Thursday, Feb. 25

   I've noticed an interesting thing at school. I've never liked authority figures, especially stern disciplinarians. So it amazes me to discover that Mr. Nicolson, in German, is an excellent teacher and I like him. If he'd been the teacher my first semester, instead of Mr. Corbett who made us conjugate the verb 'blasen' because he enjoyed seeing us boys talking about blowing, perhaps I'd find Deutsch learnable.
   Nicolson's very strict, demanding close attention. No chitchat is allowed in his classroom. Random calling on every student. He always demands that we can do better. I've learned more from this good-intentioned dictator in one semester than three semester with the fag teacher.
   Tech High is a strong science school. There's a tremendous amount of bragging that it's the fourth best school in the nation and that so many percent of the seniors win scholarships. All that kind of rot. Yet I haven't seen any psychology, sociology, or even astronomy courses. And the courses they offer in history and geography are mere recitation of facts.

 

   I guess I'll have to wait for college to find a science teacher willing to allow spirited discussion in the classroom. If I ever get to college.
   I'd love to go to Hopkins, but it'd be a waste to apply there since Ignatius wouldn't take me. I only have the money I make from serving papers to apply to college, so I can't apply everywhere. I haven't heard back from U of M yet. I wonder if that's a good sign or not.
Mr. Royal wrote on 'Red Line' that it was interesting to read about how young teens think. I was embarrassed by that and I believe I know why. I still think like that sometimes.
   If a person's personality is like a pie, made up of physical, intellectual, and emotional pieces, then I have uneven pieces. Physical about normal. Intellectual overlarge and emotional being the runt piece.
   I remember one time when my father took me to the barber shop. I felt like a big shot, going to the men's barber shop with my Dad. Yet when Sam, the barber, said, "Who's this young man?" My father answered, "Oh, this is Chatty Chet. He asks more questions than Carter has liver