Here’s to the Orange and Brown

My friend Marty remains a popular guy at 85. People still adore him and want to be his friend, just as they did when he was 5.

I knew him long before that, so believe me when I tell you these things! He was eventually elected president of his high school graduating class. That’s a really big deal, especially in a school like Newark’s own Weequahic, which clearly was a singularly impressive place to be a Jewish kid.

Success at Weequahic would have been defined as popularity, academic scholarship, and competitiveness; in other words a certain drive, an internal push. And who didn’t want to achieve success? No one I knew!

In those long-ago days we wore our school logo, a giant W, dripping with cachet, with tremendous pride. We were competitive about absolutely everything. Which girl had the most cashmere sweaters? Someone had 22! Who got the first new red convertible? I know but I’m not saying, except to tell you it wasn’t me! (That girl also got a four-carat diamond engagement ring.) And who scored the highest on the college boards?

We could compete about everything. And to this day I think we’re still those same high school kids, except many of us are now wrapped in wrinkles instead of cashmere. Those of us still among the living compete to do our very best. It’s our nature.

I think about the many areas where we were trying our hardest to find success. It was pervasive. Let’s talk about the twirlers.

Being a twirler was very prestigious, even if it now seems silly! After all, who amongst us wants to wander around a bitterly cold Untermann Field in a short brown skirt, carrying a baton and doing tricks with it, in unison with about 30 other teenage girls? No boys included. As a bonafide klutz I never even tried out for it, but my friend Sheila — we were close pals from the sixth grade on — made the cut. Wow! Was she ever proud! Was I ever jealous! Of course I wouldn’t ever admit it, except to you, my closest buddies. I knew I wouldn’t have passed the very strict selection process, but absurd as it sounds, it seemed so cool to me to fantasize my march in rhythm across that frigid field, in rain or shine, with a broad smile plastered across my pimpled face as our school’s band played rousing marching music.

Sure, I could have been in the band, but my instrument, the piano, was hardly portable. Those in the band or in the heated auditorium where I played in the orchestra had to resign ourselves to playing percussion instruments like the triangle so that the music department could be inclusive. If only I had learned, say, the trombone or trumpet!

Now, as you may remember, there were even levels of competition among the twirlers. Those brown uniforms were cute but was there ever anything as incredible as being a majorette? Those were the elite, the most lofty of the exalted twirlers. They wore white uniforms and huge hats, all trimmed in faux gold, looking like royalty personified. Their struts were mile-high and their beaming broad smiles totally encompassing. We knew they held all the rest of us in contempt since very few of us could even dream of approaching their triumphant level. Nonetheless we worshiped them and longed to look and be just like them. I often wonder where all the majorettes went. Did they succeed in the game of life or was being a majorette a pinnacle high enough for a lifetime?

But, as they tout in the ads on the telly, there’s more! Yes, even more than the majorettes! Believe it or not! You could aspire to be a cheerleader, one of that tiny minority of gorgeous girls, athletic, enthusiastic, beautiful, with large voices and every attribute to bring the audience, the crowds of exhilarated observers in the bleachers and beyond, to their feet with roars of approval, applause, and profound support of their team! Our team! Our Weequahic team. Our boys! But if you were a cheerleader, you had reached the apex, even higher than the players themselves.

The cheerleaders were the top of the top. Once a cheerleader, always a leader. Forever fame! But let us not forget who they were cheering. Our team! Again, let’s hear it for our team.

Oops. Our team. Oy. A team that, sadly, hardly ever won. Yes, there was that season in 1951. It was such a rarity that now, nearing three-quarters of a century later, we still sing its praises. In truth I haven’t kept up with Weequahic sports as diligently as I should. Maybe putting the New in Newark has been putting the sine qua non in Weequahic. Maybe yes or maybe no. I’m talking about the Weequahic that we oldsters remember so well, as if it were yesterday. Ah yes, I remember that well!

Walking out of Untermann Field into the famed building itself, a product of the New Deal in 1932, we would meet the rest of our fellow competitors. There were categories beyond cashmere sweaters, convertibles, and our inglorious teams. There was the student body itself, and many were, in fact, brilliant in ways not defined by their twirls and cheers or inability to toss a football.

Most were enrolled in the college prep programs, which were typically challenging and intellectually stimulating. They included, by the way, Hebrew, taught by the inimitable Mr. Chasen. Our classes were large, over 40 students usually, but we learned to learn. Most of our teachers were the best, true professionals, eager to share with us the wealth of their own education. Although many students came from first-generation American homes, the trajectory among them was to succeed, to become professionals. Not all were Philip Roth, but the achievement level of our student body was truly remarkable. We may not have shone on the football field, but that was quickly forgotten in the academic world that so many strove to enter and where the best and brightest brought yichus to our school.

Here’s to the Orange and Brown!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of nine. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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