Life in the Ville by Jimmy Del Ponte

This article first appeared in our October 13, 2007 edition.

There used to be three junior high schools in Somerville – the Western, the Southern and the Northeastern. I went to the Western, which was up near Teele Square. Dr. Horne was the principal and Mr. Mackey was the vice-principal – it was 1968.

I wish I could find that huge rolled up class picture they gave us, but it’s long gone – it was all cracked and ripped anyway. But hey, who needs a photo – the images are still fresh in my mind.

The slicked back hair and pegged pants were on the way out, and long hair was growing.

Bell-bottoms were starting and pointy shoes were ending. Guys named Porky and Chickie were cool and girls named Lynn and Debbie were hot.

When you hit junior high you had made it – you were cool enough to attempt cutting class and running over to Angelina’s Sub Shop across the street and your only problem then was covering up your onion and cigarette breath when you snuck back in. Freddie Benoit had it down to an art.

I only did the ninth grade at the Western after escaping eight years of St. Clements – I went from Sister Helene to Miss Charlton. It was my first year of freedom and her first year of teaching. I don’t think I ever apologized to her for putting the dog in the paper closet, and boy, did she scream when she opened the door!

It was also the first year I somehow convinced my parents to let me have a leather jacket – I was so cool.

After eight years of “sister school” I felt like a freed prisoner. My hair was growing, my leather jacket was shiny and I was ready for fun. On the other hand, Dr. Horne had some plans of his own – like strict rules. It’s a little foggy, but I think we had to keep our top button on our shirt buttoned and our sideburns had to be trimmed. Your hair wasn’t supposed to touch your collar. We had to walk in an orderly fashion in the hallways. The only words I ever recall hearing from Dr. Horne were: “Line over there‚ line over there.” But it was all good, we were in junior high school.

We had no iPods, no Playstations, no cable TV and no computers. We had “hanging around with our friends in the park or on a street corner.” We had record players and we bought albums. We didn’t have Fiddy Cent – we had The Beatles, until Yoko came along anyway.

Junior high school, leather jackets, Beatles albums and hanging with my friends made me feel like I was in heaven – then we hit the high school. Over one short summer we went from being the kings of junior high to the babies of the high school – and to make matters worse, our beloved Western went up in a puff of smoke shortly after we graduated.

The Western Junior High School was rebuilt and still stands on Holland Street as a testimonial to all who entered its hallowed halls – including my dad, my aunts and uncles and my cousins. My dear friend, the beloved Dr. David Wendell Jones, took over as principal and I went back as a substitute teacher. One of our bragging rights was that the class of 1968 had the distinction of being the last graduating class before the fire.

Being at the high school now meant new friends, new teachers and most of all – new challenges. We then had to figure out how to cut class and run over to Nan’s sub shop across the street from the high school.