It was here at last. June 1923. Graduation day at the Haydock Grammar School here in Oxnard. I went to school on that day wearing my best, that is to say, I wore what I wore every day, an old threadbare shirt and worn-out knee pants, no shoes.
In the afternoon the principal came to our classroom and he gave us the worst scolding that we had ever received. “. . . . I don’t know why you girls are even here! You’re just going to get married and have babies. And you! Young men, unless you have rich daddies you’re just going to work every day until you drop dead from exhaustion. Find work at the factory. Work for the railroad. Work on the farms. If you can’t do that, get out town because there is nothing else here you can do.”
He made us line up at the front of the class then he passed out the diplomas. “Here! Here! Here!” He said as he shoved them into our hands. “Now try not to mess up the rest of your lives!” Then he rushed out of the room.
Boy! I sure was glad I had a rich daddy! Oh! Wait a minute . . . .
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