Thursday Night Prom

Ah, the snow is blowing, the wind is howling and the temp is in the 30's. It must be prom season. Many high schools are having theirs tonight. Benilde-St. Margaret's, where Momma Cuandito worked for thirty-three years and the alma mater of our three urchins, held its prom last Saturday. It wasn't that long ago when MC and I were watching our kids' grand marches, and hosting or attending pre-dance picture taking parties. The high school girls looked glamorous, as if they had just stepped out from a Milan style show. The boys, with spiffed hair, were almost unrecognizable in their tuxedos and shiny shoes. Dinner at a nice restaurant was part of their festivities, and it wasn't unheard of for the evening's transportation to be provided via limousine or other luxury car. Even before the big weekend, guys earned extra points by the creative, ingenious ways they asked their girls to the dance. Surprise questions on a test (of course, with the help of a teacher), chalk messages on the front yard sidewalk, and poetic invitations hidden in a flower bouquet were some of the methods. BSM even used to arrange for a paddleboat to host the dance on the Mississippi River every other year. The whole evening was an experience which the kids will probably remember for the rest of their lives.

My prom night was also unforgettable, but for slightly different reasons.

I have already briefly introduced you to Father Blaine Cook (Black Matt Lowers The Boom, December 16, 2012), my principal at Bishop Ryan High School in Minot, North Dakota. He was a tough s.o.b. who claimed to maintain "a little black book" in which he kept track of all the indiscretions of which the students were guilty. He also claimed to have connections (read: "spies") all over town whose hobbies were to keep him abreast of all the naughty goings on of the Ryan teens. When I first arrived in the Magic City I was incredulous concerning these claims, but after awhile there was just no denying that the man did, in fact, seem to know everything that was going on in that city of thirty-six thousand people. He somehow also managed to keep on top of things happening at Minot Air Force Base, where several of the Ryanites lived, eleven miles north of town. The "little black book," or the concept of it, was great leverage, especially against those of us who planned on applying for college. For the most part we were not willing to risk Father Cook nuking our post-secondary plans. On the other hand, some of my classmates like Dennis Gorde, Doug Pearson and Doug Picotte could play it a little more loosely. For one thing, they lived out in the country, near Foxholm as I recall, about eighteen miles from school. Father Cook did not have his contacts that far into the hinterlands. For another, those guys were not going to let future plans, whatever they might be, get in the way of enjoying high school life to the max.

There were three Cook Rules for which there was strict liability. One, if you were seen -- by anyone -- smoking while wearing a Ryan letter jacket, you were dead meat. I remember one day he got on the PA system for first period announcements, and he uttered just one sentence: "Douglas Pearson, get up to my office immediately, and don't be wearing your glasses when you walk in." At that moment, we all knew what Doug had been up to the night before and what was now in store for the poor guy. The second Cook Rule is one we still talk about at our class reunions: No couple was allowed to go steady. It is hard to imagine a twenty-first century Catholic high school imposing such a rule, let alone being able to enforce it, but back in 1965, when Blaine Cook ruled the roost, you'd better believe he meant it. (Closed circuit to my sister, Michele: I know you've got some good material on this subject!)

In light of the second Cook Rule, it seemed oxymoronic to discover that Father Cook wanted each and every upper classman to go to the Ryan prom. In fact he made it a command performance, that being the third Cook Rule. No excuse short of admission into the intensive care unit at Trinity Hospital would be grounds for a permitted absence from that dance. It was Cook's belief that the prom is an important part of the total high school experience, and no one should be denied the opportunity, even if the student had little or no desire to go. He correctly figured that if attendance was left up to the whims of the students, there would be dozens of kids who would not go, either because of shyness, finances or the disappointment of not being asked. (In those days, it was unheard of for a girl to ask a boy to the prom, unless he was from another school, or for a girl to go with another girl.) Certainly there are worse fates in life than being directed by your principal to attend your prom. But here is the rub: The prom was on a Thursday night, of all things, and not only was each student's presence at the event a requirement, so was on-time attendance at school the next morning. That last commandment undoubtedly put a crimp on many a post-dance plan.

Hardly any of my friends brought a date to the prom, nor did I. As strange as that may seem, there was some logic to that choice. Each student, upon entering the ballroom, aka student cafeteria, was given a "dance card," which was a little 5" X 7" booklet prepared by an anonymous Prom Committee. Inside the booklet were individual lines numbered # 1 through #12, and on each line was the name of a person of the opposite sex who was to be your partner for the dance that corresponded to the number. For example, if Jeanne Strobel's name was on line # 8 on my dance card, then she and I would partner up for dance # 8. In addition to the twelve numbered dances, there were three extra dances, including the last dance of the night, which were unassigned. You could either sit one or more of those out, or ask someone to join you on the dance floor. In summary, it made no difference if a guy brought a date to the prom, he might get to dance with her only three out of fifteen songs. To be fair, I must point out that the Prom Committee purportedly tried to give the kids a break by assigning their alleged love interest to line # 6 on the dance card. Given the fact that the second Cook Rule forbade couples from going steady, I'd imagine that there was a lot of guess work and tongue wagging going on in the Prom Committee planning sessions.

One of the great mysteries of the entire prom experience was trying to figure out just who was on the Prom Committee. None of my friends knew anyone who claimed (or admitted) to being on the Prom Committee. The best conjecture I heard was that it was a small group of junior girls. Talk about wielding power! The whole notion of dance cards was foreign to me. Even today, when I think of dance cards I can only picture them possibly being used in the South, like at a debutante ball in Tennessee or Georgia. I certainly would not have associated the practice with the state of North Dakota, were I not witness to the usage there myself. Forty-eight years have gone by, and the dance card is still one of the two things I recall the most when I reflect on my prom.

My other favorite recollection did not occur until the next morning, a Friday, when we were obliged to be back in school. Our first period class was phys ed, an 8:30 session with about thirty guys. Ordinarily we would have been dressed in sweats, doing calisthenics or running around the field. But on that particular day our teacher, Mr. Miller, had pity on us due to the late night before. Therefore, he gathered us in the gym and had us sit together on the bleachers, whereupon he commenced delivering a lecture on health. Before he finished his third sentence we all heard the gym doors loudly creak open, and in walked Dennis Gorde and the two Dougs, weaving and staggering their way across the wooden floor to join us at the opposite end. The three amigos were grinning from ear to ear, still wearing their tuxedos with their arms draped around each other. They had never made it back up to Foxholm after the dance. Rather, they had been out all night and then came directly to school.