The Sad State of West Orange History and the Genesis of a Book •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• This is Washington Street School. My grammar school. My mother's grammar school. My grandfather's grammar school (he entered kindergarten in 1907). It may sound odd that a child liked, even loved, school. But I did. My teachers and my principal were my heroes who not only taught me that knowledge is a powerful tool, but they also helped cultivate my talents. In return, there was nothing the school ever wanted for as long as my family could supply it–that had been our tradition for generations because education was highly valued. In fact, long after I had left the school system, when I was in college and then in the beginnings of my career, when this school needed something, I was only too happy to supply it. Why? Because my elementary school principal–the illustrious Earl W. McCaw–was a man more likely to teach you the rudiments of how to deal with a bully (which he did) but he had a hidden soft spot for each and every kid.  He was the one who established the Title One program for special needs children in the West Orange schools. That program has evolved into what are now called Resource Rooms. When he learned of my artistic talent, he personally called the supervisor of art for the entire school system to make sure that I received training. My classroom teachers and librarians further instilled in me a love of books. When my interest in storytelling and theatre was realized, the teacher in charge of play productions (who had professional experience) took me under his wing and he was given Earl W. McCaw's blessing to do so. These are exactly the building blocks which have served me throughout college and my professional career. So when a friend (who taught at an entirely different elementary school) asked me for help because teaching town history was now part of the curriculum, I was only too happy to assist. My friend showed me two editions of a "book" bound from photocopied pages which served as the foundation of such a history course. The "book" was a scattershot collection of half-facts and mislabeled postcards. It had been orchestrated by a "committee" of principals and teachers (there is an ever-increasing fallacy in education that an advanced degree and/or a titled position equips someone for every and any project) but none of them was a writer or researcher or historian and most of them did not live in town to know any local historical facts firsthand. The result would not have passed muster for a college project and my friend lamented that it was certainly not much of a classroom tool. And so, I undertook something special solely for my teacher friend. I did what had never been done before. I wrote Greetings from West Orange, New Jersey, a proper history of the town in a clear concise manner which connected all of the dots in chronological order. In short, I told the proper historical story. My publisher issued it as a real book. It was my gift. Due to the incessant copyright infringements of my work by politicians, the proviso was that the book only be used for this one teacher's class—at least to test the waters. When an announcement heralded the book in the town newspaper, my teacher friend was bombarded with e-mails and phone calls from other teachers in other elementary schools as to whether my book would become the curriculum. They all considered the "book" currently in use as worthless. Did the Board of Education try to contact me about the possibility? No. It seemed odd. The Superintendent of Schools knew me. He had even personally argued that I was "famous," the "local boy who made good," in a successful pitch to get me to be a surprise speaker at a retirement dinner for one of my favorite teachers. He even referred to me openly as "The Historian" whenever we ran into one another. Yet when the book debuted, not a peep came from his office. That was the least of it. The class was taught. The students were given a bus tour of the town which I narrated. They were transfixed. It was a truly wonderful experience. "You should be hired to go from school to school and teach this course," the accolades came from other teachers. It even made me consider the long-ago promise I made to Earl W. McCaw that after I had established myself, I would someday consider teaching. I have taught college classes as an adjunct professor but Earl W. McCaw was talking specifically about my teaching elementary school children and establishing the same foundation in their lives which was established in mine at that young age. I like kids (in fact, I became very attached to quite a few of the students at the school where the history class was taught and I will never forget them). I spent my summers during college teaching and tutoring and supervising kids so I know just how to work with them. Passing on learning is something second-nature to me and I thoroughly enjoy it. But there is always a fly in any ointment. And this fly ate away at everything I knew and experienced as a child in this same school system. The school where my friend taught had a principal who turned out to be a bully. And a bully the likes of which I had never witnessed in the field of education. In front of multiple witnesses, my first meeting with the principal went thusly: I was introduced. I smiled, said something pleasant, and held out my hand. The principal looked at my hand, didn't take it, and growled, "Why aren't you wearing a name badge so that we know you're allowed in the building?!" (I had signed in at the office, and my presence was already known.) Things went rapidly downhill from there. This principal disliked most of his staff–my friend included. He did not speak to people in the hallways. His main character traits could be summed up as surly and nasty. He didn't like or want men on his staff and he tended to hire only pretty young women. Besides his emasculation issues, the children openly feared him and he lacked all ability to interact with them on their level. Teachers' complaints about him got swallowed up in bureaucracy. He seems to have escaped reprimand because he has tenure; his behavior has been allowed to exist this long because he's close to retirement. I figured that I had nothing to prove. I had professional success. I had run companies. I had supervised staffs. I had been in the big leagues and I had played hardball. I know just how far to silently allow a thing to go on before it gets my goat and has to get ugly but I figured I could dodge that. What I wasn't prepared for was the constant pettiness, the continual duplicity, and the oppressively hostile atmosphere in, of all things, an elementary school. The principal went out of his way to make the town history bus tour almost not happen. He claimed it was due to "school regulations" but he not only knew that the regulations were bendable, he had bent them for the pretty young women teachers he treated openly as pets. The bus tour was finally pressured through, not endearing either my teacher friend or myself to him. When an award was prepared for me at the end-of-the-school-year assembly, he didn't want to make the presentation. Again, pressure was applied. But he then refused to mention my teacher friend's name because she was the one responsible for thinking up the award. When I was summoned to receive the plaque, he whispered to me that he didn't want me to publicly say anything in thanks. I did anyway. The entire experience was surreal and quite bizarre. It offended and angered me that this person was somehow going to affect the way I remembered the fine, decent, upstanding principal and teachers who had championed me in this very same school system. A summer passed. Still no word came from the Board of Education about using my book as the official curriculum. The new school year began with the principal even more ornery and tactless and belligerent. My response to such continual unpleasantness is solely elicited by the misbehavior/rudeness of the party or parties with whom I am dealing. The offending party or parties usually never have the sense to tone things down or curb their misbehavior/rudeness. That is usually because everyone around them opted for the path of least resistance and allowed them to exercise boorish behavior without any consequences. I, on the other hand, allow a long fuse to burn and then I take a stand. I will put up  with someone else's misplaced "attitude" for just so long. Life is too short and my career has instilled in me a very strong sense self-worth. I'm sure this boorish principal put a spin on the circumstances and complained that he was totally innocent in the situation he himself had created. It's how a bully saves face when someone finally stands up to him. This could have been a very pleasant experience for both of us but he chose not to make it so. I left. When I left, I also pulled my book. There is no longer a West Orange town history course in that school (or in any other school) taught the way it should be taught with proper and accurate materials. Now, after so many requests, I am considering the possibility of selling the remaining brand new copies of Greetings from West Orange on a strictly case-by-case basis. The same goes for the West Orange Fire Department Centennial Album. If you have interest in either, you may make contact by clicking HERE. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Author's Bio | West Orange Mystery Novels | Author Interview | The Present West Orange Outlook | Home Copyright © 2000–2007 John Dandola, Ltd. All rights reserved.