1963 - Revolution At The Graduation Party

Mom was a great chaperone and was a willing volunteer for any dance or activity. She was a huge advocate for the kids.

1963 – Revolution At The Graduation Party


“We really want to Twist Mrs. Wasion.” The Twist was the latest craze and all the kids were doing it…everywhere but here…at their own 8th Grade Graduation Party. Graduating students were complaining to my mom, a chaperone and leading member of the graduation party for Westfield. Mom was always cool, advising other chaperones to allow students to dance in any way they prefer whether it be too close or too far apart as they desired. Of course either choice was scandalous in our little town. As a dance teacher mom realized any generations style of dance is only a statement about their independence and not as subversive as thought by those adults that swore that dancing must include a man’s right hand on her waist and his left hand in her right hand and her right hand on his shoulder. Banned dances were The Twist, The Mash-Potato, The Jerk, The Hully-Gully or any other dance that didn’t include the aforementioned style. Of course often even if one did dance in the proper mode one still had to maintain a proper distance between boys and girls or be asked to leave. This had been the habit at the Moose Club, were many dances were held and where mom was a frequent chaperone, until mom let them know, in no uncertain terms, that they will have to realize that either they are allowed to “dance closely here where we can watch them or they will be in the parking lot where we can’t monitor anything.” Her common-sense approach won support among the kids as well as most of their parents and adults who, overall, understood sense from non-sense.

The planning for the annual 8th Grade Graduation Party had immediately started with conflict when Mr. Playvak, our Superintendent of Schools, insisted that they hire the same 8-piece string orchestra that was traditionally hired every year for this event. The principle, Mr. Olsen, was on the side of his boss. Mom asked if this was a celebration of his ability to torture children or a celebration of achievement for the children that they would enjoy and in which they would actually like to participate. Evidently there was quite a passionate discussion following this statement that resulted in the announcement that it was “either the traditional orchestra or a record player.” As Mr. Playvak had budget approval this was the deal-breaker until mom replied, “Sounds good to me. Then they can have music they know, they like and to which may just possibly dance.” Mr. Playvak and Mr. Olsen were quickly voted down and our 60-pound “portable” stereo, used in mom’s dance studio became our scheduled entertainment for the evening.

Of course mom, that evening after hearing the complaints and comments regarding the banned dance, instructed the students to dance in any manner they desired. “After all, it’s your dance.” We immediately began twisting with the music and the fun level, as well as the noise level increased. This drew Mr. Olsen out of his office across the hall from the gym. Upon entering the dance and observing this revolution in dance he angrily strode to the stage and unplugged the stereo shouting to the crowd, “I announced at our school assembly last week that this type of dancing would not be allowed!” He virtually vibrated in place, his anger showing plainly on his bright-red face. “If I have to I’ll end this dance right now!” He grew louder. “None of you will be graduating on Thursday! I’m going to withhold all diplomas!” Mom and her friend and school-nurse Kay calmed him and asked him to accompany them to his office. As they left we heard him exclaim, “I’ll have the last word about this!” as the door closed and conversation was cut off. The door opened after a short conversation. Mom and Kay returned and the dance resumed as before with dancing in any manner desired. No one ever discussed the conversation but there wasn’t any fall-out on me – I was headed for high-school.

Understand, now, this was my mom. It certainly was not me as I was deathly afraid of Mr. Olsen. This was fear which had been reinforced just a week before. I had arrived late as usual heading directly to the office where I would daily obtain a tardy slip. This was the result of a bad habit I had developed while living across the street from Spring Bluff grade school. I had, for years, gotten away with jumping out of bed when I heard the first bell and made the classroom right at the second bell 5-minutes later. Unfortunately during my 5th grade year Westfield opened and 4th grade and up all transferred to this new location several blocks away. This didn’t work so well when I had to run several blocks and my record tardiness was about to be impressed upon me. On this day, a week before my 8th grade graduation, Mr. Olsen met me with a frown and asked me when I approached the counter if I knew how many times I had been late that year. I replied “Quite a few I suppose.” To which he replied “We need to talk about this…follow me.” He left the office and led me down a newly completed wing of the school which had not yet opened for classes.

He opened the door to a vacant classroom and held it while I entered following behind and closing the door quietly and securely. I leaned against the wall facing him. He turned toward me and leaned forward. Mr. Olsen suddenly grabbed me by my shirt lapels and lifted me off my feet. He placed me firmly against the wall about 4’ off the floor and leaned toward my face. “I checked yesterday,” he said, “and found that you have been tardy EVERY SINGLE DAY this year! This is a habit that will not serve you well in your life and I think we need to stop this behavior right now! What do you think?”

“I guess so…” I replied in a very small shaky voice.

“I know so! Now, you have one week until your 8th grade graduation and I don’t expect to see you in here one more time before the school-year ends!” He lowered me to the floor and reached into his shirt pocket. “Here’s your tardy slip. Get to class!” I shot out of the room like an escaping convict. “I don’t expect to see you again!” he shouted at my retreating back.

For this reason I was scared silly of Mr. Olsen but I was not my mom whom, as far as I know, wasn’t afraid of anybody, particularly when it concerned one of her children. Our dance continued on as though nothing had happened. Sometime during the party mom and I gave a dance exhibition using the waltz and the cha-cha for demonstration. These exhibitions were always a bit surrealistic for me as I was generally in a big room with everyone gathered in a big circle, in side of which, we danced and demonstrated our skills at different steps and maneuvers. This evening I was surrounded by my classmates and teachers so it was even more unreal than the usual exhibition in front of a room full of adults, few of which I would know. Here, I knew everybody…and they knew me. Although I always felt kinda funny when I did these dance exhibitions this one was particularly weird because everyone I looked at I recognized. I had been doing this for years in various venues, often including a Moose Club Dance or a gathering of a women’s club or another group. Often there were some classmates present but to my surprise, over the years I don’t recall even one incident where I was hassled over this by a classmate, many of whom eventually became my dance students.

The dance continued that evening without further incident. Mr. Olsen, as far as I was aware, never gave us anymore grief including the morning of the last day of school…when I was late again. This time though it wasn’t my fault as my scare the previous week had resulted in my early wake-up every day since. Unfortunately on the last day of school mom had some trouble fixing breakfast which resulted in my leaving near tears and running at top speed the few blocks to school. As I took off I heard mom shout a message for Mr. Olsen. I didn’t think he would find it helpful. I heard the bell rang as I came across the field knowing full well this was the last bell and I was now officially late…again.

I hit the front door running full speed spying Mr. Olsen standing just inside in his glass-lined office looking unhappy as he waited near the time clock which was used to time-stamp the tardy slip. Knowing I was probably going to be a mass of heaving raw meat within seconds after Mr. Olsen got a hold of me I realized I had nothing to lose. I echoed the message mom had shouted at me as I left home. “Mom told me to tell you this is for old time-sake.” I cringed.

My eyes were hooded as I looked up at Mr. Olsen as he burst out with a great belly laugh. “Get to class,” he said, “and tell your mom hi for me.”