I noticed last time, in your yearbook write-up, that you were in a Spanish club.
Right. We studied the culture a little more than we got in class. I remember the teacher took us to a Spanish-speaking section of New York City. Saw a movie all in Spanish. Ate some authentic Spanish meals. Like arroz con pollo.
That’s chicken and rice. Hey. Is it okay if I blow my own horn a little?
Sure.
Well, as it turned out, I did okay in Spanish. Took it for three years. Finished top of my class each year. In June of each year, the school would have an assembly in the school auditorium. For handing out awards and such.
And each time I would get a certificate honoring me. I still have them. At the end of my sophomore year, in 1946, I received this.
The next year, this.
And, in my senior year, this.
Pretty good.
Yeah, but the biggest surprise came at that last event. The teacher called me up on the stage and, after she handed me the certificate, she hung this medal around my neck …
… and she kissed me on both cheeks, European style. I guess I looked pretty surprised because, some days later, when a group of students put on a skit poking fun at school life, one of them, impersonating me, pretended to stagger off the stage in a dazed condition.
I’ll bet you were dazed.
And the medal is pretty special to me. My name is engraved on it, and it reads, “For Excellence in Spanish.”
Another fond memory.