from St.
John's had mentioned this scholarship to me.
The winners would be announced in March, so
I was troubled by the lack of contact.
I should have asked someone, but I was
acutely introverted at this time in my life.
As a result, I remained completely in the
dark.
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I was also worried about my father's College
Pledge. According to him, for the past
six years he had placed money equivalent to
the annual SJS tuition in a college fund.
If he had done what he promised, there
should be about $10,000 waiting for me.
However, when I saw my father for lunch
shortly before Christmas, he did not say a
word. Considering college was just
around the corner, why was the important
subject of college finance bypassed?
Bottom line, I did not trust him. This
is why I had gotten my grocery job two years
ago.
Back in September when I substituted Johns
Hopkins for the University of Texas,
I did not know that state tuition at UT was
dramatically lower than private college
tuition.
I admit this level of naivete is tough to
believe, but who was going to tell me?
My non-existent Padre? Yeah, right.
Or Mariachi Madre? I was so angry at
my mother for "Little Mexico" we were
no longer speaking. Adding to my
problems,
I was
what you would call a loner. An only
child stuck with an erratic mother, keeping
to myself had become second nature long ago.
Due to my limited social skills and tendency
towards introversion, friends were few and
far between. Although I was pretty
good at book learning, things other people
took for granted like knowledge about
college tuition and how to find a girlfriend
fell by the wayside.
Due to my ignorance,
as of
January 1968, I was stuck with only two
options,
the
prohibitively expensive
Georgetown
and Johns Hopkins, equally expensive.
I focused on Georgetown. Including
room and board, it would cost between
$20,000-$24,000 to attend Georgetown over a
four year period. This was such a
staggering amount, I worried day and night
if my father would come through for me as
promised.
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As it turned out, I did have one friend at
St. John's. David and I liked to play
chess at lunch. One day I got into a
serious discussion with David about college
finance. I stopped breathing when
David told me his brother's tuition at the
University of Texas was $1,000 per year.
$1,000 per year at the University of
Texas?
Georgetown was $5,000 a year!!
I gasped. This was Unbelievable!
I was so upset I nearly had a heart attack.
Why didn't anyone tell me this back in
September? Considering how worried I
was, this bad news was more than I could
handle. If I had applied to the
University of Texas as my backup option, I
already had enough grocery store money to
pay for the first year at UT out of my own
pocket. Even better, if I won the
Jones Scholarship and got a part-time job, I
would have enough money to attend UT for
four years without depending on my father to
come through for me. Only one problem.
It was too late to apply
to the University of Texas for the next
school year.
David's revelation sent me reeling. If
someone had told me that state tuition was
dramatically lower than private school
tuition, my college finance problems would
be gone and I could relax. Instead,
due to my glaring ignorance, I was facing a
monumental task. Oh my God, why did I
ever apply to Johns Hopkins when I should
have applied to the University of Texas like
I wanted to?
As things stood, unless I could find a
way to pay for Georgetown, I would be forced
to miss an entire year of college.
Given how badly I wanted to escape Little
Mexico, this thought left me devastated.
Right now I was furious at Mr. Salls.
Why didn't Mr. Salls tell me how inexpensive
tuition was at a state school when we met
back in September instead of forcing me to
apply to this stupid Johns Hopkins?
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My
misery did not stop there. When I suggested I
could probably get a scholarship to Georgetown,
David threw me a wicked curve ball. To my
alarm, David warned me not to get my hopes up.
David informed me that scholarship money was based
on need.
"Yeah,
so what?" I said. "My father doesn't
know I exist and my mother is dead broke. I
definitely qualify."
"Rick, I hate to be the one to tell you, but
your father makes too much money. His
substantial salary will be a deal breaker."
The
recent years had been good to my father. He
was now one of the top electrical engineers in the
country. He designed the electrical systems
for giant cranes such as the one used by the Space
Center at Cape Canaveral to launch rockets into the
stratosphere.
"I
don't understand, David. I don't live with my
father and he no longer pays child support."
"Georgetown
still expects him to be responsible. They
will take one look at your father's salary and
expect him to pay."
"But
what if he refuses to pay?"
"Why
would he do that?"
"Lots
of reasons. My stepmother hates my guts.
She would murder him if
he spent one extra dime on me. Besides, all he
ever does is complain about how broke he is.
That is because he sends my half-brother and
half-sister to private schools that are just as
expensive as St. John's and pays full tuition.
He claims paying for them is why money is tight.
That's his way of saying don't expect any further
generosity beyond the College Pledge savings.
I assume I will get whatever is in the College
Pledge and that's it. Furthermore, I can't
imagine my father would cooperate in filling out
financial aid forms. How do I explain to
Georgetown that my father refuses to help?"
"I
don't know, Rick. But I know Georgetown
won't give you a scholarship if your father
doesn't play ball. Why should they take
your word for it? They hear sob stories
all the time, so they expect financial forms to
corroborate. It sounds to me like you
better hope your father was serious about that
College Pledge."
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
february 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
THE
college pledge
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Following my
conversation with David concerning financial aid, over the next
month I was filled with overwhelming anxiety over my father's
promise to pay for college. Not a day passed without that
awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might miss out on
college next year unless Dad came through on the promise he made six
years ago.
One day in late February
the school receptionist gave me a message to meet my father at the
usual time and place tomorrow (my father never called me directly).
I was on pins and needles as
I drove my
car to the coffee shop. Surely Dad was good for his word.
Why else would he set up today's meeting? This was the moment I had spent the last six years waiting for.
Today I would learn the truth about my father's College Pledge.
I was skeptical and hopeful at the same time. Over the past
nine years, Dad had disappeared from my life. Although his
office was only a mile from my school, Dad preferred not to make
time for the forgotten child. Dad's idea of fatherhood was "Don't
call me, I'll call you." I had been told never to call
unless it was an emergency.
At best I saw him for lunch a couple
times a year.
I was no fool.
Deep down I knew he didn't care. However, all would be
forgiven if he would just
come through for me today.
As I walked into the
coffee shop, my heart was pounding. I prayed Dad had put that
money into a savings account as promised. If so, the nightmare
of how to pay my Georgetown tuition would be over and I could
finally calm down.
The phrase 'hoping
against hope' was coined for this situation. Would the
father I had always hoped for show up today or would the father he
had turned into appear instead? I expected the latter, but you
never know, maybe the man would come through. I recalled his
solemn promise from six years ago.
"Rick, I know how
much St. John's means to you, but paying for college is so much
more important. This money will be there for you when it
is time."
Dad
was waiting for me in the reception area at the coffee shop.
He stood up and greeted me with the biggest smile on his face.
He shook my hand and gave me a big hug. Hmm. When was
the last time my father hugged me? This was a good sign.
Maybe there was hope after all.
A
waitress escorted us to a booth and we sat across from one another.
As our eyes locked, I could barely breathe. Six years I had
waited for this moment. The tension was unbearable. When
I saw him start to fish around inside his coat, I froze. This
was it.
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Dad found what he was
looking for. He placed four $100 bills on the table.
My eyes
bulged. Staring in horror, did this mean what I thought it
meant?
"Dad, what is
this money for?"
My father
beamed with pride.
"Look, Rick, it's
Four Hundred Dollars!
This
is the money I've been saving for your college tuition! I
promised you long ago I would help. I told you I would help
you pay for college and I meant what I said! This money will
help you go to college!"
I was stunned.
Staring at the money in disbelief, Dad's $400 would barely put a
dent in Georgetown's $20,000 price tag.
Oh my God, my worst nightmare had just come
true. This was the father I had expected all along.
I turned white as my chances of going to college next year seemed
ever so remote. Even if I won the Jones Scholarship, the
annual $1,000 stipend did not come close to make up the difference.
Stunned by the realization I would
probably
not be going to college in the Fall, I could
not breathe.
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If my father saw how
upset I was, he did not show it. In fact, my father was
grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I was bewildered. What
in the hell is my father so damn happy about? There he was,
sitting across the table beaming with triumph.
Dad was so pumped over his good deed, he looked like he was ready to
don an Indian headdress and start dancing in the aisle, war whoop
and all. What is wrong with this man? The way he was
grinning from ear to ear, you would think Dad had just won the
goddamn Father of the Year
award.
I shook my head in
disbelief. What
could this man be thinking? I knew my father was a born
salesman, but even Dad had to know he was stretching things here.
Oh lord, just look at him! My father
was as proud
of himself as he could possibly be thanks to his amazing 2%
contribution to my college fund. I could not believe my father
was doing a victory celebration over $400.
Just then I wondered if
Dad was playing a joke. Maybe he was pulling my leg.
Was he hiding more money in an attempt to build the suspense?
If so, it was working. I was so tense I could hardly stand it.
Suddenly hopeful, I peered at him for clues. But then I
remembered this was not my father's way. Dad did not have a
sense of humor. Sure enough, the moment he noticed my frown,
he replaced his Happy Face with his Let's Get Down to Business Face.
I had my answer. This was it. Sick
beyond sick,
I stared long and hard at
my father. They say moments from your life pass through your
mind in times of crisis. The image that came to me was the
vision of my mother and father arguing over sending me to St. John's
during their divorce process.
I remembered what my father had said on the day I
was accepted at St. John's. Hiding behind a doorway,
I listened as
my father said he was totally against it.
"Jesus Christ,
Mary, that
psychiatrist is an idiot.
What makes him think a boy who made D's on his last
report card can handle academics at the toughest school in the
city? Our son can barely hack it in public school,
so why should I spend all this money when we both know he will
be demolished at St. John's?"
My father had good
reason to feel that way. After my lackluster performance in
public school, Dad assumed competing head to head with the best and
brightest would be too much for me. However, just the opposite
had happened. As the psychiatrist had predicted, the academic
challenge was exactly what I needed. Although I had to study
my butt off to keep up, I thrived on the challenge of proving I
could hang with all these smart kids.
If ever there was money that was well spent,
this was it. What
a remarkable difference St. John's had made! My school
had brought out the very best in me. From an underachieving
child in public school, I had been encouraged to reach my potential.
I would have never made it through the past nine years without the
support I got from my gifted teachers. Indeed, my education
was the one bright spot in an otherwise miserable childhood.
From my point of view, St. John's had worked a small miracle.
One would think my
father would be thrilled at how well things had turned out for his
son and wish to honor his College Pledge promise. But
apparently not.
Not once in nine years had my father
ever acknowledged the value of my school. Too dumbfounded to
speak, I gazed in shock at the money laying there. I had
planned on getting nasty with him if he disappointed me, but here at
crunch time I was far too introverted to confront him.
Even
though physically I towered over my soft, pudgy father,
psychologically I was a dwarf in his presence. I hated myself
because I didn't have the guts to chew him out. For six years, I
had vowed to speak up if he stiffed me. So much for false
bravado. Before I could summon the courage to protest, my
father took advantage of my silence to drive another nail into the
coffin.
"I'm sorry, son, but right now my money
is tied up with sending Joy and Charlie to private school.
Unless I get a raise and things dramatically improve in my
finances, this $400 will
be
my only contribution towards
your college
education."
No surprise there. I was already so
numb, this news didn't affect me all that much. I guess I had
already anticipated he would say something like that. The
disgust I felt was overpowering. In addition, I was paralyzed
with disbelief. How was it possible to have the lowest
expectation for my father yet have him out-perform the worst thing I
could imagine? I am not sure why, but for some reason the $400
stung even more than no money at all. The thought that my
father was proud over $400 infuriated me. Is that the best he
could do after six years? The sad thing is I was pretty sure
what he had done. There had never been a College Fund.
When Dad stopped paying child support in November, he had not told
his vindictive wife. Why risk another riot act? Instead he
pretended to keep paying child support. This allowed him to
systematically pocket the monthly $100 stipend over the past four
months and use it for today.
As the spirit drained out of me, I was
disappointed beyond comprehension. I wanted to chew him out,
but that would just make things worse. Feeling my anger grow, I was fearful of
losing control. Realizing I was on the verge of losing my
temper, I could not sit here any longer. Rather than scream at him, I reached over to pick up the $400. It made me sick to touch
the money, but despite my wounded pride, I needed whatever I could
get. Unable to remain civil, I stood up
and said, "Thanks, Dad, but I've got a test
to study for."
I stormed out of the building and
threw the
money on the passenger seat in disgust. I seethed
over my father's brutal insult
as I drove away in my used VW Bug. Without warning,
my anger suddenly
vanished. It was replaced by grief. My father's
broken promise was more than I could take. Beneath
the anger and disappointment,
I was very
hurt. In that moment, any remaining illusion as to my father's
concern for my welfare died.
|
The sad thing is
I half-expected something like this would
happen. Some sort of eerie premonition had
warned me about today. I didn't see this dread as a
psychic foretelling, but rather that my subconscious knew my
father better than my conscious mind wanted to admit.
Well, not any more.
The problem was that my father was
deceptive. He had his
"Caring Act" down to a pat.
I met with him for lunch three or
four times a year over the past nine years. Dad was
always friendly, always affable, always glad to see me.
However, today's cheap trick had opened my eyes. It was
all a disguise. Before he began designing electrical
systems, Dad had been an excellent salesman. I suppose
Dad's sales training paid off. When you only see your
kid three times a year for one hour, Dad could fake
sincerity to perfection.
My father had
once loved me. I knew this for a fact. But ever
since he met the mistress, his love mysteriously
evaporated. Did I do anything to deserve this?
No. For the past nine years I had been unfailingly
polite and respectful. Grateful for any attention he
was willing to share, I never gave my father a bit of
trouble. Now after six years of uncertainty, today's
betrayal had revealed for certain what kind of man my father
really was.
|
 |
SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
FEBRUARY
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
THE BETRAYED
KINGDOM
|
 |
As I drove
back to school,
I could not stop glancing at the $400 on the
passenger seat. Seeing those four bills stare
back at me like a Betrayed Kingdom, I felt so
worthless. Most fathers would be proud of a
boy who got straight A's, bought a car with his own
money, worked 20 hours a week after school
and never got into trouble.
My father was the exception. Six years ago he stopped
paying for St. John's because it was
a waste of good money. Now he claimed there
was no money for me because his abundant salary was
better spent sending Charlie and Joy to private
school. Hey Dad, do you want to explain why
private schools are okay for them, but not for me?
Seriously, my father had to be the biggest hypocrite
to ever walk the earth. This was the day my
father broke my heart.
Prior to my
Senior year, St. John's had been my sanctuary.
For the past eight and a half years, my school was
the only thing I had going for me. I could point to several teachers who
had gone far out of their way to offer counsel and
encouragement. However, when I returned after
my father's betrayal, I suddenly hated my school with a
passion. It was a classic case of misplaced
anger.
The moment I
walked into my next class, on
cue the phrase 'everyone but me'
starting playing in my brain.
Without a scholarship, I had
absolutely no way to pay for Georgetown.
Unless I caught some sort of break, next year every
classmate BUT ME would attend
college. The more I thought
about it, the more upset I became. Dating
back to 1946, only four graduating SJS Seniors had
failed to go to college, all girls. Legend had
it they were getting married, so why bother?
Easy to say when you're rich, but what about me?
As things stood, I was in line to become Number Five, a
dubious distinction indeed.
|
Taking a desk in the back of
the room, I was so upset I was in tears.
Mrs. Anderson, my teacher, asked us to
translate a long paragraph of German into
English. Since German was my best
subject, as usual I finished first.
However, this time it was for the wrong
reason. My heart wasn't in it, so I
gave a brief effort and quit. So what?
Since I wasn't going to college next year,
what was the point of trying?
|
I felt so
utterly hopeless. With nothing to do, I surveyed my
twelve classmates and wondered what college they would
attend. I started with Katina Ballantyne. In my
opinion, Katina had the best mother in school. Over the past nine years, I had watched Mrs. Ballantyne
mentor her seven children in the hallways many times.
Like Katina, every child was a class leader. I was
convinced the success of the fabled Ballantyne clan was
directly related to their mother's brilliance.
I also watched
Mrs. Ballantyne dominate the afternoon Mother's Guild
conversations. The Mother's Guild was a group of SJS
mothers who met several times a week to plan parties after
home football games, proms, book fairs, fund raisers and
social events. Conducting their affairs in plain sight
in the Commons Room, Maria Ballantyne was invariably a
fixture in the center. Very impressed, I considered
her the most influential parent in the school.
My hero worship had
begun in the 4th Grade, my first year. Following the
divorce, I was incredibly insecure. My mother's insane
marriage to the abusive alcoholic caused me great anguish.
So did her
manic-depressive behavior.
Seeing
her racked with sobs, there were times I actually worried she
might kill herself. Other times I feared she would end up
in the loony bin and be unable to care for me. That was my
biggest fear. Just the thought of being forced to live
with the bitter mistress would be enough to scare the wits out
of any kid. Due to my increasing lack of confidence in my
own mother, I wondered what other mothers were like. Enter
Maria Ballantyne. I noticed her poise. I saw the
respect given by her peers. I took note how her seven
children gravitated to her. I was a near-orphan. How
could I not be attracted to this caring, energetic mother?
Given my troubled
home, I saw no reason to apologize for my adulation. I was
a sad, miserable boy who meant no harm. Due to my
respect for her privacy, I would not dream of bothering her.
Indeed, during my nine years at SJS, not once did I approach her
in any way. All I did was watch from afar. I would
stand unnoticed in a corner and wonder what I could accomplish
if I had Mrs. Ballantyne for a mother. The thought of
having an effective mother to motivate and advise me was
a tempting fantasy to be sure.
|
 |
 |
Every one of
the seven Ballantyne children were a credit to their
parents. They were smart, athletic, and outgoing.
Greatly respected by everyone, they were named captains
of their sports teams and voted as Prefects by the
student body.
My classmate Katina was the perfect example.
A cursory glance at the
1968 yearbook said it all. Katina was
all-conference in field hockey. She
was captain of the volleyball team. She
played lead in The Music Man,
she was a Prefect, she was in the choir, she
was editor of the yearbook. Katina was
an honor student. In my
opinion, Katina was the most respected young
lady in our class.
Despite
all this success, Katina remained
level-headed and even-tempered.
Extremely popular, I never once saw a streak
of meanness or pettiness. There were
no airs, no snobbery emanating from this
young lady. Furthermore Katina's
brothers and sisters were the same way...
talented, generous, humble, no hint of
arrogance.
I watched Katina for the
same reason I watched her mother... I
admired both of them.
Unfortunately,
following my father's snub, I caught myself
staring at Katina with bitterness for the
first time. I did not want to dislike
Katina; she was a sweetheart. But I
could not help myself. Katina's father
was a prominent doctor. He was the
first person hired when
famed
cancer research center M.D. Anderson
opened its doors. I resented Katina
because she had come to school today secure
in the knowledge her father's lucrative
profession would send her to the college of
her choice. The same was true for the
other eleven students.
My classmates did not give college finance a
second thought. But what about me?
My
father's broken promise meant there was a
good chance I would not be going to college
next year. I was incensed over the
injustice. Who at this school has
worked harder than me? Who needs
college more than me?
The
thought of being trapped at Little Mexico
for another year was more than I could
handle. Given the unfairness of it
all, my
father's snub sent me reeling.
Everyone but me...
|
SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
SUNDAY NIGHT, EARLY
MARCH
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
ANGRY AT THE WORLD
|
 |
"Women
seem wicked when you're unwanted, Faces look
ugly when you're alone." -- The Doors,
People are Strange
Following my father's betrayal,
I was convinced the whole world hated me. I
told no one what my father had done, not even my
friend David. I walled myself off from
the world. Lacking a way to release the
pressure of my college dilemma,
my bitterness increased daily.
I was tormented with the
thought that my classmates went to bed dreaming of
fraternities and sororities while I would be sacking
groceries at this time next year.
I hated myself, I hated my
father, I hated my mother, I hated everyone.
It was me against the world and the world was
winning.
In
fact, the world was running up the score.
Every Senior but me had parents
willing to take care of their children's college
education. This thought caused endless torment.
My father's
broken promise was bad enough, but the knowledge
that I meant so little to him hurt even more.
I brooded day and night over my miserable fate.
They say Depression is caused
by anger turned inward. That's probably true.
Unable to express my rage towards my father, my mind
became twisted badly out of shape.
|
The
trigger for my second terrible mistake came Sunday
night two weeks after my father's bad news.
I
was upstairs studying for my Monday German
test when I heard my dog Terry yelp in pain
downstairs. I was instantly alarmed.
Terry was getting older and increasingly
fragile.
Terry's cry was quickly
followed by loud wailing from the two-year
old Mexican boy who lived with us. I raced down the steps
at the same time as the boy's father came
tearing out of the kitchen. I did not
see what happened, but my guess is the boy
had pulled Terry's leg or kicked him.
No doubt Terry's cry of pain had scared the
kid, causing him to holler in fear.
Upset that Terry had been hurt, I was
incensed when the boy's father had the nerve
to accuse my dog of biting the kid.
Since he spoke in Spanish, I didn't
understand a word he said. However I
got the message. I was surrounded by
the other Mexicans who lived there, all of
whom took the father's side and glared at me
as if this was my fault. Considering
the powder keg of anger inside me, I was
ready to tear the father to pieces when
Mariachi Madre appeared just in time to
separate us.
|
 |
Furious that Terry was being
blamed, I raised my voice and told
my mother,
"Terry didn't bite that kid. There's not a mark or red spot
on him. I say that little brat hurt Terry."
With the child screaming like a
banshee and five angry Mexicans glaring at me with
hostility, my mother barked,
"Richard, for once can we please skip the argument?
The kid will live. Take Terry upstairs and be done
with it."
Given the language barrier and lack of
a witness, what was the point of arguing? I decided to
cooperate, but that didn't mean my anger was going to
subside. Seething in my bedroom, I found myself unable to
resume studying for my German test. I was so
angry at my mother for this ridiculous Little Mexico
situation, I was ready to burn the house down. Just
then all that infuriating Mariachi noise began blaring from
downstairs. Fiesta Time at Little Mexico! Realizing it was futile to control my
anger, I closed the German book and took Terry for a long
walk. A very long walk. The strong chance I would still be living here next
year was more than I could tolerate. When I returned, I was too
depressed to study, so I went straight to bed.
|
SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
MONDAY MORNING, EARLY
MARCH
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
A VERY BAD IDEA
|
Unprepared for my German test, I called in sick the next
day. Call it a mental health day, something I badly
needed. Mercifully, the house was quiet for a change.
No soccer games on TV, no singing and dancing to Ranchero
music. I opened my German book and began to study.
Unfortunately, I was still upset about last night.
|
That is when I hit a
roadblock. 20% of the test required a type of
memorization I resented. I had no issue with
memorizing vocabulary, but I drew the line at memorizing
the names of famous German authors
and their widely acclaimed books.
Wolfgang Goethe, Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann, etc.
I didn't have anything against learning about these
people. In fact I enjoyed our class discussions
about these men.
This
was like English class where we discussed philosophy,
psychology and other interesting ideas. Friedrich
Nietzsche was my favorite due to his deeply cynical
views of life.
However, in my opinion, this was not Language, this was
Literature and I saw no need to memorize it.
That is what encyclopedias are for. If they wanted
to test us, better to have us write an essay in German
about one of the men. Bitter, I decided to cheat
on this section alone.
|
 |
People do dumb things
when they are mad at the world. My father's broken
promise was just the tip of the iceberg. The animosity I felt
towards my mother over her ill-advised decision to turn the house
into Little Mexico had robbed me of any remaining patience. I
was worried about college, I wasn't sleeping well, I didn't have an
appetite, my dog had been hurt and Little Mexico was a source of
constant irritation. It was impossible to study over the loud
music and shouting voices. I worried how they
treated my vulnerable dog when I wasn't home.
They say
overwhelming frustration causes self-destructive behavior.
No argument from me. When you can't hurt the person
you are mad at, you hurt yourself instead. All that
anger has to go somewhere.
The stress I felt was so oppressive, I snapped.
I decided the world had been unfair. Consequently, the injustice of it all entitled
me to do whatever I wanted. This gave me the right to
make a bold statement. This was the moment I decided to cheat on the Literature section of my
German test.
"I, Rick Archer, hereby
declare I am entitled to skip memorizing stupid stuff I will never need later in
life."
It did not matter that no one would hear my protest.
I would do this for no other reason than to be
perverse.
|
SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
TUESDAY,
MARCH
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
THE GERMAN
TEST
|
When I awoke on Tuesday morning, one would think a good
night's sleep would bring me back to my senses. Nope. I
was still determined to go through with this ill-advised.
Prominent in my thoughts was the utter impossibility of
being caught. Just
to be clear,
I anticipated my teacher would allow me to take the test alone in
a deserted classroom. Considering this is what Mrs.
Anderson had done in the past, no reason to expect her to
change. If so,
I was absolutely certain there was no way in
Hell I would ever be caught.
|
 |
As expected, during
German class on Tuesday Mrs.
Anderson told me to meet her
later this afternoon
in this classroom during
my Study Hall period. I liked Mrs.
Anderson. Always cheerful and very complimentary
of my work, she was one of the many fine teachers who
went out of their way to offer support.
I knew Mrs. Anderson liked me.
As well she should. I worked hard in her class and gave her
infinite respect.
This is why she trusted me.
At lunch time, I
decided to cover my bet. What if Mrs. Anderson changed her
mind and asked me to
take the test in Study Hall instead? I
would not dream of cheating in Study Hall with all those prying
eyes. My scheme depended on being totally alone in our German
classroom. Just in case, I
briefly studied
the information anyway. In other words, I knew enough to get most of it
right without cheating. As it turned out, I made 95 on the
test. Had I not cheated, I would have made a 90. In
other words, this elaborate farce was worth 5 points. But
making a better grade was not the point. I was cheating as a
form of protest, a chance to thumb my nose at a cruel world.
Besides, there was no way
on earth I would ever be caught, so who cares what I do. This
was my own private ceremony.
When I got to the
classroom around 2:30 pm, Mrs. Anderson was waiting. Handing
the test to me, she said, "When you're done, just drop it
off at the office." Then she left the room.
Convinced she
would not
return, I decided to go through with my protest.
I sat alone behind a
windowless closed door.
Our classroom was
located upstairs in the most remote corner of the school.
Lacking a hallway, there was no passing traffic
to worry about. Nor would anyone visit the room at such a late hour. Mrs. Anderson had
indicated she wasn't coming back, so I had nothing to worry
about. Besides, in the unlikely event someone came up the
noisy wooden stairs, I was certain to hear them approach.
|
Thirty minutes passed
without a sound as I took the test. I
handled the vocabulary and translation segment without
problem. After finishing the Language and Translation part of
the test, I turned my attention to the Literature section I
objected to.
Okay, this is it.
First I answered
the questions I knew the answer to. Then I pulled out
my book and quickly began to copy the five or six book
titles and author names I did not
remember. Needing only a glance to refresh my memory,
it would take one minute to open the book and close it.
|
20 seconds after
I opened my
book, a classmate named Bob Franklin threw open the door and walked
in. No warning, no knock, Bob just burst in.
Oh my
God, what is he doing here!?! Had
I heard Bob coming up the stairs or if he had knocked before
entering, I could have closed my textbook ahead of time. No
such luck.
His sudden entry caught me red-handed. However,
maybe he wouldn't notice. Although my book was wide open, I
gambled he would assume I was in here doing homework.
Bob froze the moment he
saw me. By his startled expression, I could tell he had no
idea anyone was in the room. Embarrassed at interrupting me, Bob
apologized.
"Rick, I am so sorry to barge
in like this! I'm sorry I didn't knock. I
didn't know you were in here."
"Uh, it's okay,"
I stammered. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in Study Hall with
German homework, but I couldn't find my book. The
last place I saw my book was in this room during German
class earlier today."
Unfortunately, I was sitting next
to the desk where Bob was headed. Sure enough, I
saw his book nestled in the storage space below.
As he approached, his path took
him right past my desk. Seeing him near, I
panicked and
closed my book. Dumb move. Noticing what I
did, Bob made sure to look down. When he saw the
test on my desk plus the open textbook, his expression
changed in a flash. Based on his puzzled look, Bob
was not sure what he had seen, but he could tell it
didn't look right. Bob did not say another word.
He grabbed his missing book, turned his back and abruptly left the room.
I sat there stunned. I did not know if Bob would
report me, but I definitely did not like the departing
look on his face.
Oh my God, what
have I done? And how could I have
ever been so stupid?
|
 |
 |
So much for the
Faith and the Virtue, our school motto.
My Virtue was in short supply today.
St. John's had drilled the importance of
the Honor Code into my mind the
moment I entered the school nine years
ago. I knew for a fact they
enforced this code seriously.
There had once been a star athlete who
cheated on an exam and had been
expelled. Given that I had
committed a serious violation of the SJS
Honor Code, I expected to pay a very
severe price if Bob turned me
in.
It was not just
the penalty that I feared, it was the
look on Mr. Salls' face when he learned
what I had done. There was not a
single
person in this school whose respect was
more important to me. In a manner similar to Mrs.
Ballantyne, the woman I admired so much, I had been powerfully drawn
to Mr. Salls from the moment I first met
him in my Freshman
year of high school. I would not
call him a father figure. He
was too remote for that. However
he was definitely my favorite person to
study. A brilliant teacher who
carried himself with the same dignity as
an army general, I respected him more
than any man I had ever met.
However, Mr. Salls also had a reputation
as a strict disciplinarian. Now
that he was Headmaster, I had
no reason to expect leniency.
|
SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
MARCH
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
the hidden hand of god
|
Deeply shaken, I quickly finished the test.
Afterwards I sat there trying to make sense
of what had happened. I was beyond
incredulous. There were two
coincidences in play.
What were the
odds that Bob would forget his book on the
same day I would take my makeup test in this
room? One in a thousand?
What were the odds
Bob would walk in at the
exact moment to catch me? One in a
million?
When the two
coincidences were added together, the
odds seemed astronomical.
|
 |
Oddly enough, I was more concerned
over the Supernatural overtones of this event than I was
regarding my inevitable punishment. Yes, of course
I feared the wrath of Mr. Salls. But what about
the Wrath of God? I could not think of a single "Realistic"
explanation for the split-second timing necessary for
Bob to catch me.
Bob's
uncanny timing could not possibly have
been more devastating.
I
assumed Bob had been doing his homework in Study
Hall. Unable to find his German
textbook, he checked out of Study Hall to
retrieve it in our classroom. Each
period was 45 minutes long. Bob had at most a
one-minute opportunity to catch me. So I suppose
that gave him a one-in-45 chance. But that was not
the only curious detail. Why would he
forget his book TODAY? Why didn't he notice it
was missing earlier? Why did he burst in
rather than walk in like a normal person? Why
didn't I hear him stomping up the stairs? After I
added up all the reasons why this should not have
happened, I
concluded my calamitous downfall was
a near-impossible event given
the laws of probability.
That left only one answer. I
decided Bob had been guided by the Hidden Hand of God.
Deeply suspicious that God had intended to teach me a
lesson, I was in awe at the possibility I had just witnessed a case of Divine
Intervention. Full of goosebumps, I sat there in
futile exasperation. This was way too weird for an 18-year-old
boy to handle.
|
Starting with the
curse on Adam and Eve for disobedience,
I knew the Bible was full of stories
where God had punished evil doers.
But why me? It was not like I had
hurt someone. I was an
insignificant kid guilty of nothing more
than a serious case of bad judgment.
It was incredible to consider the
possibility that I was being punished by
none other than God Himself. Well
aware of the seriousness of this line of
thinking, I took
a close
look at the circumstances.
I had
been completely alone in an upstairs
room in the furthest, most distant
corner of the school. There was at most
a narrow one minute window for someone
to catch me. No one but Mrs.
Anderson knew I was in there and she
didn't care. But maybe I was
wrong. If so, did Mrs. Anderson
send Bob to check on me? No way.
The look of surprise on Bob's face when
he walked in was genuine. So was
his apology for barging in.
Furthermore, why would I be under
suspicion? I was an Honor student.
German was my best subject. Since
I had not been caught cheating before,
why go to special lengths to catch me
now?
Besides, even if I
was under suspicion, why would a teacher
recruit a student to do the dirty work?
Why not just have Mrs. Anderson walk in
unannounced and survey the situation?
Or better yet, if she was suspicious,
all she had to do was insist I take the
test in Study Hall. Furthermore,
how would Bob know when to bust in?
The door did not have a window and it
was closed. This second story room
had windows, but someone would need a
ladder to see in.
This was ridiculous. I was just being paranoid. Why would anyone feel the need to
conduct surveillance in the first place?
Given that no one
was able to see into the room, how would
someone guess what would be the best
time to enter? Should Bob come in
at the 10 minute mark? Or the
20-minute mark? How would Bob know
which of those 45 minutes to make his
move? If he guessed wrong, I would
never have been caught.
Furthermore, why
didn't I hear Bob coming? I
certainly had no trouble hearing his
stomping footsteps when he left.
Given how he barged into the room, Bob
was in a hurry. So how did he
manage to come up those rickety steps in
total silence? Why would he
tiptoe?
Ultimately this event violated my
sense of the Physical World so badly that I became
deeply suspicious. After a considerable amount
of thought, I concluded this was either
a freak coincidence or an extraordinary
Supernatural Event. So which one was
it?
|
I
was not a religious person at this time in my life.
I did not attend church and I was far too worried
about my college problems to give God a second thought.
However, after being caught red-handed in a
near-impossible way, I began giving God a great
deal of thought.
With the
memory of that incident fresh in my mind, I
wondered if Bob's sudden appearance was Supernatural
in origin. Was it possible for an invisible being,
an angel perhaps, to telepathically contact Bob to
orchestrate my demise?
Perhaps Bob had been guided to my room
for the purpose of catching me cheating.
Although this scenario was impossible to prove, the
likelihood of this coincidence was so remote I
could not help but wonder if God had
deliberately intervened to teach me a lesson. (If
so, it worked. I have kept my vow to never cheat
again.)
There
was something else that bothered me. Given
that it was uncharacteristic for me to cheat, where
did that crazy idea to cheat on this test come from
in the first place? Let me put this another
way. When a robber needs money, he thinks of
stealing. He steals because he is used to
stealing.
I was not used to cheating. I only
cheated because some weird thought had
come into my mind. It was scary to
think this, but as things stood, I
wondered if God or another invisible being put
that dumb suggestion in
my mind to cheat,
then sent Bob
over at the right time to catch me.
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Everyone assumes that "Divine
Intervention" is wonderful.
However, maybe there is a flip side.
Has
anyone ever considered Divine Intervention can also be used to
teach hard lessons? The Lord's Prayer asks
God to lead us away from temptation. However, based on
this cheating experience, I had every right to ask
if sometimes God deliberately leads us astray for
His own purpose. Comparing the race track
story to the cheating story, it seemed to me I had
proof that God
intervenes in the affairs of man in different ways whenever He chooses to.
In Hindsight, I can report this bizarre incident
marked the birth of my belief in Fate. I did
not reach this conclusion for many years, but the wheels
were definitely set in motion right here.
For those who are Non-believers, I admit there are
valid psychological reasons to explain why I
cheated. So surely my guilty conscience is
what caused me to pretend God planted the
suggestion in my mind. Think what you wish. If skeptics
prefer to dismiss this bizarre event as mere
coincidence and write off my explanation as
delusional thinking, that is their privilege.
But one thing
remains clear.
I was out
of my mind to take that risk!
What
did I stand to gain by cheating? I was gambling 5
points on a meaningless test versus nine years of
stellar reputation as one of the smartest boys in my
class. The only reason I went through with it was
the certainty that there was no way on earth I could be
caught. "No way on earth." That
sounds just like
the Titanic, the ship that even
God supposedly could not sink.
My guess is God can do whatever He wants.
Self-destructive
behavior is very difficult to understand.
Given the risk
involved when compared to how little I stood to gain,
what I had done was absurd. In the days to follow
I asked myself
over and over why would I lose my mind like that.
All speculation aside, I am sorry to say I will never
know the true origin of my foolish decision.
However, this was not an isolated event. Some very
strange things were soon to follow. After a great
deal of thought impacted by a lifetime of experience, I stand by my belief that this
was a Fated Event created by the Hidden Hand of God.
I now believe there will be times in every person's life
when we are rendered "stupid" as a way to teach
us a hard lesson.
Let me add that illustrious
writer J.K. Rowling has hinted at a similar belief.
"Talent and intelligence
will not inoculate anyone against the caprice of the
fates."
-- J.K. Rowling
|
SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
MARCH,
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
the PRESSURE MOUNTS
|
As I feared, Bob did turn me in. No
surprise there. I deserved it. Moreover I would have
done the same thing had the situation been reversed. But
here's what makes this story even stranger.
I was never punished.
That in itself is crazy. Caught red-handed, there could be no
doubt I was guilty. Well aware what I had done was
wrong, I was ready to accept whatever punishment Mr. Salls saw fit
to deliver. However, he chose to spare me. The following
day Dunham Jewett, Head Prefect, tracked me down in the hallway.
"Rick,
there was an odd incident yesterday I have been asked to
speak to you about. You were seen with an open book while
taking a German test. I know how good you are at German.
In fact, I consider you such a great student
that I cannot imagine someone
of your TALENT
needing to cheat. Don't worry.
You may consider the matter closed."
Dunham patted me lightly on my
shoulder, then walked away without another word.
Obviously he preferred not to discuss the matter further.
It was over in 20 seconds. Paralyzed by shock, I
fixated on the way Dunham had stressed the word 'Imagine'.
He made it sound like it was inconceivable to suppose I had
cheated. That was a very curious conclusion
considering Bob had gotten a good look at my test right next
to an open book turned to the subject material. My
mouth fell open at the sheer audacity of Dunham's approach.
He did
not accuse me of cheating.
Nor did he ask if I had cheated, a question that would
have really put me on the spot.
Instead Dunham had complimented me! In his
opinion, I was too smart to even bother considering the
thought. I scratched my head in confusion.
What in the world is going on
here? After careful thought, I decided Dunham had
acted on orders from Mr. Salls. I based this on
something Mr. Salls had said back in September during
his pathetic attempt to interest me in applying to Johns Hopkins.
"Johns Hopkins
University
is on par academically with Rice
University. For that matter,
Hopkins is just one notch below the Ivy
League schools. In my opinion,
Johns Hopkins is a perfect fit for a
student of your
TALENT."
My "TALENT"...
Hmm. Due to the curious wording, I
assumed Dunham had been coached by Mr. Salls.
That made sense. Only the Headmaster
had the authority to let me off the hook.
Although I was relieved to
escape punishment, that did not mean the
guilt went away. The shame was
unbearable. Mr. Salls had been
lenient, but surely in the privacy of his
own thoughts, I had deeply offended him.
My Headmaster was a stern man well known as a disciplinarian.
Painfully aware of other
students who had been suspended or expelled,
I did not understand why he had spared me. Over the past three years, I had been one of
the hardest-working students in his German
class. I did this specifically because
I wanted so much to earn his respect.
Now in an act of blinding stupidity, I had
surely lost that hard-earned respect. The
stigma was unbearable. The guilt from letting this esteemed man down was
so excruciating, I desperately
wanted
to
knock on his office door, fall to my knees
and beg his forgiveness. Maybe if he
understood, he would forgive me. But I
lacked that kind of courage. Deciding
I had burned my bridges here at St. John's,
my thoughts turned to college as the only
way to restore my disgraced reputation. No
one had ever needed a fresh start more than
me.
I was going downhill fast.
Unable to play sports due to my blind eye, unable to
date my pretty classmates due to my low social
status, my face scarred from acne, forced to live in
a madhouse, forced to work after school because my
father was a jerk, the list was endless.
Indeed, St. John's had turned into High School
Hell. Every day I was consumed with bitterness
towards my classmates for their carefree approach to
college. Everyone but me! Over
the past four years, the only thing that kept me
going was the thought of college. Why else
would I study so hard while my affluent classmates
partied? Golf, tennis, shopping trips to the
mall, beach houses, country clubs. For me, college was the only way I could
escape this terrible loneliness that enveloped me. College meant escape from my
mother, escape from Little Mexico, escape from
feelings of inferiority whenever I compared myself
to my ultra-confident classmates. However,
unless I could find some way to pay the exorbitant
tuition at Georgetown, I was out of luck.
I have one striking memory
from this time. I suffered from an extreme
case of tunnel vision. For some reason, I felt
like it was Georgetown or die trying. After my
father's betrayal, I had every right to be
disappointed. However, I do not know why my
desperation was so intense. So what if I
couldn't pay for Georgetown? All I had to do
was sit out a year and reapply to the University of
Texas for the following school year. If I
waited one year, by working full-time at the grocery
store I could easily pay for UT out of my own
pocket. However, the thought of waiting out a
year was unbearable. So, you say, why not
start in January in the second semester? Here
again, for reasons I will never understand, that
thought never occurred to me. I thought I was
seeing an entire school year go down the drain.
Determined to escape
Little Mexico, my impatience rendered me
psychologically incapable of accepting any
alternative. I deserved a scholarship, of that
I was convinced. But how was I supposed to
obtain one? My friend David had me convinced
that Georgetown would not dream of giving me a
scholarship unless my parents cooperated with financial aid forms. In that case,
my father's hefty salary was a serious deal-breaker
to any claim I made of destitution. I also knew for
a fact my father would never cooperate. As for
my mother, given the bitterness I felt towards her,
I did not want her help. But how was I
supposed to pull this off all by myself? How was a teenage
boy acting alone supposed to explain his bizarre
home situation to some anonymous financial aid person at
Georgetown?
"Um, Mr. Georgetown, sir,
it is true my father makes a boatload of money.
However, he uses that money to
send my half-brother and half-sister to private school.
He has made it clear that I am on my own. My
father has no intention of helping me."
"I'm sorry, young man,
but how am I supposed to know you are telling
the truth? Money doesn't grow on trees.
If you wish to be considered for scholarship,
tell your father to fill out the forms like
everyone else. We need to verify your
status."
I imagine Mr. Salls could have
solved the problem. He had contacts with
college administrators across the country.
However, I was certain I had burned
my bridge with the the cheating incident. I
did not dare go anywhere near him. God forbid,
what if he asked me to explain the cheating
incident? Bottom
Line, I was totally on my own. Which was a
real problem because my batting average hovered at
zero. Nevertheless, I had to try.
Desperate to find a way to pay for Georgetown, I
cooked up a grand scheme called "Foot in the Door".
Here is how the plan worked.
I could not afford to pay tuition for an entire year
at Georgetown. The breakthrough came when I
realized I did not have to pay for the entire year
at once. Since I had barely enough money to
pay for one semester, I would use every last cent to enroll at Georgetown
and take my chances. At
some point I would make an appointment to speak to a
Georgetown financial aid officer in person and beg for a
scholarship. If the man said no, at least I
tried.
But I did not believe that would happen. I
was certain my good grades plus a heartfelt
face-to-face would convince someone I was telling
the truth and decide to help.
$5,000 tuition plus $1,000
room and board was $6,000 a year. That was way
beyond my reach. However, $3,000 for one
semester was a
possibility.
$2,000
in savings, my father's $400, plus $1,000 per year
Jones Scholarship. Even if the Jones
Scholarship was broken in half ($500 per semester),
I was close enough to enroll for one semester in
September 1968.
Age 18, I assumed I could do this without needing my
mother's permission.
Since I saw this
plan as my only way to escape my home situation, it
was worth the gamble.
If worse came to worst, I would drop out after one
semester and ask Uncle Dick for a Spring and Summer
job at his computer company. In the meantime I
would apply to the University of Texas for
September 1969, the following school year.
Or for that matter, I could apply to the University
of Virginia using resident status. If I going
to waste a year, any place was better than sticking
around at Little Mexico.
Looking back, this was actually a fairly good plan.
However, first I had to win the Jones
Scholarship. Not a problem. I was a
shoo-in. Or so I assumed.
Unfortunately I was plagued
with the same premonition of doom that had haunted
me prior to my father's $400 rebuke. As the
clock ticked down, the fact that no one at my school
had said a word to me felt like a very bad omen.
|
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|
SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
THURSDAY, MARCH 14,
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
the Jones scholarship outcome
|
My dread was justified. On Thursday morning in
mid-March, I gasped as I read the newspaper
announcement that Katina Ballantyne had won
the St. John's award for the class of 1968.
Stunned, this terrible news cut like a knife
through the heart.
There goes my last
chance to go to Georgetown.
Considering I already thought the world was
being unfair, my sense of injustice was off
the charts after this latest reversal.
Considering Katina came from a wealthy
family, what on earth was going on? This
made no sense. Grasping for any
kind of reason to explain why I had lost, I
turned white when a horrible thought came to
mind. What if Mr. Salls had done
this to punish me for the cheating episode?
Why bother with a nasty cheating scandal?
Bad for the school's reputation.
Easier to punish the loser by denying him
the scholarship that rightfully should have
been his and put Katina's pretty face on the
next SJS Alumni magazine.
Oh my God, what
have I done to myself? My last
chance to pay for Georgetown next year was
gone and it was my own fault. All that
work down the drain. Consumed with
self-hate, I fell to pieces. Little
Mexico, my father, my mother, the cheating
mistake, and the ignorance of not applying
to a college I could afford were bad enough.
But the worst was saved for last. With
every fiber of my being set on going to
Georgetown next fall, I was stunned to
discover my senseless cheating mistake had
eliminated my last hope. Distraught
and unable to forgive myself, I sunk into
catatonic depression. I told
absolutely no one. I did not tell
David nor did I did not tell Mr. Curran, my
teacher friend who was very concerned about
me. I did not tell my mother; she had
no idea what was going on with my life.
I was completely alone on this.
In Hindsight, what
scares me is how utterly mixed up I was.
People wonder at the high rate of suicide in
high school and college. I hate to say
it, but it makes perfect sense to me.
Young people lack perspective, especially
those like me with no one to turn to.
They don't seem to realize that bad fortune often
turns around if one can be patient and keep
working through hard times. I was a
tall, strapping boy who possessed
self-discipline and a powerful work ethic.
I was about to graduate near the top of my
class at the toughest school in Houston.
Given these blessings, it did not make a bit
of sense that I was thinking of ending my
life. Indeed, I had a bright future
ahead if I could just weather the storm.
However, I was my own worst enemy.
Filled with hate towards myself, the pressure
was killing me. It was all I could do
to carry on.
|
 |
Over the next week
I went to school, I went to work, I went to bed. I spoke
to no one unless forced to and brooded constantly. Suffering through the worst
depression of my life, if anything my state of mind just
kept getting worse. Indeed, my mood was so precarious,
I teetered on the precipice of a nervous breakdown. Let me
tell you something. Self-hatred is an incredible
burden. All I thought about was my desire to hurt
myself. I cringed as thoughts of suicide drifted in
and out of my mind. No matter how hard I tried, I could not
suppress those thoughts. I was so badly defeated at
this point that one more mishap would have surely pushed me
over the cliff. No matter how hard I tried, I could not
escape my misery.
Six days
after learning that Katina Ballantyne had stolen my last-gasp chance to
go to college, the strangest thing happened.
Just when things seemed the worst,
the last person I ever expected to see appeared in the
doorway at my grocery store. It was Katina's mother.
Do my eyes deceive me?
Am I so screwed up that I have begun to fantasize?
However, as the woman came closer, sure enough, it was her. Mrs.
Ballantyne had just walked in my store.
This cannot be happening!
I was so stunned, I
immediately went on Supernatural Alert.
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