by John R. Hall / November 3rd, 2016
In 1959, Phoenix, Arizona was growing like a weed. As its population doubled every few years, I was working my way through the public school system, doing my best to obey most of the rules, or at least not get caught doing otherwise. The teacher’s dreaded paddle was something to be avoided at all cost. Dust and asbestos fibers from school construction filled the air as the little city burgeoned into the epicenter of the baby-booming desert Southwest. As my school’s enrollment grew beyond its limits, boundary lines were redrawn in order to fill the classrooms of a newer school, a mile to the East. So when I entered the sixth grade, it was to be in nearly new lead-based painted halls of elementary education. Baltz School District’s most recent addition: Orangedale Elementary.
That September, about a half dozen sixth graders from my neighborhood were evicted from familiar surroundings, and thrown into a completely new socio-educational situation. Orangedale had already been in operation the previous year, so pecking-order, social status, and dominance had already been well established. Alan and Tim were top male dogs, and were not thrilled with the arrival of Keith, Billy, and me. From the first day of class, we newcomers were singled out, isolated, harassed, punched, kicked, and attacked with large concealed safety pins by Alan and Tim. It was also obvious that all the other boys in…