Jersey Boys (State)
In my life, I've been generally well-regarded.
With the distinct exception of one week in the summer of 1986.
Prior to that, respect and acclaim followed me wherever I went. Mr. Skadden, my third-grade teacher at El Monte Elementary in Concord, California, dubbed me "Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy." In fifth grade at Candlewood Elementary in Derwood, Maryland, I was a member of AAA's School Safety Patrol, proudly wearing the badge and fluorescent-orange belt.
At West Windsor-Plainsboro High School in Princeton Junction, New Jersey, I threw my hat into the student-government ring. For junior year, I was elected class vice-president. At the end of the year, I daringly ran against the popular incumbent class president, Erik "E.J." Johnson. He certainly had the advantage in height and Aryan good looks. (Erik would go on to North Carolina's Elon College, then home of the "Fightin' Christians.") But I somehow pulled off the upset victory.
Indeed, it appeared to be the summer of Jack. I had two prestigious sleepaway academic programs lined up. I was one of 39 students statewide selected for the five-week New Jersey Scholars Program. And just prior to that, American Legion Jersey Boys State.
I was one of nine junior boys from WWPHS chosen to attend the one-week program at nearby Rider College.
I'm in the bottom-right; that's E.J. in the "Grunts" t-shirt.
If you've never heard of Boys State or Girls State, they are nationwide youth programs originally developed by the American Legion in response to the pesky Communists' "Young Pioneer Camps." You are divvied up into dorms that are your "cities." (These aren't aligned with your actual hometowns—you are grouped with strangers from across the state.) Through elections, speeches, and meetings, you work your way up from local to county to state government. If ultimately elected governor or lieutenant governor, you advance to Boys Nation. It was famously at Boys Nation in 1963 where 17-year-old Bill Clinton shook hands with President Kennedy.
-716745.jpg)
I figured Boys State would be an absolute cakewalk for me. Sure, it was an ultra-patriotic situation for a guy who basically considered himself a socialist. (My great friend Sean and I—who is above me in the earlier photo—have always been diehard liberals.) But I could play the game. In 8th grade, I'd won a $50 bond from the Plainsboro Lions Club for "scholarship, leadership, and citizenship." From my years in Model United Nations, I was well-versed in Robert's Rules of Order. And of course I was hot off my thrilling election as senior-class president. Among these Jersey Boys, I would walk like a man.
I have never been more wrong about anything in my entire life.
I had approached the experience with my trademark sarcastic humor™, which in retrospect may have been a tactical error. But the place was absurd! Here we were celebrating our individuality as Americans, and yet had to march around every single day in matching Boys State t-shirts and tan pants. And we had to sing a ridiculous song: We're statesmen, we're statesmen, of Boys State USA! We're statesmen, first-rate men, looking forward come what may! .... And with our thumbs up, we'll face a new day, for Boys State USA!
I started small, running for some inconsequential city office, peppering the campaign speech with my usual assortment of zingers. And… I lost. Lost. I was dumbfounded.
A minor setback. There were plenty of municipal elections ahead. I ran again. I lost again. And again, and again, and again. I ran for every possible office, and I lost every freaking time. But something more sinister was also taking place. The humor which had always been my friend was now backfiring on me. In my Boys State city, I was not "well-liked" in the Willy Loman sense. I was becoming a mascot. A laughingstock. The repeated campaign defeats had become a running gag. And had I at some point uttered the words "really big shooooow"? I don't know, but my city-mates incessantly demanded that I "do Ed Sullivan." I don't do impressions. I was being mocked, over and over, and it stung.
E.J., meanwhile, had won the position of flag-carrier for his city. I'd see him proudly leading his troops as they marched across the compound.
Things looked bleak, but I still held out hope. Because John Patton was coming. John had been a year ahead of me in high school. In 10th grade, I played beleaguered head-of-household Mr. Stanley to his irascible Mr. Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. (Fans of the aforementioned Sean will be interested to know that he portrayed Professor Metz.) John Patton always greeted you with a smile and a handshake. John Patton was always happy to see you. I looked up to John Patton.
John had attended Jersey Boys State the previous summer. And, of course, had ascended to Boys Nation. How could he not? He was John Patton! So now, as inspiration to the current crop of Boys State attendees, John would come and speak to us at the end of the week. If I could just make my persecutors understand that I was friends with John Patton, maybe—just maybe—I could be cool by association. I was looking forward, come what may!
But it often seems like life is being plotted out by a sitcom writer. For as we filed into the assembly hall, we learned that John's speech would be preceded by a karate demonstration. You read that correctly: a karate demonstration. And of course, they would need a volunteer. So my clever, clever city-mates, from our row of folding chairs, began chanting "Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack!" I envisioned being brought up on stage and—hi-YA!—flipped flat on my back as the whole auditorium erupted in laughter. I would be humiliated not just in front of my "city," and not just in front of the entire Jersey Boys State—but in front of John Patton.
My eyes welled up with tears. I looked over, totally helplessly, at one of my city-mates—a compassionate soul, as it turned out, because he quickly silenced the chanters. I got through the assembly, and the end of the week, without further damage.
Did I pick up any life lessons at Jersey Boys State? I don't know, maybe. Humility. To know your audience—if the jokes aren't working, don't push it. A deeper-than-ever loyalty to the little guy, the weirdo, the ostracized. And one more very important thing: Boys State can go screw itself.
With the distinct exception of one week in the summer of 1986.
Prior to that, respect and acclaim followed me wherever I went. Mr. Skadden, my third-grade teacher at El Monte Elementary in Concord, California, dubbed me "Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy." In fifth grade at Candlewood Elementary in Derwood, Maryland, I was a member of AAA's School Safety Patrol, proudly wearing the badge and fluorescent-orange belt.
At West Windsor-Plainsboro High School in Princeton Junction, New Jersey, I threw my hat into the student-government ring. For junior year, I was elected class vice-president. At the end of the year, I daringly ran against the popular incumbent class president, Erik "E.J." Johnson. He certainly had the advantage in height and Aryan good looks. (Erik would go on to North Carolina's Elon College, then home of the "Fightin' Christians.") But I somehow pulled off the upset victory.
Indeed, it appeared to be the summer of Jack. I had two prestigious sleepaway academic programs lined up. I was one of 39 students statewide selected for the five-week New Jersey Scholars Program. And just prior to that, American Legion Jersey Boys State.
I was one of nine junior boys from WWPHS chosen to attend the one-week program at nearby Rider College.
I'm in the bottom-right; that's E.J. in the "Grunts" t-shirt.
If you've never heard of Boys State or Girls State, they are nationwide youth programs originally developed by the American Legion in response to the pesky Communists' "Young Pioneer Camps." You are divvied up into dorms that are your "cities." (These aren't aligned with your actual hometowns—you are grouped with strangers from across the state.) Through elections, speeches, and meetings, you work your way up from local to county to state government. If ultimately elected governor or lieutenant governor, you advance to Boys Nation. It was famously at Boys Nation in 1963 where 17-year-old Bill Clinton shook hands with President Kennedy.
-716747.jpg)
I figured Boys State would be an absolute cakewalk for me. Sure, it was an ultra-patriotic situation for a guy who basically considered himself a socialist. (My great friend Sean and I—who is above me in the earlier photo—have always been diehard liberals.) But I could play the game. In 8th grade, I'd won a $50 bond from the Plainsboro Lions Club for "scholarship, leadership, and citizenship." From my years in Model United Nations, I was well-versed in Robert's Rules of Order. And of course I was hot off my thrilling election as senior-class president. Among these Jersey Boys, I would walk like a man.
I have never been more wrong about anything in my entire life.
I had approached the experience with my trademark sarcastic humor™, which in retrospect may have been a tactical error. But the place was absurd! Here we were celebrating our individuality as Americans, and yet had to march around every single day in matching Boys State t-shirts and tan pants. And we had to sing a ridiculous song: We're statesmen, we're statesmen, of Boys State USA! We're statesmen, first-rate men, looking forward come what may! .... And with our thumbs up, we'll face a new day, for Boys State USA!
I started small, running for some inconsequential city office, peppering the campaign speech with my usual assortment of zingers. And… I lost. Lost. I was dumbfounded.
A minor setback. There were plenty of municipal elections ahead. I ran again. I lost again. And again, and again, and again. I ran for every possible office, and I lost every freaking time. But something more sinister was also taking place. The humor which had always been my friend was now backfiring on me. In my Boys State city, I was not "well-liked" in the Willy Loman sense. I was becoming a mascot. A laughingstock. The repeated campaign defeats had become a running gag. And had I at some point uttered the words "really big shooooow"? I don't know, but my city-mates incessantly demanded that I "do Ed Sullivan." I don't do impressions. I was being mocked, over and over, and it stung.
E.J., meanwhile, had won the position of flag-carrier for his city. I'd see him proudly leading his troops as they marched across the compound.
Things looked bleak, but I still held out hope. Because John Patton was coming. John had been a year ahead of me in high school. In 10th grade, I played beleaguered head-of-household Mr. Stanley to his irascible Mr. Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. (Fans of the aforementioned Sean will be interested to know that he portrayed Professor Metz.) John Patton always greeted you with a smile and a handshake. John Patton was always happy to see you. I looked up to John Patton.
John had attended Jersey Boys State the previous summer. And, of course, had ascended to Boys Nation. How could he not? He was John Patton! So now, as inspiration to the current crop of Boys State attendees, John would come and speak to us at the end of the week. If I could just make my persecutors understand that I was friends with John Patton, maybe—just maybe—I could be cool by association. I was looking forward, come what may!
But it often seems like life is being plotted out by a sitcom writer. For as we filed into the assembly hall, we learned that John's speech would be preceded by a karate demonstration. You read that correctly: a karate demonstration. And of course, they would need a volunteer. So my clever, clever city-mates, from our row of folding chairs, began chanting "Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack!" I envisioned being brought up on stage and—hi-YA!—flipped flat on my back as the whole auditorium erupted in laughter. I would be humiliated not just in front of my "city," and not just in front of the entire Jersey Boys State—but in front of John Patton.
My eyes welled up with tears. I looked over, totally helplessly, at one of my city-mates—a compassionate soul, as it turned out, because he quickly silenced the chanters. I got through the assembly, and the end of the week, without further damage.
Did I pick up any life lessons at Jersey Boys State? I don't know, maybe. Humility. To know your audience—if the jokes aren't working, don't push it. A deeper-than-ever loyalty to the little guy, the weirdo, the ostracized. And one more very important thing: Boys State can go screw itself.
Labels: American Legion Boys State, high school memories, humiliation, New Jersey
posted by Jack Silbert at
1:14 PM
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