It’s funny. While I was in high school, I was never really one for school pride. I guess I could say the same thing about college, as well.

Although there are some people who fully embrace the spirit of being in school and try to personify school pride by donning gear and getting involved in school rivalries, there are some who go through the motions simply by going through the motions. I guess I would say that, in high school, I was part of the latter category. continue reading »

What is it that motivates, or fails to motivate, an adolescent to learn? Both the Pennsylvania School Board and Abraham Lincoln High School, located on Ryan and Rowland avenues, opted to explore a possible answer to this question by completely restructuring the 60-year-old building.

According to project manager JCMS Inc., the renovation waves a price tag of $70 million on the recently finished construction of the new school building in September 2009.

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He looked like a gangster. To be fair, perhaps less of a gangster from The Sopranos and more of one of those parodied in Guys and Dolls. The boutonniere was the topper, a single red rose, which his mother attached to his lapel. Ahead lay the junior prom, my son’s first foray into the world of dressing up and acting as if he were an adult.

To be honest, I was surprised that he even wanted to attend. We hear many tales about his “friends” from school, about how the guys all joke around and the girls all pal around. But we don’t see many of them or hear from them past Friday afternoon. continue reading »

As I’ve said to my son on far too many occasions, I am not that far removed from my high school years to have forgotten what it was like to be 16 years old. I remember the awkwardness and the boredom in school. I can still recall getting angry with my parents over chores or behavior.

But I always made it a point to draw the line at outward disdain. I also never made the mistake of comparing my father to, say, one of the most hated men on the planet. Sadly, a play on that monster’s name has become my son’s favorite moniker for me in his most stressful of times.

Yes, in my home, I am sometimes referred to as “Dadolf Hitler.” Or, on his nicer days, it is toned down to “Dad Jong-il.” These names don’t pop up all the time. If I ask him to feed the cat or make his bed, I might simply be greeted by the anonymous grunting that is part of the teenager’s code. But when something heinous like homework or cleaning is brought into the mix, grunting often turns to comparing me to men who’ve brought death and misery to millions. continue reading »