Surviving Mr. Higginbotham
Mr. Higginbotham was my faculty advisor. I had met him when I was in the seventh grade at Ridgeview Junior High in 1955. During that time, Napa was building new schools to accommodate the baby boomers who were following us. My friends and I from Browns Valley were transferred to Redwood Junior High that had opened when I started the ninth grade. Mr. Higginbotham was transferred too.
My father had argued with Mr. Higginbotham during a parents-advisor meeting one evening when I was in the tenth grade. Mr. Higginbotham stated that I was a slow learner; my father countered that I was a late bloomer. I was excused and waited outside for about fifteen minutes until my mother and father left the office without the usual pleasantries.
The ride home after that meeting was quiet until my father said, “Let me see if I have this right: you do well with languages — Latin and Spanish and English — and history, civics — the liberal arts. What you don’t understand, you don’t understand at all; I’m speaking about math.”
“Since I can remember, I’ve had problems with numbers, starting with long division in the fourth grade.”
“Steve, math is beautiful and so logical, and…”
My mother interrupted, “Ed, you went to MIT; of course, math makes sense to you. On the other hand, you had to take German back then. How did you do?”
“Not very well?”
Mom took a deep breath, “I’ve been reading about this problem; it seems that intellectual, ah, ah, weaknesses, in the large sense, boil down to either words or numbers. Steve and I are word people; our youngest son is like you, quick with numbers; and his math grades are excellent.” That ended the conversation.
Later that evening, my father sat on my bed just as I was about to fall asleep. “Steve, about the meeting, Mr. Higginbotham is a brittle man. To be frank, he’s an idiot; avoid him from here on out, if possible.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’re going to college; you know that, don’t you?” I agreed. “Any thoughts about the college you wish to attend?”
“West Point. The uniforms, the rifles, the flags, the bugles; all of that sends shivers down my spine.”
“Ah, a West Point education involves advanced math: calculus and trigonometry, along with engineering that also involves math. They aren’t looking for second lieutenants who excel at Latin.” He shook my shoulder, “We’ll find a college that’s looking for youngsters like you. We’ve got three years to get this figured out, don’t worry.”
But I did worry. As it turned out, I had a lot to worry about.
At Napa High, Mr. Higginbotham was, once again, my faculty advisor. At the beginning of my senior year, I was required to meet with Mr. Higginbotham to discuss my future. I procrastinated and was called into the administration office and given several appointments to choose from. Our half-hour appointment was set for late Friday afternoon two weeks later. Telling my parents would have complicated things. So I decided to get in and out as quickly as possible.
I knocked on Mr. Higginbotham’s office door and was asked to enter. Entering into his office I couldn’t miss the large University of California, Berkeley diploma awarding him a bachelor’s degree in psychology. I sat facing him as he went through my file. He preferred bow ties and tweed jackets. A bit overweight with frameless glasses, he was the picture of the perfect high school administrator. After sitting down, he began with, “Your math grades and SAT scores are just terrible. However, you passed the algebra that you failed here at some school in Arizona. I can’t imagine that’s a very good school.” Our unpleasant meeting with my father and mother two years ago was still on his mind.
Knotting his brows, “I suspect you don’t plan on going to college?”
“To the contrary. Ah, I believe you overlooked my verbal SAT scores; they’re quite high.”
“Do you know the definition of the word equilibrium?”
“I do. I also know the definition of patronizing.”
We stared at each other a long moment until he replied, “The University of California would never take someone like you with such lousy math grades and lopsided board scores. They are looking for intellectual equilibrium that you obviously do not possess.”
“Even if I had better math grades, I’d never consider Cal.”
“While it’s a moot point,” he said, “you wouldn’t consider one of the best American universities?”
“I don’t want to grow up to be a communist.”
Mr. Higginbotham did a slow burn and straightened himself in his chair. “So, where are you applying?”
“My father thinks I should apply to Williams College; it’s in Massachusetts.”
“I know that,” he sputtered. “I also know that it’s very selective; you don’t stand a chance.”
“We’ll see. As a back-up, I’m applying to Panhandle A&M; it’s somewhere in Oklahoma, out on the panhandle, I think.”
“Are you deliberately annoying me?” I didn’t answer. “Did you tell your parents about this meeting?”
“No. The fire from our last meeting is still smoldering; so why throw gasoline on it?”
He checked his watch, “Let’s wrap this up. If I were in your shoes, I would spend a year or so at Napa Junior College and see where you might possibly go from there.”
“That junior college is nothing more than a continuation of high school.”
“You have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
I thought about that, “No, it’s quite low. Looking back at my time here, the embarrassment in math classes was like a damp fog. I expect the same abysmal experience in whatever college I may go to. That’s as honest as I can make. Thanks for your time and goodbye.” I went for the door.
“Wait. I mishandled our last meeting a couple of years ago. Telling your father that you were slow was asking for trouble. Your father has a quick temper; so do I. That meeting still bothers me, and I’ve made a hash of this one.” He smiled. “I owe your father an apology. I’ll call him and ask him out to lunch and apologize, okay?”
“That’s fine. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can. And I want to make up for the way I’ve treated you.” He took The College Handbook from his desk. “Do you have one of these?”
“Sure, it outlines American colleges, acceptance requirements and so forth.”
“Take a look at Menlo College, it’s north of Palo Alto. A two-year private junior college, it’s often called Last Chance U. I’ve talked with some of their people; in short they’re looking for students like you.”
“Lopsided learners?”
“You can get through Menlo without any math; their students often transfer to good schools, Cal and Stanford. Take a look and discuss it with your parents. Let me know. I’ll get your references rolling here.”
“How did you like Cal?”
“I took six years to work my way through, as a roofer for my father; he was a contractor. That’s a dangerous job. I graduated just in time for World War II. I was an airborne officer; that’s really dangerous.”
“Thanks, Mr. Higginbotham. I’ll get back to you after speaking with my parents. Things are looking up, thanks again.”
My father had an enjoyable lunch with Mr. Higginbotham. Initially they were careful and grew to enjoy each other’s company.
