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  Third-grade report card from Midland Elementary School

  I would make up friendly nicknames for the other kids, such as Spanky, Nosy, Big Lips, and Flat Head. Even the teachers could not escape my wanton nicknaming. When I made a nickname, it stuck. One of my teachers was named “Mr. Whiston.” I gave him the name of “Mr. Dizzy Whizzy,” because he was a science teacher who had outlandish theories like, for example, the one about the earth orbiting the sun, which flew in the face of common sense.

  And there was Mrs. Beasley, who I called “Mrs. Beeswax” because she was always in other people’s beeswax, or “business,” as the grammarians call it now. Every time I turned around she was there, buzzing around, keeping her vulture’s eyes on me. I stayed after school on more than one occasion because of her beeswaxiness.

  I was what educators call a “hands on” learner, in other words, someone who does not learn best from lessons in school, but lessons in life. It is how I learned to talk. It is how I learned to walk. And it is how I learned to govern.

  There is only so much you can go learn from books. When you are learning with a book, many times you have to set the book aside, roll up your sleeves, and take action, possibly getting your hands dirty and doing a lot of damage to the book.

  School is for all types of learners, however. It is up to the teachers to separate the wheat from the chaff. They need to take the time to know each of their students in the classroom, then tailor a learning program particularly for each student, then round up all the ones who do not make the grade, and expel them.

  When I enrolled in elementary school, I went in with a solid grounding in key subjects. My mother and father, as well as my own horse sense, had prepared me well regarding the basic facts of math, science, and reading.

  So when my new teacher, Mrs. Fatty, tried to instruct me in these subjects, I knew right away that we would have a difference of opinion on the facts. In the matter of multiplication tables, for example, she insisted on teaching me and the other students that 3 times 2 equaled 6. But I felt strongly that it equaled 9. This was one of those tired ideas put forth by the intellectuals, and it had little or no bearing on how things panned out in the real world.

  I knew it was 9 because I believed it was 9, and this was a cherished belief handed down for generations in my family. Rest assured, it would take a lot more than a bunch of dusty old mathematics texts to shake my faith in this fact.

  In the face of this impasse of educational philosophies, I relied on the sound judgment of my dad and his powerful influence in Texas schools at that time. The outcome of this particular classroom disagreement was fair and equitable for both me and the teacher.

  Let me put it this way: In short order, that particular teacher was no longer teaching her brand of outmoded math.

  But let us start at the beginning. My first day of school was a traumatic one. Miss Baumgartner, my first grade teacher, was hard on me, making me do the same homework as everyone else. Under her tutelage I learned to read, one letter at a time. Then one word at a time. Finally, one sentence at a time, which is when I knew I had learned one of life’s most powerful secrets: the secret of reading full sentences. It is, by any estimation, the pinnacle of reading. A complete thought wrapped up in a string of words. It is a thing of elegance and beauty for the mind.

  First magazine subscription, 1957

  The next summer I read over 60 sentences. I kept a growing list of the sentences that I had read. I even joined a sentence club at school, where each child was given a sentence to read. And when I would dutifully turn in a sentence report, I always received the coveted gold star for my excellent ability to summarize the collection of words.

  There is something magical about reading sentences, and this is something I try to pass on to the children that I speak to in the classrooms of our nation. I have been inspired by my mother, who has worked her whole life to promote what is called “literacy.” Children need to discover that a whole new world opens up to them when they read an entire sentence. They can journey into a world of the head, in which ideas flourish, and new thoughts dawn.

  My love of single lines of text continues to this day. If something important comes up, like a briefing or a policy paper or a bill, I am still able to absorb that entire first sentence. And I will surprise some of the members of my administration with how quickly I can read and comprehend that sentence and move on to the day’s next scheduled activity.

  In the demands and challenges of leadership, however, sometimes I do not have time to read an entire sentence, so I have learned to do what they call the “skimming” of sentences. I can skim just about any sentence and get the gist I want from it in minutes. This way I do not have to spend valuable time reading unnecessary words, and can focus my attention on governing the nation.

  I have Miss Baumgartner to thank for that. I believe she is departed now, but I know that she can hear me in Heaven when I say thank you, Miss Baumgartner—or, I should say, Miss Butt-scratcher—for instilling in me a love of sentences. I am sure the American people thank you as well. Your good work inspired a President of history.

  But just as important as learning to read was learning to interact with others socially, which is done through pranks.

  One early instance of relating to others that formed my relating abilities involved a fellow classmate named “Ducky.” One day, my friends and I felt that we had to teach Ducky a lesson, so we beat him up pretty good.

  Then there was the day some of the gang and I tricked the math teacher, Mr. Phelks, into thinking his hearing aid was damaged. We did this by appearing to speak normally, but in fact whispering at a barely audible level.

  After he was finished with his lesson, I went up to the front of the class as if I needed special help with the work, and I leaned in very close to his ear. I then blurted into his ear at the top of my lungs, “Mr. Phelks, I have a question about the assignment!”

  He pretty near jumped out of his chair fumbling for the volume control on his hearing aid. I recall seeing a trickle of blood come out of his ear.

  Another time, just as a lark, my friends and I burned down the school. No one of importance was hurt, I don’t believe. Except the janitor, who slept on a cot in the boiler room. We cheered and hooted as we heard his desperate cries for help from behind the basement windows.

  There is no question that I had a reputation for being sociable. We can look back now and laugh at all the folks who got hurt. But at the time, I found myself fighting against school officials who came down hard on me just for being myself.

  In my numerous reports to my father, I cited countless interferences in my activities on the part of school officials, who would then face harsh rebuke.

  I believe it is a serious matter when a school does not meet the needs of a school child. My school was woefully inadequate in meeting my needs. For example, when I stuffed a corncob down Stinky Delmar’s pants in the lunchroom, I was cuffed repeatedly on the head. I do not believe this punishment fit the crime. When my friends and I stripped third grader Anthony Farsom naked and hung him by his ankles from the rafters of the gym during girls’ volleyball practice, I was threatened with expulsion. This was wrong.

  I lay the blame for my subsequent inability to meet my educational requirements squarely on Tim Horn, who alerted the hall monitor to my actions. Otherwise, it would not have been an issue and it would not have been a blot on my record.

  Rest assured, Tim Horn faced justice on the playground.

  However, there are many who deserve praise for their attention to my needs in school.

  The person I idolized the most during my school years at Midland was my gym teacher, Mr. Fisher. If he witnessed any tomfoolery, he would administer “the Paddle.” This was not the kind of loving punishment I would get from my mother’s wood board. This was cold, calculating justice.

  Mr. Fisher would make a boy grip the mesh lockers in the center of the locker room without so much as an athletic supporter to shield his shame. He
would ask him if he understood his punishment, and if the boy said “no” he would whack him on the behind. The sooner one could guess what he was being punished for, the sooner the paddling would end.

  I learned that the people with the power know best. If the government could be run as Mr. Fisher ran his gym, the world might be free of horseplay.

  When I was 13, my folks saw my potential for great educational privilege, and sent me away to the prestigious prepatorious academy, Phillips, in Andover, Maryland.

  I was what they called “a gifted student” at Phillips Academy. I excelled in the areas of pushing and bullying fat kids, smashing eyeglasses, and putting tacks on chairs. I was proud of my achievements in these areas, as well as the high marks I received from other students in noogies, nipple twists, and the Indian-burn sciences. I was named Most Likely to Give a Wedgie by my classroom peers, two years running.

  I continued to work to my strengths, and was later accepted to Yale on a full sucker-punching scholarship.

  My favorite times at Phillips were the athletic events. I would admire the players running with the grace of a giraffe up and down the field. And I would admire more the boundless cheer of the cheerleaders, who would urge their team on no matter how far behind they were. Their enthusiasm was infectious. I resolved someday to become a cheerleader myself. It combined my two finest qualities, cheer and leadership.

  Thus my formative young mind began to contemplate higher pursuits.

  5

  Campus Radical

  It was the height of the Vietnam War era. The campuses of our nation were alive with a heated debate, and an awakening of the political ideals of an entire generation of young people.

  Many good folks disagreed on the issues. The students disagreed with the people. The people disagreed with the common man. And the African-American disagreed with our nation’s laws concerning busses.

  I took part in these great movements of social activistisms. Like many coloreds and youngsters of that time, I was out on the front lines of mass demonstrations of folks with my bullhorn, urging action to claim the victories we, the people, deserved.

  My cause was the Yale Bulldogs, an organization whose philosophy and goals I shared, passionately. The once proud ’Dogs were two in eight for that pivotal season of the mid-60s, and it was an injustice that they would continue to lose game after game, despite our hard work speaking out and making our voices heard.

  College entrance essay, 1964

  But there were many who disagreed strongly with advocates like myself.

  There was something in the air in those turbulent times. It was a time of great turbulence. What particular event moved me to cheerlead for the cause, I cannot say. Perhaps it was the loss of first-string running back Cal Barett, who sprained his ankle after the third game of that season and had to sit out crucial contests with Dartmouth and Harvard, costing us our rightful place in the finals. Perhaps it was a student body whose increasing indifference was evidenced by lower and lower attendance at the games. In their youthful complacency, they favored book-reading and studying over the important and timeless struggles taking place on the gridiron.

  Or it could have been the special bond I felt with the struggling Yalie players.

  It saddens the heart, the wrongs of the past. But whatever the reason, I had found my passion, and knew that I would fare well in the judgment of the history year-books.

  I felt a special solidarity with the coloreds, who wanted only their fundamental right to be heard. I worked very hard to that end, calling out for everyone in the stands to yell as loud as they could. It did not make a difference what color you were. My cheers knew no racial boundaries. Though, to my memory, I am not certain if blacks were permitted at Yale Field in those days.

  Whatever the winds that were blowing at the time, my blowing with them caused some friction in our family. My mother and father did not understand my activisting. My mother thought it “unmanly.” I chalked that up to the intolerance of her generation. My father said nothing about it, but would only look at me with his forlorn, empty eyes when we met, our uneasy silence filling the room like a camel.

  But still I continued my boundless cheer in the face of my parents’ unacceptance and our team’s defeats.

  Being a leader of cheers was my priority at Yale. Nothing got in the way of that, not relationships, not sleep, and certainly not studies. I pursued it with a single-minded sense of purpose, like one does when he knows his cause is just.

  I stayed up all night, and as other kids read politics and philosophy, I did the hard work of practicing new cheers for our team, and new taunts against the opposing teams. I lived for standing up in front of the ever-dwindling crowds at Yale Field, some of whom would protest the football games by booing, showing the ultimate disrespect for the players who fought for their school. This emboldened the enemy team. I refused to let them get away with it, cheering all the louder, calling back at them the “Boo who? Boo you!” retort cheer.

  In those days we did not have the luxury of free speech zones where we could send those who disagreed with the reasoned chants of our cheer-squad. Dissenters had the right to express themselves directly on the sidelines. It was a truly chaotic time. We had to face their madness at every game. I believe in the end it helped build my resoluteness facing down these “squares” who would scorn our radical ways.

  Hand-drawn war-rally poster, sophomore year at Yale, 1966

  Our protestations did not end with home games, however.

  I took what is known as “freedom rides” on busses with other radical students. We always took busses to away games, such as Brown, whose hardened ways and traditional values did not take kindly to our arrival in their town.

  “Bulldogs, go home!” came one terrifying slur as we headed out of town on our freedom bus.

  Once, our rivals even took to throwing eggs at our victory bus, almost striking me as I boarded.

  There were other times when I feared for my very safety. But I was determined to remain strong in the face of their ignorance and hatred. I stood my ground, despite my fear of the opposing team’s cheerleaders.

  “We will crush you,” came their oppressive words.

  They went on, “We will C-R-U-S-H-U.”

  I dared not imagine the undoubtedly offensive meaning of this chant of random letters. One thing is for certain, it seared into my bones and introduced me to the fear I would one day see unleashed on America on September 11, 2001.

  Was I ever in any danger? Perhaps. Being an outspoken supporter of the cause of both the Bulldogs and the celebrating of their successes consumed my every thought, and sometimes put me at great risk of bodily harm.

  There was the incident with the beer and the fire hoses that got out of hand at the fraternity house. Some of my brothers were hurt, but thankfully, I escaped without serious injury.

  But I was not afraid to risk arrest and jail time for my convictions. I received two warnings from Connecticut State troopers for what the authorities called “disruptive” behavior, one citation for loud noise disturbance at a fraternity party, and one arrest for driving while intoxicated.

  I bore my persecution with pride, for I was fighting injustice against those who did not respect my fundamental freedoms. I stood up to the powers that be, and looked them in the eye, and said, “I defy your corrupt power structure to pass judgment on me.” That is what I recall telling the court. But I do not remember exactly, as it was late at night, and I had been at a party, and it was very bright in the courtroom.

  And though I could not see him through my haze, I suspect the judge looked back at me square in the eye and saw the steadfast resolve within me. I believe I earned his respect that night. I only had to spend one night in the county lock-up.

  Another conviction for which I stood up and claimed my rights was that I should have access to the Kennebunkport compound on weekends for lively gatherings. But my mom and dad disagreed. In the view of their generation, children had never been allowe
d to have parties at the compound.

  But times were changing in the wind. This was a time when young people were rising up to challenge such outmoded conventions. And I stood with them.

  I held many rallies at the compound. I encouraged many young people from college to join me in the struggle. It was a time to be free, and confront what some called the “bourgeois” or “privileged classes.”

  I held many sit-ins at the compound, reasoning that if my parents would not respect my viewpoint, I would not respect their rules, which were the vestiges of a bygone era of oppression and a violation of my rights.

  We would often eat all their food and dance on their tabletops. We stood up against the privileged few by drinking their expensive wine, and sharing it with the many. Soon my parents could no longer deny the power of the people. They pulled the staff, and at the end of my Yale years, made extensive repairs to the property. They yielded to the forces of righteousness, and let us have our weekly late-night “Frat-Ins” at the compound for the duration of my time at Harvard Business School. The change my generation brought forth was here to stay.

  Some look back on their radical college years and wonder, “Was I too radical?” Not me. I did something that mattered. I fought for Bulldog victory. And though it may not have been politically popular to cheer for the ’Dogs in those days, history has shown that they were an excellent team, consistently ranking in the top eight of the Ivy League.

  While some were “AWOL” from the important struggles in this pivotal age, I am proud to have stood up when it counted, and lent my voice to this crucial era of our nation’s collegiate football heritage.

  6

  Flying High!

  It was my destiny to be a war hero.