Sandy and Sheila were comrades and allies, and I was sailing through my junior and senior years at Philadelphia's Germantown High in a bubble of adventure. We were all Communists. They believed what I believed, and accepted me as I was.
'You know Mrs. Duffy, right? You wouldn't believe what I have to sit through in History. If I have to hear about 'the Great Teddy Roosevelt' one more time. ...'
'And the only thing they say in history about unions is Samuel Gompers.'
'Yeah, after World War I, colonialism and imperialism magically disappear.'
Naturally, Mrs. Duffy's 'better dead than red' brand of patriotism grated on my every nerve. She loved capitalism and sang its praises all year. 'Competition' and the 'free market system' was superior to 'totalitarianism' which meant communism which she kept confusing with socialism. It was frustrating to know more than the teacher, and have to keep 'the alienation of labor from the means of production' to myself when it was crucial to what we were studying. If I made a point she would disagree, no matter how much I watered it down. 'You can attract more flies with honey than with vinegar,' she would chide, and I'd close my eyes so she couldn't see them roll.
Released from class, I'd rage through the halls resolving that she would not escape unpunished. The tension of holding back information escalated as she rambled on about the 'Law of Supply and Demand' and I waited for the opportunity to strike.
My chance came in the form of an extra credit report we could write about one of the Men who Made This Country Great, the Captains of Industry. We were encouraged to concentrate on their philanthropic contributions, but instead, I spent hours at School and Public Libraries tracking down every piece of dirt I could dig up on the banker, J.P. Morgan. The result was a well-documented, muckraking chronology of a fortune originating with the sale of defective rifles to the Union army. My exhaustive compilation of Morgan's schemes and scams advanced every odious rumor, and steered clear of giveaway jargon like 'surplus profits' or 'labor-added value.'
For weeks I lived to hear Mrs. Duffy announce, 'Extra-credit reports are due today ... who would like to read theirs?' My hand shot up, and my history teacher called on me for the last time that year.
Barely midway through my expose, I looked up and saw Mrs. Duffy's face actually glowing red, her wide bosom lifting and falling with tiny breaths. Practically before I finished she ordered me back to my seat, and without comment or question called for another report. I was happy to see no one else was prepared, watching as the flustered Mrs. Duffy retreated back to her desk and recitations from the textbook, cheating me out of a class discussion. But I had won the round.
She won the battle, however, with her red B- on the paper, and an abbreviated objection penned in the margins complaining about my 'bias.' But those 'Captains of Industry' really were despicable, and it was Duffy's defense of them was that was 'one-sided.' We both knew I was the best student in class and that my report deserved an A. It was a matter of principle, I complained to Mr. Wagner, head of the History Dept. He had called me to his office and paced nervously, avoiding eye contact. It was impossible to understand his meandering lecture, thinly edged with warnings. But of what? Merely to stop giving Duffy a hard time? I wondered at his real objective, and if the FBI had been visiting my high school.
My suspicion proved correct. References in my dossier reveal cooperation from both Shawnee-Mission and Germantown High School personnel. Did they talk to Mrs. Duffy and Mr. Wagner? The answer lies buried beneath the black strokes and blocks filling page after page of redacted names and information in my files.
For the rest of the year, Duffy refused to notice my raised hand or look my way, let alone call on me. Coldly, I handed in all my homework and was rewarded with a final, grudging A, and the satisfaction of my teacher's chagrin when the Soviets beat us into space.
