Susan Birchenall Gates

Los Altos, California, USA

Summer of ‘69

The summer of ’69, I was your typical California girl with long blonde hair, tanned skin, and great legs.

I had just graduated high school and wanted to get a head start on college. So, I decided to take one class at Foothill College over the summer. The best professors taught there. Why wouldn’t they? The campus was nestled among the rolling hills and majestic oak trees of Los Altos Hills. 

One instructor in particular, Professor Weber, was supposed to be phenomenal. I signed up for his English class.

My bestie, Lynda, was a firecracker, a tiny thing with the backbone of Hercules. My dad called her “Mini Girl”. She was mighty, feisty, and smart. She was off to study in France come fall. I planned to stay put, forgoing campuses in Santa Barbara or San Diego to be near my ne’er-do-well boyfriend.

We both were motivated, however, to get English 1A behind us. One class in one semester, albeit condensed, would be easy—or so we thought.

The first day of class, Weber met our eyes with steely condescension. His stature was not imposing but he exuded a superior tone. He commanded respect both by reputation and demeanor. When he spoke, he was arrogant and intimidating. It was as though he believed he should be lecturing at nearby Stanford.

He announced, “There will be no A’s in this class.”

“Shit,” I whispered to Lynda, “We picked the wrong teacher.”

The first week of class was rigorous. We were already assigned a thesis paper on Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment”.

Lynda and I sat in the back row, in the corner. We had lots to talk about. Boys, boys, and boys. She said something hilarious, and I squealed. Then there was a loud voice, directed at me.

“Hey, Chickie Baby—in my class, I’m the only one speaking. Got it?”

My ears burned, the heat rose to the top of my head, my cheeks caught fire. I nodded. I got it. He watched me nod, but decided it wasn’t enough. 

“Come see me after class!”

I shriveled in my seat, quiet as a mouse for the remainder of the hour. When the session ended, I approached his desk. He looked up from his papers and pushed one across to me. 

 “Here is a drop slip. Fill it out and take it to the registrar’s office. You are not college material. Go get a receptionist job or become a secretary. You don’t belong in my class.”

His eyes wandered down my hip-huggers jeans. You chauvinistic son of a bitch, I thought.

Instead, I said, “No, I want to be in this class. I took this course over the summer to get an early start. If I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t do that.”

He dismissed me and said, “If I hear you talking again, you’re out.”

I nodded and left.

The rest of the summer, Lynda and I kept our mouths shut during class. Our narcissistic professor did the only talking, making sure all eyes and ears stayed on him. He emphasized how brilliant he was, and he underlined that no one could live up to his expectations. 

On the day our “Crime and Punishment” thesis papers were returned, Weber announced his displeasure from the front of the classroom. He berated our work and asked how we could be considered college worthy. He suggested that we rewrite and resubmit them if we didn’t want to fail. 

Only one paper in the entire class was actually good, he continued. He suggested that we look to that one for guidance. Of course, he could not give the excellent paper an ‘A’, however, it earned an unprecedented ‘A minus’.

“I want to congratulate that writer for a job well done”. He looked around the room. “Where is Sue Birchenall? “

From the back row, in the corner, I raised my hand. 

“Right here—Chickie Baby”.