Mostly Anecdotal

Who is this girl, that spurns Joey, Jimmy, and Bill for a guy named Norman. Why did John write about it, and Sue sing about it in her little girl voice, and why did my mother name me Norman? Why was I just turning 16 when this campy little song got stuck in everybody’s head, and why was I the only Norman in a school of over 2,000?

Why did everybody know my name, and why did I just want to get away? Why did all the hotties who had ignored me before suddenly want to serenade me on the way to class? And who changed the lyrics from Norman oooo, to Norman ew-ee-ew-ee-ew? The fact that it reached number three on Billboard was a plus for Sue who made it popular, but not for me. Why, please tell me why did the song stay popular in my school when it was no longer being played on the radio?

I graduated from high school in 1963 and spent six months in the army as part of my National Guard service. I trained at Fort Ord California where nobody knew my name, and where the singing was limited to marching songs about pussy and not looking at the ground. I escaped Vietnam by joining the Guard and thought I’d finally escaped the last mention of darlin’ Norman, but it was not to be. All it takes now is a family gathering and talk of music and the past, and my sweet sister is likely to break into song.

Norman is my only love
Norman's all I'm thinking of
Norman gives me all his lovin', kissin', huggin', lovey dovin'
Norman, Oooo, Norman, Oooo
Norman, Norman my love

What, you’ve never heard the song before? I invite you to listen:

There is something magic about sharing our stories. No sooner do we share a favorite anecdote than we get one in return. I recently reminded my son Chris of how he had once confused the terms obstinance and abstinence, he laughed and then began to tell a story about a childhood friend of his. He told me that if I tell the story I should tell you his friend was a nice boy, a really nice boy. I think he was a momma’s boy, Chris didn’t say so, but I’ll bet he was.

Anyway the story is that this young man worked very hard at sticking to his principles. One principle was that he shouldn’t swear. He was already in the seventh grade, and claimed he had never sworn. I didn’t ask whether he had ever kissed a girl, but I’ll bet he hadn’t done that either. They, my son, the nice boy, and their posse had just finished science class. The lesson had been on the biology of the unseen world. They were leaving class when the nice boy said, “isn’t it amazing, all those little orgasms just floating around.” It wasn’t a swear word, but it might as well have been. Momma’s boy was heartbroken. It was as if he had missed a day of school and spoiled his perfect attendance record.

A few days later I was recounting the entire story to an employee of mine. I told her of how Chris had confused obstinance with abstinence, and then how Chris had told me of his friend who was amazed by all the little orgasms. She immediately recounted how she had overheard a conversation between her two young sons, the older was explaining something to the younger. She told how she distinctly heard the younger one say orgasm. Was the older giving the younger a lesson about sex? “What are you talking about,” she said to the older. “Relax Mom” he said, “he means organism.”

Going to school in Utah can be a little bit strange. You see, in Utah we don’t teach our children about sex in school because if they know about sex they will want to have sex, but we do teach them about drugs because if they know about drugs they won’t want to use drugs. So when my son told me he was going to learn about AIDS in school I wondered just what he’d learn. When I got home I found out.

“I know the best way to avoid AIDS,” he said.

“What’s that,” I asked.

“Obstinance Dad, obstinance,” he replied.

The subject was philosophy. Nietzsche, a philosopher well known for his dislike of Christianity and famous for his statement that ‘god is dead’, was the topic. Professor Hagen was lecturing and outside a thunderstorm was raging. It was a good one. Flashes of lighting were followed closely by ominous claps of thunder. Every time the professor would describe one of Nietzsche’s anti-christian views the thunder seemingly echoed his remarks. At the high-point of the lecture a bolt of lightning struck the ground near the classroom followed by a deafening clap of thunder. The professor, unconcerned, walked to the window opened it and starting jabbing at the sky with his umbrella. He yelled, you senile son of a bitch, your aim is getting worse.

Suffice it to say that some students were offended by his irreverent remark and brought it to the attention of the Department Head. The Department Head in turn took it to the Dean of Humanities who called the professor in for a meeting. The Dean reminded the professor that the students pay a lot of tuition and that he shouldn’t unnecessarily insult their beliefs. Oh, says the professor, and what beliefs are those? Well, you know the Dean says, most students attending this University are Christians. We can’t have you blaspheming during class. Surely says the professor, the merciful God of Christianity wouldn’t throw lightning bolts. It’s Zeus who throws lightning bolts.

Later the Dean spoke with the Department Head, and said, “the next time you have a problem with that professor you handle it, and let him make an ass out of you instead.”

The eraser left my thirteen-year old hand with nary a thought, arching through the air true to a target not consciously chosen. The target, the top of the teachers head and from there the Pink Pearl® hit the blackboard raising a puff of white and then to the floor. The class giggled, then silence. The teacher stopped what she was doing, touched her left hand to her head. Her right still clutching a piece of chalk, moved the chalk from left to right and picked up the Pink Pearl® turned and placed it in her desk drawer. She rose, looked out over a class of anxious faces, mostly turned towards me. She didn’t say anything for several moments.

Oh, what have I done. Pictures of me in the office, of me suspended, of me returning to school with my parents. I willed the past to turn and track back to the moment when the Pink Pearl® was still in my hand. I envisioned the Pink Pearl® as it returned from the desk to her hand, the floor, returned the dust of chalk to the board and from there left her head and followed that gentle arch again safely in my hand. To have that choice again. Though like I said I don’t recall it being a choice.

That was funny, she said, no sarcasm, but it’s not appropriate behavior in my class. It will never happen again, and I’ll be keeping the Pink Pearl®. She again paused as if to give someone, me, an opportunity to claim that which had been mine. Can anyone tell me how van Gogh viewed his own work? Sarah. Was that it, was I off the hook, or would I be asked to remain when class ended. Fifteen minutes remained, fifteen very long minutes. The bell rang. The class rose and filed from the room. As I passed the teacher she smiled, “see you tomorrow,” she said.