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Cathy Felice (Brundage)
A Tribute to the Class of 1968
By Cathy Felice Brundage 2018
When our fathers returned from World War II, they didn’t know that they, along with our mothers, would be responsible for a historic demographic bubble – the baby boom.
We were born at the beginning of that population serge, and our generation has much to reflect upon and much to be grateful for.
In 1950, the year most of us were born, the average family size was five – mom, dad, and 3 kids. Although there were exceptions, most of our moms stayed home while dad earned the paycheck.
And if your mom did work, she was either a teacher, nurse or secretary.
Our houses were small by today’s standards – the average sized home in the 1950’s was less than a thousand square feet, and most of us shared a bedroom with an annoying sibling. Our TVs were black and white. We had no microwave ovens, computers, ipads, or cell phones. In fact, the phone was often hung on the wall in the kitchen so the entire family could hear your conversation. And if you knew a certain boy was calling, you sat by the phone so your call wasn’t intercepted by a sibling or worse, a parent.
Most of us attended public elementary schools in the San Diego area. Some attended Blessed Sacrament Catholic School on El Cajon Boulevard.
Girls wore homemade dresses with loafers or Mary Janes, and of course little white socks. Boys wore corduroy pants, blue jeans and collared shirts. Our mothers bought our clothes at JCPenneys, Robert Hall, or Sears. Girls’ hair was braided, pig tailed or pony tailed with lots of barrettes and plastic headbands. Boys wore flattops or buzz jobs using butch wax to keep longer hair in place.
Each morning we pledged the flag, sang a patriotic song, had sharing time, and broke into our reading groups. In the afternoons we memorized time tables, practiced our cursive handwriting, took spelling tests, and wrote essays. Remember in the 6th grade when we all had to compose an essay entitled, “What Democracy Means to Me?”
During recess we played kickball, tetherball, foursquare, and softball, and we squared danced in the auditorium. Although prayer had been banned in the classroom, I earnestly prayed that Miss Telzrow, my sixth grade teacher, would not pair me with a sweaty boy with a bad haircut for our weekly square dance. Most of us were too young and naïve to appreciate Elvis, but when Chubby Checker came out with “Let’s Twist,” we all were twisting. One week, Miss Telzrow, allowed us to do the twist instead of our usual square dance.
At lunch we ate white bread sandwiches and drank milk that cost six cents a carton. Funny, no one had a peanut allergy or was lactose intolerant.
We had fire drills. We had duck and cover drills. We had the yellow alert and the red alert which meant a military attack was imminent. We grew up during the cold war, bomb shelters, the Cuban Missile Crisis and the persistent threat of nuclear war.
Most of us were compliant and obeyed the school rules. The behavior problems of our day were chewing gum, swearing, name calling or the occasional playground fight. If we were caught doing any of those things there was the pink slip for minor offenses and the yellow slip for more serious issues, which also meant your parents would be called.
Outside of school boys played Little League, girls took dance lessons. Boys had paper routes and mowed lawns, and girls babysat. We ran wild playing hide and seek until the street lights came on. We played in vacant school yards, streets, and parks without parental supervision. We roller skated, and we rode our bikes. But our main mode of transportation was our two feet. We walked to our friend’s house, we walked to the grocery store, and we walked to school.
We didn’t have texting or social media. Usually face-to-face, we talked, we argued, we giggled, we teased, we gossiped. If we held a grudge, it lasted for a day or two, and then we made up. We passed notes which were forbidden during school hours. Heaven help us if those notes got into the wrong hands – like a teacher’s.
Most of us figured out the social rules of elementary school, or at least how to avoid going to juvenile hall before we were thrust into junior high.
In junior high the well-defined social groups evolved. At the top of the social hierarchy were the “socials”. They were the kids that were well-dressed, cute, and full of confidence and personality. When I was in the seventh grade I was mystified how this magical transformation could have happened to others but not to me. Like most of you, I didn’t make the grade to be a “soc” so I made good friends with kids who were just ordinary twelve years old trying to manage six different teachers, homework, gym class, lunch time and liking a certain boy.
I remember a conversation in the girl’s bathroom instigated by a girl named Donna with bleached blonde hair. She wore a madras shirt and announced she was a surfer. Yes, there was a part of me who wanted to be the Beach Boys “Little Surfer Girl.” Yet, I really wanted to join the journalism club, but I was too shy to admit my love for writing. Maybe that is why junior high was painful; I was trying to figure out who I was and at the same time negotiate the minefield of popularity and acceptance.
Then we had the British invasion in 1963. The Beatles wanted to hold our hand, dance with us and confess their love. We were infatuated with John, Paul, Ringo, and George. Our parents were both puzzled and amused that we were so taken with the fabulous four.
Then the unimaginable happened. On November 22, 1963, President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas. We had heard rumors in the hallways between classes, but when my English teacher read the official announcement, I cried like a baby. Our idyllic world of family, school, and country had been shattered.
In 1965 we entered Crawford High School as tenth graders. This was the big time with football games, homecoming court, dances, cheer leaders, upper classmen, lettermen’s jackets, the Key club, the Aurora society, senior parking lot, ASB ball, junior prom, senior prom, and April a la mode. With student government, school clubs, musical groups, theater groups, industrial arts, auto mechanics and athletic teams we were busy and productive.
We were lucky. We attended school during a time when drugs were something mom picked up at the pharmacy, and gangs existed in West Side Story. Violence was confined to wrestling matches, football games, and the occasional fist fight after school.
Ah, and lest I paint this picture too rosy, let’s remember the reasons why we may have been moody teenagers.
What is more painful than unrequited love when you are sixteen? Or breaking up when you don’t want to break up?
What is more ego shattering than losing a student body election or getting cut from the baseball team?
What is more disappointing than no invitation to the Senior Prom? Or worse, asking someone, and getting rejected?
Remember failing your driving test?
Or your biology test?
Or your best friend moving into a social group that excluded you?
Then there were the events on the world stage that popped our teenage bubble.
In our senior year Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy were assassinated. Riots broke out in Watts and Newark. College students protested the Viet Nam war by burning their draft cards. We knew what was going on in the world, but we were still trying to figure things out as we prepared for college and beyond.
In the background Peter, Paul & Mary were singing about our times and our anxiety, while the Rolling Stones celebrated the summer of love, and the Supremes sang Motown classics.
After graduation, many of us went to college. Some joined the military and served in Viet Nam. Most of us married and had children. Unlike our mothers, the women of the class of 1968 had more career choices. We became teachers and nurses, but we also became doctors, lawyers, police officers, corporate executives and small business owners.
For the next fifty years we forged lives apart from our school mates, but retained the memories of our times at Crawford High. In those fifty years, most of us have lost our parents. Some have lost siblings, spouses, friends, or children. We have experienced both failure and success, love and loss of love; and over the course of fifty years, we have matured into senior citizens and grandparents.
Remember when we agonized over a pimple or a bad hair day? Now we fret over surgeries, wrinkles, and arthritis. We used to worry if we had fifteen dollars for a date on Saturday night. Now we worry if our savings will run out before our days on this earth, or if our children will take care of us in our old age.
I must confess, sometimes I would like to go back in time and spend a week as a senior at Crawford High. I picture myself rushing from class to class, passing notes to my friends in the hall, and feeling the exhilaration that anything is possible. If I could go back, I would definitely join the Journalism club and not worry so much about what people thought of me.
And that is the benefit of being old. Fifty years after graduation we have a keener perspective, maybe some wisdom, and most certainly an appreciation of a sweet and unique period in our lives called high school.
It wasn’t a perfect time, but it was our time.
Thanks for the memories, Class of ’68.
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