Mr. J
Dwain Johnson (always called Mr. J.) was the theater director at Mayo High School and the television production coordinator for the entire school district.
Mr. J was a legend before I even knew him. He relentlessly demanded excellence from his students and earned their respect.
I got an earful from my sister and brother who were both involved in theater and television production. I got my first direct exposure to him while in the 5th grade when my sister recruited me for a part in Teahouse of the August Moon. It was very exciting to suddenly be immersed in a high school production, but the intensity of Mr. J’s bellowing yells made it difficult for me to enjoy rehearsals. (To this day I have no idea how he was able to instill the wrath of God into everyone within earshot of his thunderous vocalizations.) Fortunately, I discovered solstice by wrapping myself in one of the thick black velour curtains on stage left.
Fast forward to high school.
Mr. J’s reputation made him an intimidating barrier to my two most important activities in high school: television production and theater. I rationalized that I had a “shoe-in” with him from my 5th-grade play experience, and from working with my brother and sister.
Nothing could be further from the truth. I was just one student out of 1,800.
On my first day of Television Production class, I found out that Mr. J’s role as teacher was a mere formality. The studio manager, Mr. Herman, was the epicenter of everything so there was little interaction with Mr. J.
I tried to get involved in theater by volunteering for the construction crew which had no direct involvement with the director. For two years I dabbled in theater by filling in last-minute crew vacancies none of which had much visibility. It seemed too big of a hill to climb to get into theater since the meaningful crew positions were held by well-established experts.
My friend Lisa Johnson (Mr. J’s daughter) commented on my lack of involvement in theater: “Are you afraid you might learn something new (from Mr. J)?” I thought to myself: “Afraid? Yes!”
Then toward the end of my junior year everything fell into place.
I was named director of the Spartan Scene for the following school year. Mr. J took me aside to explain that he is giving me full charge responsibility and authority for all aspects of the show. He said that authority and responsibility go together – you can’t have one without the other. He assured me that the show is mine and he would never second guess my decisions. Oh, he would be critical, very critical – but only in his office. On the production floor he would always fully support me.
This seemed like no big deal at the time, but in retrospect it was one of the most profound lessons of my life.
I was also named Stage Manager for the following school year. This was a complete surprise to me when Mr. J called me into a meeting with several theater people and outgoing stage manager Dale Madsen. They explained that they were breaking tradition by asking an outsider, me, to step into the role of stage manager. Dale handed the theater master key ring to me, and the job was mine.
Mr. J was known for saying…
- Everyone is replaceable
- Responsibility and authority must always go together
- We all make mistakes, but we never have to accept them
- Work is the reward itself – not some affirmation or accolade
He was one of those few people in my life that saw more in me than I saw in myself and nurtured that by giving me the space to grow in my own way. He set me up for success by articulating his expectations for me and then cleared the way for me to carve out my own unique journey without conforming to the status quo.
Mr. J said that my success in theater was due to my dedication and long hours which is much different than my success in television production. Years later he told me that the Spartan Scene revealed innate skills in directing and being a visionary both of which he regarded as rare inborn talents.
Mr. Herman
Mr. Herman was ground zero of the television studio, with his desk situated in the middle of the control room. He was in his element keeping pace with a continuous stream of students bombarding him with questions as they went about their work. Just outside was a sheet of plywood with a mailbox slot for each student where little slips of paper would accumulate of all the issues since yesterday.
He had four primary responsibilities: teaching students, studio operations, transmission oversight, and maintaining equipment. As a year-round employee, he spent his summers doing major repairs and upgrades.
Miss Slindee
My 5th grade teacher, Miss Slindee, took a particular favor to my interests that were usually tangential to schoolwork. She recognized my interest in plays and singled me out for activities that occasionally trumped classwork. Throughout elementary school, it was a big deal when a student got chosen to run the film projector. The anti-smoking and environmental movements were hot topics and loaded with propaganda – so we watched dozens and dozens of films. Are you ready for this? I was chosen as the exclusive projectionist for the entire school year.
Packaged curriculum was very popular in the 1970s. A large box with hundreds of glossy color-coded indexed cards was shared by the entire class on a particular subject like math or reading. Each student would learn at his/her own pace progressing through the hierarchy of lessons and evaluations. Somebody had to manage this process and that person was me. Like a cashier with one hand in the till my evaluation scores really did not much matter in determining which level I was learning at. For the most part, I was exempt from the drudgery of doing the actual work on each card.
When my sister recruited me for a role in her high school play, I received congratulatory letters from the principal, district superintendent, and Miss Slindee. On Christmas Eve Day Whiting’s Flowers made a home delivery. It was a vase in the shape of a Santa Claus boot filled with live holly and mistletoe from Miss Slindee.
To advance past the fifth grade we were required to name all fifty states on a map and memorize the multiplication tables. I hated memorization. It seemed pointless when it obviously was just a way to indoctrinate kids into the status quo. I soldiered through getting all fifty states memorized and even found it later in life to be useful knowledge. But the multiplication tables were a different story. I had no problem with the 1’s, 2’s, 3’s, and 4’s – you know 2×1=2, 2×2=4, 2×3=6, and so on. But with the 5’s I became very suspicious of a scam which I confirmed with the 6’s. Wait a minute! There is no need to continue this ridiculous memorization – I can derive the answers from stuff I have already memorized. 6×2 is twice 3×2, 6×3 is twice 3×3, 8×8 is twice 4×4 taken twice. 7×7 was a problem, so I agreed to memorize that it is 49. That was the last one I memorized…even to this day. I still do the “twice-it” routine for anything over 5. I do not know how this ever got resolved since it was a non-negotiable moot point to me. 40 years later I found a note from Miss Slindee to my parents mentioning that she did not know what to do about the problem.
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Bryan Root
He always brought his own lunch in microwaveable containers. So, what did he do when we are the IRPS convention in the huge Los Angeles convention center? He strolled back to the employee lunchroom where he was promptly intercepted. He smiled and said that he just wants to use the microwave and kept on walking. People just don’t know what to do with that!
Taking something out of a Unisys facility is no trivial matter. You need to fill out a Material Transfer Requestion form in 6 parts that details every item line by line with where it is going, who is carrying it, etc. It requires multiple approvals, and each carbon copy is used by guards at each plant. We had a very large box of supplies that we were taking to a trade show that was part of our own company so it would take an act of congress to figure out how to fill the paperwork out. So, we just walked out with it! The guard shouted out the door “what is in that box?” Bryan yelled back “little baggies of cocaine!”
Fortunately, he did take a couple of my suggestions for improvement. I pointed out that being from Texas he says I need to get some ‘in-surance’ for my ‘v-hickle’. He nipped them in the bud.