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Recently, I attended the 35th reunion of my graduating class, the Class of 1954 of Southeast High School, Kansas City, Missouri. As are most such reunions, it was a bitter-sweet experience, full of reminiscences of an idealized past and regrets about its loss to a sordid present.
Southeast today, in the view of most of my class, belongs to the sordid present, it being, presumably, the scene of violence, drugs and general decay. The reunion abounded with tales of horror and sadness about the demise of the Castle on Meyer Boulevard, said now to be Home only of errant Knights and fallen Ladies.
Saddened, though happy at my classmates' success found in flight to the suburbs, I prepared to flee Kansas City for the refuge of my home in distant Washington State.
But before leaving I decided to drive out to Southeast for one last look. The school, of course, was closed for the summer, but curiosity got the better of me, so I found a backdoor open and entered nervously. Because of the stories I had heard, I was perhaps led to fear, at best, being thrown out by inhabitants hostile to my white skin or, at worst, being attacked by armed, drug-running gangs.
I walked upstairs and found myself near the main entrance to the auditorium. Fully expecting to find a trashed scene, marred with grafitti and scarred by thirty-five years of abuse and neglect since the halcyon days of my class, I was greeted instead, and to my absolute amazement, by bright murals on the walls of the entrance portraying the medieval mythology of the Knights.
At Southeast, being "Home of the Knights" has always had greater significance than being the home of Lions, Tigers or Bluejays typical of other high schools, for Knighthood, in the fashion of King Arthur, symbolized a system of values and a way of life which emphasized personal character and purpose of life. The motif was carried out not only on the athletic field but also in the student government, known as the Roundtable, the yearbook, called the Crusader, and the student newspaper, The Tower.
More significantly, though, the theme formed the heart of a Code of Conduct embodied in the chant: "A brave Southeast Knight loveth chivalry, truth, honor, freedom and fair courtesy." To my astonishment the Code was reiterated with fresh Gothic letters in the murals by the door.
This first scene confronting me said that all I had heard and imagined about the past thirty-five years may not necessarily be true.
Far from being trashed, the auditorium was still the spotless and well-maintained hall I remembered, perhaps even more so. More surprising were the shields on the walls. It had been the custom that each graduating class create a shield bearing scenes and inscriptions which symbolized the life and contributions of that particular class. Not only were the old shields still in place, but thirty-five newer ones had joined them, each one artfully prepared to represent the class which prepared it. I couldn't believe my eyes.
As I stood there examining the shields and berating myself for having blindly accepted ignorant gossip, I heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I saw a young black man enter the room also looking around. By now I was even more curious to know what life at Southeast was like today, so after a few minutes I asked him if he were a student there. He said no, not now, but that he had graduated the year before, in 1988.
I had graduated in 1954 and was back for my 35th class reunion, I told him, a fact which totally amazed him, as though he could not imagine anything so long ago. I told him how surprised, impressed and touched I was that the tradition of the shields had been maintained and that Knightlites, the annual student-produced variety show, apparently still existed, a sign hanging over the stage indicating as much. "Yes! Did you have Knightlites, too?" his bright face bubbled incredulously, as if he thought the show had been the private property of his generation. "Yes," I said, "and the Spring Play and talent shows, too." He introduced himself as Andre. Andre was as pleased as I.
We went on comparing notes. Andre showed me his class shield and pointed out mine, which had escaped my eye in the collection of fifty years of high school heraldry arrayed on the high walls. I noted that the Dorians, the art club to which I had belonged, was mentioned explicitly on one shield, 1977. "We still have the Dorians," he said with obvious pleasure. And they still had the Crusader, too, which the students continue to publish themselves, not turning it over to a commercial yearbook publisher as is often the case today. This pleased me particularly, since I had been a member of the Crusader staff.
On and on we went, Andre summing up his excitement by showing me his class ring, his hand elevated and his fingers spread to emphasize its elegance. He was very proud.
My throat hurt as I fought the tears that welled in my eyes. Suddenly I realized that Andre and I were really one, part of a single thing, a continuum, a unity of history and tradition. Truly, I never dreamed that I would be experiencing this moment.
You see, our class was the last class to graduate from Southeast while schools were racially segregated by law. 1954 was the year of the Supreme Court decision of Brown vs. the Board of Education which, though we didn't realize it fully at the time, was to redefine forever public life in the United States. We of the white middle-classes feared its consequences, and today many argue that our fears were well-founded, blaming that decision for the ills of American schools, nay, even of American society itself.
So here we were, two people -- once separated by law, still separated by race and now by age, too -- bound together by a tradition some might call a childish parody of the Dark Ages. It was all I could do to contain myself.
About then, another young man entered the auditorium to whom Andre introduced me, explaining my presence and interest in the school. The friend -- I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name -- also found my 35-year history a matter for wonder, as though I were as ancient as anything he might have read about in World History. Then, too, he may also have been puzzled -- without saying so --that a white man, an old one at that, would come back to see his school which, by media accounts and suburban gossip, was the seat of modern evil incarnate.
One of the shields of the 1970's noted the retirement after twenty-seven years of Mr. Powell, the stern but kindly vice-principal we had known. Andre, of course, did not know him but asked if I would like to meet the current principal, Mr. Buckner, who was in the building at the time. I would love to have, so they led me away, back through the auditorium doors, past summer maintenance equipment, into the foyer at the main entrance where still stood the Round Table, the sacrosanct, hand-carved walnut symbol of Equality and Fairness that had graced the entrance since the early days of the school. As a matter of honor and custom, the Round Table was never to be touched or profaned.
Again, I thought my eyes deceive me. Rumor had it that the Round Table had had to be removed due to vandalism. And yet there it was, as beautiful as ever. "The Round Table is still there," I remarked as we passed by. "Yes," the young man replied, "and we never touch it," he added with emphasis, quite spontaneously and with obvious pride and respect.
Mr. Buckner was in the library, and as we walked down the hall in that direction we passed a glass case holding a life-size Knight wearing a coat of mail. Andre pointed it out and wanted to know if I recognized it. In all honesty I did not. In the dim light of the hall, the Knight seemed to have an especially dark complexion. He may have been there in 1954, but I was inclined to doubt it. The tradition, I thought to myself, had been added to. But, so what? I mused. What if he were darker than we of the Class of '54? Under historical feudalism, I recalled from Miss Latshaw's history class, a corrupt, hereditary white aristocracy exploited and oppressed an impoverished, hereditary white peasantry. Under the mythical feudalism of King Arthur, however, integrity, resolve and strength of character are all-important. The color of the face of a Knight is as irrelevant as the color of the Face of God.
I met Mr. Buckner, and for an hour or so we talked about Southeast, its past, present and future. We talked about learning in the 1950's when there was no choice in the matter -- Miss Falke insisted we learn grammar whether we liked it or not; we talked of the terrible years of decline for public education of the 1960's and 1970's, terrible years for schools everywhere, not just Southeast; we talked of the bottoming out and mellowing in the 1980's, when there has been nowhere to go but up; and we speculated on the prospects for Southeast's future as a health science and international studies "magnet" school.
Flying back to the Northwest, I was no longer fleeing Southeast and all it represented. Instead, I felt a bond with Southeast and all it has stood for -- a bond not only with Andre and his generation but with the turbulent past and the uncertain future as well. The bond I felt -- feel -- is not just with the buildings and memories, but with the traditions in which we have all participated and will continue to participate, each class in its own way, following the mandate to love chivalry, truth, honor, freedom and fair courtesy, even under the most trying of circumstances.
Statistics and the mass-media suggest that that vow has become folly, and surely for many it has; in truth, it was silly and irrelevant for many in the 1950's, too. Today's daily news of drugs, violence, poor achievement and lack of discipline in the schools breeds a pervasive cynicism born of an impossible yearning for return of an idealized Golden Age, a fancied Paradise that has been lost. This is sad, for cynicism can only ridicule and despise. The truth is, the Southeast tradition is a presence no cynic can understand and a story no data can tell.
Certainly, urban schools today are beset with monumental problems, and I am not so naive as to think that mere symbolism can make them go away. But after my visit to Southeast High School 1989, I have a new view, indeed a new hope.
I smelled the flowers. Class of '54, you should smell them, too.
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