Durhl Caussey
By Durhl Caussey
In 1965, America was in a period of transition. The war was raging in Southeast Asia, and as a people we were still trying to release the pent-up guilt derived from the assassination of our young president just two years before.
Gas was 17 cents per gallon, a new home was $12,000, and a showroom floor Ford Mustang was $3,200. I was earning 50 cents an hour working at a gas station, which helped to fund my occasional weekend date that cost about five dollars. All-you-could-eat meals were a buck fifty and a drive-in movie was 50 cents or $1.50 a car load at the local drive-in.
1965 was the year I graduated from Seymour High School. Of the 67 who graduated that year, I ranked 65th in the class standings. I bested one student who had been hospitalized for most of his high school career and another who had recently immigrated to this country, completely lost academically, and could speak only a little English. My best grades had come my senior year. The C+ in physical education had helped catapult me out of the cellar of academic mediocrity. If I had suited out and showered in that PE class, there’s no telling the scholarly heights I could have reached.
With poor grades, a lacking in most social skills, and a family heritage without a major financial tap root, I was hardly a candidate for college academia.
The high school counselor recommended I go to a trade school and get certified in diesel mechanics, or maybe attend barber-college in nearby Wichita Falls. While both of these careers sounded promising, I still wanted to go to college and become a history teacher.
I had talked to Mr. Young, my history teacher, about college. He said he felt I could do college work if I would apply myself, and even encouraged me to apply at his Alma Mater. I applied to a college in Abilene, and was accepted on condition of probation. Even though my grades were poor, the school agreed to give me a try. This was long before affirmative action programs or an abundance of scholarships for the poor.
In those days, students who attended fine universities usually graduated in the top 10% of the class and made high scores on the SAT. I had fared poorly on the exam and other standardized tests, reflecting a below average IQ.
I went to school the second summer session and took six college hours in history and Bible. Now, I knew about as much about the Bible as the Hittites knew about the Baptist Church. In fact, until that Bible class I thought Jerusalem was a woman and the Day of Pentecost was the reason we had the annual fish day celebration at Lake Kemp. I made a C in history and a D in Bible.
But the university allowed me to enroll for the fall semester, on something like a double probation. Five years later, I graduated with a Bachelors of Science Degree in History, even making the Dean’s List a couple of times. It took me a little longer because of a major disturbance in a faraway country called Viet Nam, but by 1971 I had completed a Masters Degree in American Studies.
Things were different for me in college than back home. In Abilene, I was accepted for what I was rather than where I had come from socially. The college professors graded me on things that I learned rather than what bloodline I had descended from. It didn’t matter to them that my mom was a restaurant cook and my dad was gifted with an insatiable appetite for spirits, and home was a tiny frame house near the tracks. My torn clothes were labeled trendy and my talkativeness was acclaimed insightful. My I.Q. soared!
In high school, I had reflected stupidity and was treated accordingly. In college, I was given an opportunity and fortune blessed me.
After 30 years teaching history in public school and college, I retired in 2008. However, with each of my students I tried to impart a sense of where our country was as a people, and help them understand that each of us has a contribution to make as individuals to a commonality and betterment for the whole. It matters not what our skin color is, or the name of the God we worship, what our parents are like or where they come from.
But rather, I invited them to believe that before we know where to go as a people, we must first understand where we have already been. The past holds the key to the future. The books of history provide a plausible order to things as well as a warning of what we will become if we continue to make the mistakes of the past.
