The disarmingly true tale of David, American Legionnaire
The medallion in the photo above is the American Legion Student of the Year award. In June of 1985 I received this award at Willis Jepson Junior High School, in Vacaville, Calif. My best friend, Shawna Swiger, also won. They gave one award each to a ninth-grade boy and girl. My sister won the same award three years earlier, in her ninth grade year.
In our town, ninth grade was the final year of junior high school. So rather than being lowly freshman, we ninth graders were the the big kids on campus. It was pretty neat.
American Legion Award winners weren’t necessarily the best students (actually I think Shawna was the best). They weren’t always the best athletes, musicians, or artists either. The school administrators picked the one boy and girl they believed best represented the ninth-grade class, overall.
So naturally, this was a big deal. Vacaville was a small town with only two junior high schools. Everyone on our side of town knew each other. I had lived there all of my 15 years. Our family was about to move an hour away to Sacramento. I was saying goodbye. Leaving all my friends, heading to a new home, starting over.
It was all about to end as I couldn’t have expected.
I was sitting there in the gym bleachers at the end-of-the year award ceremony, waiting through the thing like everyone else. Sports awards, art awards, music awards, foreign language awards. I wasn’t really paying attention to it. Just enjoying one last assembly with my friends.
Until I looked over and saw my parents standing by the door. And my sister, who had just graduated from Vacaville High School. And my grandmother, who lived in Stockton, not too far away but far enough that just showing up during the school day was odd. Something was up. But I still hadn’t figured it out.
It was time for the last award, Student of the Year. They announced Shawna’s name. Of course. Straight-A student, member of the student body government, and an absolutely wonderful person from a terrific family. It made sense. My friends and I cheered loudly for her.
And then they were announcing the boy winner. It still hadn’t clicked. I think I may have even lost interest again as they said the name of the winner. My name.
They said my name. Dan Kassis.
Everyone turned to look at me. There was cheering and applause, more than seemed necessary. I was standing almost before I realized what was happening. Me, in my shorts and tube socks. By far not the coolest nor the most popular ninth grader. But the winner. The American Legion Student of the Year.
There were photos with the principal and my family. My mom was crying. My dad was beaming. My grandmother probably said something heartfelt. I think my sister was even proud. I don’t remember exactly. It’s all sort of a blur now. What I do remember was feeling so happy, so fulfilled. All the years I had spent in that little town suddenly made sense. I had reached the pinnacle. I was going out on top.
As the assembly closed, kids I had known forever streamed by to congratulate me, exchange high fives and hugs, and look at the medallion. It was all so great. Everyone was on their way out of the gym to the sports fields. We ninth graders had the rest of the day off. It was the last day of school. Finals were over. Kids were signing yearbooks and taking pictures with 110-film cameras. Everyone was happy. But none more than me.
My parents took the medal for safe keeping as they left for home and work. I joined my friends with our yearbooks to laugh at the pictures and tell stories about our years together. We walked toward the bleachers by the baseball diamond to settle in for the rest of the morning.
And then someone said there was a pick-up softball game starting. Did we want to play?
I was not the sports type. I had played ninth-grade football, mostly because I was big for my age. I was not good. And track … I had been told I was fast for my size. This is questionable. Music was really my thing. It always had been. It was what I was known for. Well, now it was music and winning the American Legion Student of the Year Award. Two things.
So yeah, I’ll play softball. Why not? It’s the last day of the school year. Sounds like fun.
Two captains were chosen. We kids lined up like you’re supposed to when it’s time to pick teams. I had been through this before, but not often, so I knew the drill. I think I may have still had my yearbook in my hand.
The captains started taking turns picking kids. The athletes went first, of course. No surprise. Hey, I’d pick the jocks first too. And then the popular kids. I mean, that’s how it is, right? No big deal. I’ll just wait here until they call my name. Of course they have to call my name.
Wait. Why aren’t they calling my name?
It was down to me and another kid. A scrawny kid. Most of my friends hadn’t bothered to line up. They were still joking and laughing on the bleachers. Not me. I was standing there with my yearbook waiting to play pick-up softball.
Except I would not be playing pick-up softball that day.
The captain farthest from me picked the scrawny kid. The two of them trotted off toward home plate.
Then the other captain turned and looked at me. He sized me up. Then he looked me in the eye and said: “I don’t want David.” He turned and walked away.
In French class at Jepson, none of us went by our real names. We had to pick French names. And I didn’t want to be Daniel, because they way you pronounce that name in French sounds like Danielle. And I didn’t want to be stuck with a girl’s name for a whole year. So I picked David. It’s prounounced dah-VEED. So that’s what every kid in French class called me all year.
Except for this one kid, this one dumb kid. He called me David. The American David. Like David Hasslehoff. David. “Hey David, can I borrow your pencil?” David. What an idiot. I couldn’t stand that kid. He didn’t even know my real name.
He still didn’t know it after he had just seen me win the American Legion Student of the Year Award, and heard them announce my name. My real name. Not even then. David.
And he still didn’t know it when he was chosen to captain a team for the pick-up softball game that would end my ninth-grade year, and my 15 years as a resident of the City of Vacaville, Calif. Me. Student of the Year.
“I don’t want David.”
See, the thing is, who cares? It’s a softball game. Just pick me. I’m the last kid. Place me last in the batting order. I probably couldn’t hit a slow pitch to save my life. Pick me anyway. Don’t leave me standing there in the dirt, alone, clutching my yearbook, wishing I hadn’t given my parents my Student of they Year medallion to take home.
But he didn’t. He looked me over and decided I was somehow not pick-up softball material. That was it. The end. Thank you for three wonderful years. Your services are no longer needed. Best of luck to you in your new endeavors.
I think I remember returning to the bleachers where my friends sat, laughing, signing yearbooks. But I can’t remember anything that was said, or if anyone talked to me the rest of the day. Because that was the day I left town. It would be another week before we moved. But I was already gone.
At home that afternoon I read all the signatures from my friends in my yearbook. “Dear Danny.” “Hey Dan!” “What’s up, Danny Boy?” That was my name. My American name. Not David. Nope, not David.
I don’t want David.
A week later we left our home for the last time. I got in the car with my dad. My mom, my sister, and my brother had already left in the other car. The moving van was way ahead of us. We drove away from the house my mom and dad built just before I was born. My dad was crying. I felt strangely numb.
We headed out of town, toward Interstate 80, toward our new home. I remember wishing I had my yearbook again. But it was packed in a box, in a moving van, somewhere between Vacaville and Sacramento.
So was my American Legion Student of the Year award.
