What’s Your Major?

LBJ was ramping up America's presence in Southeast Asia while I was searching desperately for passing grades.  My grade point average had declined to the point where my participation in the Viet Nam conflict appeared inevitable.  I began shopping for a new major so I might have a chance at turning things around. 

As a freshman I had considered majoring in philosophy after being quite impressed by Dr. Loftsgordon, the brilliant Head of the Philosophy Department.  He was highly revered as one of the faculty stars, prominently noted in the college brochures, and a talking point during my interview with the admissions officer.  My first direct encounter was a lecture he gave as part of the history of civilization course.  He took delight in undermining every religious, patriotic and cultural belief that we students had carried with us in our hearts up until that day.  Once relieved of our sham safety nets, he invited us down a path to existentialism – because like it or not, take it from him, nothing matters.  In a brief forty-five minutes he had turned the world on its head and I was anxious to take up the challenge.  Several months later my enthusiasm waned when I discovered Dr. Loftsgordon had committed suicide soon after being informed of his mother's passing.

I reached a point where I needed to be both pragmatic and realistic about choosing a major and Physical Education seemed a strong possibility.  A good share of the courses required athleticism.  Since I played three sports in high school I should have an edge.  As for the other courses, such as kinesiology, I didn't expect to run into advanced calculus.  I signed up for a phys ed course that devoted the first 3 weeks to volley ball skills.  Not playing volley ball mind you, simply practicing the skills of serve, bump, set and spike.  Your grade for this portion of the course was based on your proficiency in these skills at the end of the 3 weeks.  Practice sessions were held daily but since I had been playing competitive volley ball for several years, I chose to skip practice and just show up for the skills test. 

I arrived at the gym on the day of the test and met the instructor, a very fit, middle-aged woman.  At the conclusion of the test, she told me that I had done well enough to receive an A for this part of the course.  However, the missed practice sessions were going to result in a grade of F for the entire course.  She went on to explain that the department's attendance policy lowered your course grade by one full grade for each missed session.  She could tell I was having a hard time with this but she insisted that given time, I would look back and view  this as a valuable "life Lesson"'.    

I tried to gain a foothold from which I could push back.  I asked, "Is this policy unique to the phys ed department?"

She said, "I believe it is."

I may have scored a point with that but she was difficult to read.  I took another shot, "Would it have been poor form to give me a heads up on this?"

She countered, "The policy is clearly stated in the course syllabus for all to see."

Not wanting to call attention to my not knowing a course syllabus existed, I tried a different tack, "Would an exception be considered for someone who has substantial prior experience?"

She seemed to be enjoying herself, "There wouldn't be an exception if you were an Olympic gold medal winner."

It was early enough in the semester to drop the phys ed course and avoid further damage to my GPA.  I was back at square one with regard to a field of study that was a suitable match.  The Dean of Students had called me in for a heart-to-heart to insure I was aware that I was circling the drain.  I shared with him the trouble I was having deciding on a major.  The Dean offered, "You need to  consider that college is not for everyone".  He was glancing at a few papers on his desk while we were chatting.  He told me he was looking at an IQ score from a Stanford Binet test I took in high school and then he said, "Your options are limited not so much by a lack of innate intelligence as by the fact that you are not academically inclined".

I thought then, as I do today, that his comment was open to interpretation.  Had he shared with me the results of my IQ test it would have gone a long way toward deciphering his intent.  Asking about my score was pointless.  In the early sixties you did not tell someone they had bad breath; you did not ask someone if they were gay; and no one, including anyone who might benefit from it, was permitted to be told what their IQ score was.  That is of course unless you were arrested for multiple homicide, in which case you and the whole world would learn your IQ since it would be part of the lead paragraph in newspaper article the following day.

A week or so later, I caught what turned out to be a break.  The Dean of Students asked me to get down to the art building and see about some part-time work.  The tuition was a stretch for my family and I worked at the college through the summers and during school at various chores.  I arrived at the art building to find Professor Hansen who was a member of the Art Department faculty.  He took me across the campus to the house that was reserved for the president of the college.  We met with the president's wife who was redecorating.  She had two dozen original prints she wanted matted and framed with the frames stained to match her interior color scheme.  I suspected the Dean of Students may be behind this, figuring this was a way for me to learn a craft and move on to Trade Tech. 

After the introductions, Professor Hansen went back to the art building, leaving me to listen to the president's wife describe how she wanted the prints integrated into her planned transformation of the house's interior.  She and her husband were both new to California having moved from back east at the start of the school year.  I wondered if they had made many friends since their arrival.  She seemed a bit starved for conversation but she couldn't have been nicer.  I was confident I understood what she wanted and took the prints with me when I left.  I now also understood how that preposterous artsy mailbox suddenly appeared in front of their house at the beginning of the year.  Naturally, I felt terrible the whole time I was with her, knowing it was only last week that Hartwig and I had deposited an M-80 into the letter slot of that same mail box and blown it to kingdom come.

Professor Hansen spent a good deal of time training me how to do a proper job of building the frames from scratch.  I seemed to pick it up quickly and after we did a few together he let me finish the balance.  Things turned out well.  The President's wife loved the frames, my guilt concerning the mail box was eased, and I had found a mentor in Professor Hansen.  He was impressed with my work, in particular the color staining to match her color scheme.  One thing led to another and the space in my schedule left open by volley ball was now filled by one of Professor Hansen's classes.    

Prior to enrolling in his class, I did a little research and found the Art Department had no mandatory attendance.  In fact, students were given their own key to the art building and were free to come and go as they pleased 24/7.  Grades were determined by the quality of the work you submitted at the end of the semester.  The work consisted of some assignments but was mostly independent study. 

It was also somewhat critical for me to get a clear understanding of what passed as acceptable student art.  This proved to be far simpler than I expected.  A retrospective of the prior year's graduating students' best efforts was exhibited in the central hall of the art building.  I had only to look at one piece.  Hanging on the wall was an eight-by-ten inch, perfectly white, flat board with a sardine can placed at its center.  The top lid had been peeled back with the key still attached.  The overall condition of the can could only have come from many years of exposure to the elements.  Driven into the center of the can and sticking straight out was a heavy-duty, six-inch long nail.  The piece was entitled "Death of a sardine".  I had found a home.