East Technical High School - June Bug Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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COMMENCEMENT ‘ The be all and the end all” of high school days, the halo-shrouded dream of every' little flat, the day which beckons as the reward of efforts, and, strangely, the day which, once arrived, proves too emphatic a period—Commencement! All day the voices of the senior class have been gay—joyous—but with the dusk, they grow shaded—muted—. Slender white butterflies drifting in the shadowy corridors, the girls congregate for that seemingly useless last minute preening” so dear to feminine minds and so utterly maddening to all representatives of the sterner sex. Last moment agonies—Have Mother and Dad managed to secure those center section seats? Are the bouquets to be very, very pretty? What if the Board of Education has overlooked some of the diplomas? Just suppose Mr. Bathrick wears his cherished golf suit instead of the tuxedo which this momentous occasion demands? Down to the gym—line up—line up—Miss Sampson rushing here— Boys, stop that shoving”—line up—line up—Line Up! Marching into the auditorium—Craning of necks, rustling of brief skirts, smiles of cousins, uncles, aunts, and what have you? Is this our Tech auditorium? In a few hours it has changed to gigantic proportions—We are at Tech, all right—there’s good old Mr. Dougan leading the orchestra! Down the aisle—Florence Haas, looking like a madonna with heavy dark hair sweeping back from her face; Maxine Johnson, a golden cherub; little Billie” Schoenthal. queerly solemn; Bill Medcsy—strange we never noticed before how like a parson Bill can look at times! All the boys look very much subdued—Even John Henry is sufficiently impressed! Up the platform now—all seated—a shaky little quietness like a lost sob—Mr. Bathrick is rising! No, he has not forgotten his tuxedo but if only he were wearing a gray business suit again and welcoming us to East Tech instead of wishing us a black tuxedo godspeed! Remember? All of us, brand-new shivering freshies, crowded into Tech’s auditorium four years ago? Vainly trying to act nonchalant, though literally scared stiff? Elevtn TMTj

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SENIORS

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 L BUG t Bunched together in junior high groups, we spent our energies in admiring those big boys in khaki who helped straighten things. Mr. Bathrick had formerly promised us a good time in Tech if we were good little kids—Nice time? We really hadn’t been so good, but we wish now we hadn’t been so careless with our homework, that we had been more dignified with 'Bill” Fairgrieve, and hadn’t argued so fervently with Daddy Durstine. One consolation—we really had worked as freshmen; brought our homework in on time and everything; plugged away at our math and English, and worked our fingers to the bone at those technicals which are so grandly handed out by the office for the proper education of little underclassmen. To tell the horrible truth, we were too frightened to do otherwise. We made ourselves very scarce, although the sophs insisted we were more bother than we were worth. Funny things, sophs! They expect all little flats to make everlasting fools of themselves, and are disappointed when they don’t! Our sophomore year, however! It was great fun to lord it over the new flats, very good fun to be sophisticated and grown-up, even though musical auds and the inauguration of the Student Council president brought that queer babyish feeling to our throats as though we were going to cry—and goodness, a perfectly good thing like that is nothing to cry about! Under our carefully careless exterior, we were secretly in awe of the teachers. Miss Marcia Henry with her demand for a new alarm clock was a constant terror, while Mr. O. J. Peeling reigned as a frightening Ogre. In our senior year, we learned that O. J. is really a delightful individual, but at the time we were under his thumb, it was impossible to conceive of any math teacher ever qualifying as a good fellow . Daddy Durstine. alone, was unable to frighten us—Honestly, hasn’t that man the most catholic taste on earth? He likes seniors, he likes flats, he likes juniors, and even managed to like us rather snobbish sophomores. Oh well, Daddy knows it’s all in a lifetime—although he did tease us unmercifully when we became juniors. Being a junior, really, is the best part of school. Flats are too dumb, sophs too—too—too—well, honestly, can anyone think of a phrase to fit those lords of creation? Seniors are too busy stretching Uncle Sammy’s one hundred cents on the dollar, but oh the Juniors—! The fascinating prospect of clubs was the problem of the Juniors: The Scara-bean or the Palladium with its crown of intellectual supremacy—the Skaters with their pep, or, better still, the Gym Captains' clubs—! Unwittingly, we Juniors furnished one-half of the problem of clearing the halls promptly after school. At the beginning of the term, serious discussions of what course to take were the rule. The hard and set law of the office in regard to what all must take was forgotten—Most of us ran amuck and let the waters of program-making suck us under. (What an angel of deliverance is Mr. V. D. Hawkins!) And how we Juniors could cut study halls! Miss Parmcnter must have had the patience of Job and that of a flapper waiting for a Saturday night call. There we go—mooning again! It is time to be getting ready for the class song. Push back our chairs without making any noise—(Wonder, is Miss Sampson holding her breath for fear we will crash the gates to doom with a cane-bottomed chair?) Aaah! We’re up. Nel” Mitchell must have had a terrible time: He is blessed with an abundance of leg-length. Thought so— Nel is wiping his face—poor kid! Commencement is the one time when Dad and Mother are forced to sit through a vocal offering of their offsprings and look as though they enjoy it. Oh sweet revenge. Q 09271 E Twelt