StoryCorps 510: Head First

[MUSIC – “Torched” by Ketsa]

MG: Students are returning to college campuses all around the country this week unloading their parents’ minivans checking into dorms.

For plenty of those kids, going to college was never a question—they might even be going to the same school that their parents or grandparents did.

But roughly one third of all undergraduates are the first in their families to go. And for many of them getting there wasn’t easy.

[TAPE – Montage]

GL: There was no doubt in my mind, I was going to work alongside of my dad, my granddad, my uncles.

LY: “I had ten dollars and I walked up to bursar’s office, threw my two five dollar bills up there, on the counter. And I never shall forget, the bursar said, ’What are you planning to do?’ Well I said, ‘I plan to make something out of myself.’

MG: In this episode, we’ll hear from people who were the first to go to college and the stories of how they got there often with a helping hand—or a swift kick in the pants—just at the right moment.

[TAPE – Montage]

KC: “And then I found out that you didn’t think college was meant for you, or you could cut it. And then we started to talk, because the teacher in me came out, I had questions for you, wayward boy.”

MG: This is the StoryCorps podcast from NPR. I’m Michael Garofalo. More after this short break.

[PROMO – NPR Up First ]

MG: Welcome back. This week we’re going to college and we’re looking at what it takes to get there when the path isn’t already laid out for you.

George Lengel grew up in Roebling, New Jersey during the 1940s. Back then, Roebling was a company town owned by the John A. Roebling’s Sons Company. They produced the wire rope for suspension bridges, including the Golden Gate, and the original elevators in the Eiffel Tower and Empire State Building.

Nearly every member of George’s family, including his mom and grandmother, worked in the steel and wire mills there. And George didn’t see why that would be any different for him. But someone had a different idea, a man who stood above all others in a town full of tough men: his father.

[TAPE – Lengel]

George Lengel: Every weekend, dad would drag me along everywhere he went. We walked to an area known as “The Row”. And it was called “The Row” because it was a row of bars. I was eight years old, sitting on bar stools and listening to the stories of the men. They were so proud to work in that mill. My father when we would go over a bridge he’d say, “See those wire ropes, boy? We made those ropes.”

And there was no doubt in my mind, I was going to work alongside of my dad, my granddad, my uncles. But my father determined my future. We had a discussion one time. I mentioned that at sixteen I wanted to quit school. I told him that I wanted to go work in the mill. Well, my father decided to introduce my back to the living room wall. He placed his nose about six inches away from my nose and told me that I was NOT going to quit school. I was NOT going to work in that mill. That I was NOT going to be a bolvan. That he is a bolvan. And I said, “Dad, what does ‘bolvan’ mean?”

He said, “Son, bolvan is a Slavic word. It means jackass. You’re not going to be one. You’re going to college.”

There is one word that I would never say to my dad. The word was why. He’d say, “Son, cut the grass.” “Why?” No, you didn’t say that word. “Son, you’re going to college.”

I knew this was the right thing to do. I knew dad loved his work, but he didn’t want me to do it. I was the first in my family to graduate from college. And I remember I was eighteen, nineteen years old, and every night, even if he was mad at me, I’d be in bed, my father would walk in the room, he’d sit down on the bed next to me. He’d say, “Good night, son. I love you.” And he’d kiss me on the cheek.

And I remember when dad died of lung cancer—he was a smoker since he was eleven years old. I knew dad was bad, he was on his way out, I knew there were a few days left. And I would go every night, and I’d sit down on the bed, like he used to sit next to me, and I’d look at him and I’d say, “Dad, I love you.” And I’d kiss him on the cheek and leave.

He was a tough man. But he was a good father.

[MUSIC – “Grey Grey Joe” by Blue Dot Sessions]

MG: George Lengel became a teacher in New Jersey public schools, teaching for more than 30 years. But in the end, he DID get to work at the mill—he’s a docent at the Roebling Museum, on the site of the closed-down factory.

Next, we’ll hear from someone who knew that he wouldn’t be following in the family business from a young age, but he didn’t come to that idea on his own. In fact, the inspiration came from the hardest working man in show business, the godfather of soul, the one and only James Brown.

[MUSIC – “Sex Machine” by James Brown]

As a kid, Earl Reynolds worked shining shoes in his dad’s barber shop in Roanoke, Virginia. And here, he tells his daughter about the day the legendary singer’s tour bus pulled into town.

Earl B Reynolds (EBR): He immediately walked over to my dad’s barber shop, and he just started shaking hands and talking to people. And he looked down at me and he said, ”You must be the boot black.” In barbershop vernacular, that is, “You shine shoes.” And he said, “Well come on back here and shine my shoes.”

Of course, his shoes were already shined; he was immaculate from head to toe. So I went through the process of re-shining his shoes, and he got off the shoeshine stand and he handed me a five-dollar bill. And he told me that back in his hometown, he started out shining shoes. He said, “It’s an honorable profession. It’s good work. You just need to think about now what else you want to do with your life.”

That was my first step along to my education. I know that your Granddaddy was counting on me to take over the barbershop. I’m his son—his only son—and he was grooming me for that. But, uh, one day I had this big announcement to make to your Granddaddy that I wanted to go to college and not take over the barbershop. So I finally got the nerve to talk to him about it, and for months your Granddaddy did not speak to me, that’s how big his disappointment was. I applied to colleges and universities on my own, I had to learn how to fill out forms on my own, and I got a letter from Fayetteville State Teacher’s College in Fayetteville, North Carolina saying that “We’d like for you to come.”

I remember, uh, piling into your Uncle James’ station wagon, and they took me down there and dropped me off, and I watched them drive away. And I said, “Okay now what are you gonna do?”

I was fortunate to graduate at the top of my class, and Granddaddy came to graduation. Well, as you know, one of his famous sayings was “life is a process of adjustment.”

So when your late-grandma told me he was coming, I knew that we had reconciled. We had finally bridged that gap.

[MUSIC – “Don’t be a Drop-out” by James Brown]

MG: That was Earl Reynolds. He spoke with his daughter Ashley.

Earl not only graduated at the top of his class, but he went on to complete multiple master’s degrees and continues to have a successful career in housing and urban planning.

For Larry Young, arriving on campus was just the beginning of making his college dream come true.

He had left his family farm in the Mississippi delta without knowing if he could even get into the college; in fact, all he had was the money in his pocket, a mighty work ethic, and a whole lot of chutzpah.

Larry Young: I had ten dollars and I walked up to bursar’s office, threw my two five-dollar bills up there, on the counter. And I never shall forget, the bursar said, ‘What are you planning to do?’ Well I said, ‘I plan to make something out of myself.’

He saw this country boy, took me over to the side. He didn’t want to embarrass me, he said, ‘But you can’t go to school with ten dollars.’ I said, ‘But I’ve got to go to school.’

So he took me to the Dean, he says, ‘Here’s a young man trying to go to school with ten dollars, what can we do for him?’ He said, ‘Can you drive a truck?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t drive a truck, never drove, couldn’t drive a car let alone a truck.’ So he gave me a job of hauling trash from one of the girls’ dormitories over to the incinerator. I didn’t know what I was doing, but by the grace of god I did it.

That took care of my tuition, but they didn’t know I didn’t have a place to stay. I went up on the third floor in the dormitory and slept between two mattresses. And one morning the matron of the dormitory came up and saw me, and it scared her. She took me before the discipline committee—two women—I shall never forget; both of them broke down and cried when I told them my story. And from that day forward, I never looked back, they gave me everything that I needed.

And that’s why I’ve always felt that, as long as I live, I was going to use my life to reach out and touch another life with hope.

I was the first African-American to be the director of the bureau of food sanitation for the City of Detroit’s Health Department. There was a young lady who came to the health department, to work with us, from Northern High school. She was hostile. She didn’t want to be anything; she came from a family of seven. Some of them were on drugs. And she had every right to be mad. So I sit her down and I talk to her. I said, ’You see this big desk here? It wasn’t designed for me. You see these drapes they weren’t designed for me? You see these fingers—way back in the South, in the sticks, I picked cotton—but you see where I am today. And she became a different person. She said, ‘Mr. Young, when I finish high school, will you help me get a job?’

I hired that young lady. It’s been over nineteen years ago, she has two teenage kids, has a wonderful husband, she’s an executive secretary today. That is the greatest thing I’ve ever done in my life. If you just put your arms around people they will go forward in life, and that’s my mission.

[MUSIC – “Filing Away” by Blue Dot Sessions]

MG: After decades of doing just that, Larry Young has finally retired—officially, at least. He still volunteers regularly, helping more young people to get the education that could change their lives, too.

In our final story, we’ll hear from someone who never thought college was for him—even as he threw himself into his job at a local elementary school.

Scott Kohanek was in his late 30s, and absolutely certain that his academic career had disappeared in the rear-view mirror—when he met a teacher named Catherine, who saw things differently.

[TAPE – Kohanek]

Scott Kohanek (SK): We met each other at Kenwood Elementary in Minneapolis. I was a custodian, and you, Catherine, were a Special Ed teacher.

Catherine Kohanek (CK): I remember watching you move around the school. You were sliding down the banisters, poppin’ bubble gum, and I used to think, ‘They’re watching you, man, you have to be a good example to these kids.’ And then I watched you with your guitar, getting in the classrooms, singing and getting so involved with the kids. And so I asked you a question that you told me later a lot of people had asked: Why aren’t you a teacher? And then I found out that you didn’t think college was meant for you, or you could cut it. And then we started to talk, because the teacher in me came out, I had questions for you, wayward boy.

SK: I was always ready for a conversation with you. It was the best time of my day.

CK: I would sit there and do my paperwork at the end of the day, watch the clock, and I could hear you coming down the hall cause you were pushing the big rolling garbage can.

SK: People would often say, You look like you’re in hurry. Well, I had things to get done because I knew exactly what I wanted to do, go hang out in your room.

CK: And when you came in and emptied my trash, you would always sit down on the counter by the door.

SK: It was a favorite place of mine to sit, with my feet up on the chair. Then our conversations would go on for hours and hours.

CK: I remember thinking, oh my gosh, I think I’m falling in love, this isn’t good. I remember that.

SK: And then there came a time when I realized that my path was seriously going to change. After eighteen and a half years of being a custodian, I stepped into a college for the first time.

CK: And I remember when you first started college, you were pushing your garbage can and you came up to me and you were really, really excited. You had written your first paper and you had gotten an A. Do you remember that?

SK: It was the scariest thing I had ever done. And when it came time to get a job, I went back to Kenwood as a second grade teacher, and that’s where I’ve been ever since. So, it became obvious

CK: What became obvious?

SK: That we that were going to get married. So why did we get married at Kenwood school?

CK: Well, of course we’re going to get married at the school. I do remember asking you, What do you want? And knowing that it would be unconventional.

SK: We got married, in the lunchroom and served milk and cookies.

CK: And then the students always go, ‘On the stage? Yeah, where we have the school store.’ Yeah, on that stage. It’s funny you know, you and I both work there and now we take our kids down to the lunchroom and you know, Get in line kids. And every once in a while I just turn my head and I glance up at that stage and I just smile.

[MUSIC – “Back to Wisconsin” by Cranston]

MG: Scott and Catherine stayed at Kenwood School for decades, and while they recently retired, Scott continues to volunteer on the school musical, on that same school stage where he married Catherine years ago.

[MUSIC – “halves & quarters” by Dlay]

That’s all for this episode, with stories by Nadia Reiman, Selly Thiam, and me; it was produced by myself and Lizzie Jacobs. Please remember to rate or review us on Apple podcasts or wherever you download the show.

And if you want to leave a message for the people you heard in this episode. We’ve got a voicemail line where you can call in and we’ll share your message with the participants and maybe even on a future episode of this podcast. The number to call is 301-744-TALK. That’s 301-744-T-A-L-K.

Until next time, for the StoryCorps podcast, I’m Michael Garofalo. Thanks for listening.