Principally Driven: A Provocative Account of a Full and Exciting Life

By Daryl L. Unnasch

Some may believe it is not possible for a school principal to live a glamorous and exciting life, but Daryl L. Unnasch proves them wrong.

Far from being boring, straight laced, and narrow in his thinking, hes gone from growing up on a farm in Minnesota to earning a Ph.D., marrying a beautiful woman, having a family, getting his pilots license, and traveling to dozens of countries.

But before doing all that, he had to trudge through deep snow for five months of the year to get to school, which didnt stop him from continuing past eighth grade, when most kids quit.

In looking back at life in America over the past seventy-five years, he pays particular attention to its education system, sharing how important a teacher is in the life of a student. Being impartial, congenial, and willing to help make a lasting impression on students who are at a pivotal stage in their livesand its more important today than ever before.

Join the author as he examines the virtues of growing up in a rural community and celebrates the discoveries hes made in expanding his horizons in Principally Driven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480842892

Daryl L. Unnasch

Daryl L. Unnasch earned a Ph.D. in educational leadership from Northwestern University. He has been a public and private school administrator and college instructor. He is also a visionary, philosopher, historian, adviser, political activist, pilot, and traveler. He has traveled to dozens of foreign countries. Unnasch currently lives in Aventura, Florida.

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Copyright © 2017 Daryl L. Unnasch.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-4287-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4288-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4289-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902529

Archway Publishing rev. date: 02/22/2017

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter 1 In the Beginning

Chapter 2 Growing Up

Chapter 3 Roaring Hormones

Chapter 4 Teaching! A Snap!

Chapter 5 Hello, Mr. President

Chapter 6 One Hundred Dollars—Really Money?

Chapter 7 Fabrications, Misrepresentations, Fibs

Chapter 8 Strange and Bizarre

Chapter 9 Everything Political

Chapter 10 The Changing Landscape

Chapter 11 Superintendents and Other Strange People

Chapter 12 Inspirational People

Chapter 13 The Nanny State/Potpourri/Trends

Chapter 14 Teachers: Sizes, Shapes, Skills, and Soft Drinks

Chapter 15 Public vs. Private vs. Christian vs. Home Schools

Chapter 16 Drawing the Shade

Chapter 17 Remember When

Epilogue

To Nara, Brad, Derek, Holly, Anna, Olivia, Emily, and Nathalia

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If I were to acknowledge all the individuals who have deliberately or just incidentally made me who I am today, the list would be too long to include in this book. I am not unique in this respect. The chapter Inspirational People provides the names of many who were instrumental in helping me form my professional as well as informal persona and develop a meaningful philosophy of life. It includes everything that is me. Some of the other individuals taught me how to be successful with difficult people. I have caught rather than been taught most of what I know. I am sure most people can relate.

I appreciate the advice I received from members of my family who also provided encouragement, especially my son, Derek, and my wife, Nara. I extend my thanks to a number of individuals with whom I worked closely over the years and who had many opportunities to read memos and articles I had written and who encouraged me to write a book. It is said that we are the combination of all the experiences we have had in life, experiences with our friends, relatives, and professional associates or perhaps experiences gained while walking in the woods or biking through the neighborhood.

It is a joy to reflect on these experiences and to share many of them. I have been an amateur political activist, and that has greatly impacted who I am. I had many conversations with one newspaper editor who was miles away from me politically. I would write something for him to publish, but he generally edited out the salient points.

I enjoy reading and thinking about some of the famous and eminently successful people who have passed this way or may not have passed anywhere near me, but their fame impacted my thinking. In some cases, I did not even agree with them when they were alive, but now I appreciate their wisdom and decisiveness. I admire them.

Many of the individuals mentioned in this book will likely never have an opportunity to read it. For what it’s worth, I pass it on to my posterity and to anyone who might be curious as to my ruminations. May they always be lifelong learners, enabling them to thrive and enjoy the nanny state and perhaps even contribute to it!

INTRODUCTION

A radio speaker recently commented, What do principals do? Since it was rhetorical, he didn’t try to answer his own question, and as far as I know, no one else tried to enlighten him. But it is a somewhat serious question and one commonly asked. It’s a subject some are curious about, but I’m sure they do not lie awake at night, speculating. In this book, I will share many experiences, opinions, and philosophy and try to do it in an interesting and occasionally humorous way. I have numerous anecdotes tucked away in the crevices of my mind. Since over the years these personal experiences have a way of emerging when I am walking, sleeping, or upon awakening at four in the morning, I am highly motivated to share them with other individuals who may have been or are on a similar path or are just inquisitive.

If I’m successful, you will spend some time reflecting and perhaps discussing these issues with others.

One of the difficult things about writing a book is selecting the title—at least for me. My goal was to find an appropriate p word to follow Principally. I considered privileged, principled, prodigious, prolific, political, parochial, precise, philosophical, predominant, provocative, and prevaricate. None seemed to fit, so I chose a non-p word—driven.

Some may believe it is not possible for a school principal to wax eloquent or to have lived a life full of exciting and even glamorous experiences. This is because, as a group, we are viewed by some as boring, straight-laced, and narrow in our thinking. Everyone is entitled to his/her opinion, and I do not launch this book with an objective of forcing you to form a certain view. Rather I hope to present lots of ideas, opinions, and anecdotes and do so in an entertaining way. Perhaps some of these could even be useful. In other words, I am not on a mission to correct anyone—simply to honestly and forthrightly share what I have had bottled up in my mind for over half a century, doing my best to not be too biased since I’m not trying to color anyone’s opinion of my profession or of me. Being honest and forthright are very important to me.

I would welcome reactions and thus perhaps begin a dialogue with others who have had positions in education that have stirred their brains, even caused dreams and maybe nightmares. As with any book of this nature, reading it will be viewed by some as something to do in their spare time. Some who are new to education might see it as containing information they can use in their professional positions, while others will use it as a literary work to springboard from. Some will toss it into the corner where it will remain until it finds its way to the trash. I hope all will recognize that unlike the professional writers who turn out a book every few months, I am not a professional book writer, although I was encouraged to write by a number of people because of the numerous writings I did as a school administrator and as someone who has had approximately fifteen articles published in the local newspaper in the last four years. Some have found their way to the front of the fridge. As I have frequently stated, I am just a teenager trapped in this old body.

I will be referring to many individuals in this book. I will not name many of them to protect the guilty, or innocent, depending on your point of view and on the particular incident, but some will undoubtedly recognize themselves. I will be diligent in not harming anyone or offending anyone, but in some cases what I share will expose some unusual incidents and activities and perhaps confirm the suspicions of others. Please note that I have served more than a dozen school districts and private schools as well as a few thousand students and a few hundred teachers, a career spanning more than four decades. I thoroughly enjoyed those years where I met hundreds of people of all stripes and beliefs. Some were fun and interesting; some were difficult and not very enjoyable. Over all, I wouldn’t trade those years for anything. They have been educational and have enabled me to have a great life filled with a multitude of memories, some of which I am still trying to sort out and many of which occupy my dreams—and a few nightmares.

I invite you to join me on this journey!

Chapter 1

In the Beginning

Live as if you were to die tomorrow.

Learn as if you were to live forever.

—Mahatma Gandhi

It is unlikely that anyone would have ever predicted that someday this rural kid would write a book on education or any subject. With eighth-grade-educated parents, it would have seemed unlikely. But I strongly disliked the dairy farm because of the loneliness and the nature of the work—lonely because I had no brothers or sisters until I was twelve and because farms are frequently some distance apart and by nature prevent a child from interacting with other children except at school. At an early age, I was determined to do whatever necessary to extricate myself from the drudgery of farm life, to say nothing of the dirt and smell.

Although I am not a fan of government regulations, they have done a great job cleaning up dairy farming so that today, my brother, a dairy farmer, hardly gets his hands dirty. Regular inspections ensure that everything is sanitary, especially the milk. Whereas my dad knew nothing of the technical or scientific aspects of producing milk for the public, my brother has to be very knowledgeable and current and conscientious about following regulations. To be profitable, he has to be able to plan for the many contingencies of farming, particularly the weather. With a hundred head of cattle to milk twice a day every day, having sufficient feed is critical. He grows hay and still spends nearly $10,000 a month to keep the cows well fed.

Two years ago, that part of the country, southern Missouri, had a severe flood, so bad that many of the farmers sold their cows, beef and dairy cattle, because of the cost of buying hay from hundreds of miles away. Did that impact us suburbanites? Yes! The price of beef soared. Two years ago, a draught gripped that area of the country. So, it seems that it’s the extremes in weather that farmers have to endure. I am so happy that as an adult I have not had to deal with these realities of farm life.

But let’s return to the realities of my early life. The Dick School, a one-room schoolhouse, was the location of the first eight years of my education (kindergarten did not exist). I’m sure some of my readers are saying, You made up the school name, right? No, I don’t know where the name originated, but if we reflect for a moment, we can think of many words that have changed meaning or acquired additional meanings over the decades. Come to think of it, I can think of a few students in the school who sort of embodied the name of the school.

Years after I left the school, it was closed as a part of the consolidation movement and Eisenhower’s huge project of building superhighways all over our country. My cousin purchased the school, and I convinced him to give me the sign, which was far from professionally made. It was homemade and constructed from a flimsy material; it hung in our home for many years. An interstate was later constructed that took part of the farm and the school. A truck stop now sits where children once frolicked and engaged in borderline cerebral activities.

With only about fifteen students and one teacher, who only had two years of college, it is remarkable how she managed to teach all grades, all students, and all subjects. We were completely unsupervised at recess, which meant there were verbal and physical fights. At times we wandered into the woods away from the school and had to run back when the teacher rang the bell. No one ever thought about the possibility of someone getting hurt and a possible lawsuit. That mentality was nonexistent.

Softball was the only sport we knew. I never touched a football or basketball before high school, and none of us had ever heard of soccer or any other sport, and no one had ever seen or been in a swimming pool. Neither had any of us been near either ocean or the Gulf of Mexico or any of the Great Lakes. The Mississippi River was in sight of our home, but no one paid much attention. We slaved constantly—excuse me—we worked hard.

Eight seemed to be the number of children in all families. For some reason, the number in my family was one, except for my brother who entered the world when I was eleven, which meant I was picked on and abused by the other kids. Everyone was poor, although my family always had plenty of food. I had two pairs of shoes, one more than the other students had. Tennis shoes or sneakers were nonexistent. Neither male nor female would have been caught dead in them. They were manufactured for athletes, and few of us qualified for that title. Kids actually wore their shoes until they were falling apart.

The school was located in the frigid state of Minnesota. A student was paid a very paltry sum to come to school early each morning in the winter, most of the school year, to start the potbelly stove. On some days it was cold most of the day, resulting in my having a cold about half the time. The attitude toward cold weather and snow was a bit different from today. I don’t ever remember having school closed because of low temperatures or deep snow. For many years after reaching adulthood, I talked about snow depths as reaching my waist. I failed to remember that my waist at that time was rather close to the ground. At any rate, trudging through deep snow was routine for about five months of the year, and enduring subzero temperatures was common almost half the year.

I had an inordinate dislike for ridicule as a young person, some would say a ridiculous fear. Not having an older sibling to fight for or with me presented an irresolvable dilemma. Most of the time, I refused to wear long johns or real warm clothes, especially when I reached high school. Although I was frequently sick with a cold, I almost never missed school, nor did I respond positively to my father, who told me to dress warmer. Did I mention that my father and I were seldom on friendly terms?

I don’t think you could classify my school as a typical country school. In addition to everyone but me coming from large families, everyone was poor and uneducated. Many of the students were atypical. One student had a short leg and wore one shoe that had a sole about four inches high, resulting in a limp. Several students were intellectually limited. One day the teacher quizzed us orally on the dates of the various holidays. One student was asked when the Fourth of July occurred. She pondered the question for sometime before finally admitting she did not know.

Halloween was a big holiday. The custom was for pranks to be committed—the origin of trick or treat. One prank was to tip over the toilets, outside structures sitting on an open hole, which was the receptacle for our daily deposits. Our school, like all others, had two toilets, one for the boys and one for girls; I think they were three holers. Other pranks were painting windows and releasing wagons at the top of a hill, of which there were many, and allowing them to run down the hill. Farmers were not exactly kind and understanding of this abhorrent behavior, especially when damage was done. They more or less took tipped toilets in stride, remembering that they likely engaged in similar behavior when they were youngsters.

On one particular Halloween, the girls’ facility was tipped, presenting a problem for our teacher as well as the girls. Her solution was the only possible one. The girls would have to use the boys’ outhouse, as it was called. At this point, you will have to use your imagination and acknowledge what we all know. Young boys are pranksters, and although still immature, they recognize the anatomy of the female excretory system and how it functions and the limitations they have that boys do not. Being somewhat fun-loving by nature, I immediately sensed an opportunity to exercise my creative abilities and to also show some leadership around my male friends.

Upon visiting our boys’ toilet, I urinated in a circle around the toilet holes. Chaos immediately ignited with the girls but not with the boys because we rarely sat on the seats. The teacher called us in for a reprimand and to ascertain the identity of such a ruthless, cruel individual. Who would do this to the darling female students? We all sat silent, loyal to each other as well as in fear of our friends if we tattled. Tattling, incidentally, was tantamount in those days to criminal activity, and anyone who engaged in such despicable behavior deserved permanent ostracism, which was viewed as tantamount to capital punishment. Well, we all sat, and sat, and sat, glancing at one another but saying not a word. I wish my memory were better at this point, but I don’t remember how the teacher ended it. I think we were all punished by having our recess suspended for a time. I don’t know if the girls improvised, whatever that might mean, or if they just held it, but it was a crisis that we somehow survived.

The school, as you might surmise by now, had no plumbing. Each day two students walked to the neighbor with a three- or four-gallon container and returned to school with water for the day. On one occasion, I recall a sickening experience. If your stomach is susceptible to becoming nauseated, skip this paragraph. The water tasted terrible. You will find this both strange and crazy. To avoid having water supplies freeze during cold weather, farmers would pile cow manure, an insulator, around the cistern (for you sophisticates, it is a hole in the ground where water was stored), a means of protecting the water from intense cold and thus freezing. The problem was that when spring arrived and the manure melted, some of the juice would run into the cistern. We were drinking cow manure flavored water. From that point, I carried my own water.

Since it seems everything was primitive in those days and nothing was inspected by some government bureaucrat, the cistern rim sometimes served as a refuge or a warm place for mice. You’re likely getting the picture. A mouse would occasionally be found floating in the water.

Perhaps even more unbelievable is the first school I attended had no electric lights. Lamps hung from the ceiling. I don’t recall, however, that we ever lit them.

We started school after Labor Day and finished before Memorial Day so that farm kids could help on the farm, a relic that continues to this day since we have intense resistance to students going to school in the summer. We are no longer the agrarian society the nation was when I was in school—from 70 percent farmers to 2 percent. Rural congressmen were quite powerful at that time. Their influence has diminished greatly as the size of their constituency has decreased. The influence of the agriculture community, however, remains stronger than its numbers would dictate.

In grade eight, most students dropped out, which meant that graduating from that grade was a big deal. Everyone gathered in an auditorium for a speech or two and for the distribution of certificates. I had the honor, if you can call it that, of playing my accordion for the audience. I was scared to death. I played only because my father forced me to, not because I was accomplished. My father was third-generation German, so the accordion was the appropriate instrument to learn to play. (I mention that to avoid too many snickers. I also took a few piano lessons.)

Junior and senior high school meant an hour ride in the morning and a similar trip in the afternoon. I was a bit of a pioneer in my family as far as high school was concerned. Prior to that time, there was no busing to school and thus no real opportunity for farm kids to attend junior or senior high. My parents and their peers, consequently, did not proceed beyond eighth grade. But farming was so simple at that time that an education beyond the basics was deemed unnecessary. However, if I was to accomplish my goal of a non-farming life, I needed a high school education.

I have few pleasant memories of those days, except I did have an opportunity to sit by a pretty girl on the bus and to hold her books. An older kid who liked to laugh at others sometimes roared at my ritual. One of the practices that was anything but fun was having kids slap you on the back of the head—no reason for doing so, they just did it and then acted innocent. The bus driver seldom tried to stop abusive behavior, but he did peer into his mirror periodically—only a minor deterrent to bad behavior. Driving a vehicle with sixty teens was not exactly a picnic.

Not having parents with an education meant I was on my own during my secondary education experience. Not having any advice, I enrolled in agriculture in high school and after a year decided to move to the academics. So I studied all the math I could fit in as well as the sciences. I was not a straight-A student but enjoyed the intellectual stimulation, foreign to me prior to high school.

If you had asked my teachers to describe me, they would likely have mentioned that I was rather quiet, paid attention, and did my work—not exactly a troublemaker. Squirt guns were popular and a source of fun for us. We were known to use them when we were confident of not being discovered. One day in the library, I sprayed someone. To my surprise, the librarian, a middle-aged, frumpy gal, noted that someone had used a water pistol. Who was it? We sat quietly with honest looks on our faces. She asked a number of students if it was they and even checked the items in front of them on the table, in their notebooks, and so on. My heart beat fast as I waited for her to interrogate me. To my surprise and delight, she passed by me. She decided I was not the type to engage in such childish behavior in her library.

Our principal was RJ Williams. Students decided Rock Jaw was a good name for him, given his initials and his jutting jaw. One day we were herded into the superintendent’s office by the bus driver; apparently he had had enough of our antics. I only recall the sternness of the man. I suppose our behavior improved a little for a short time. There never, to my knowledge, was any verbal interaction between students and the administration. RJ would stand in the hall looking mean. I don’t think developing a rapport with the students was ever considered as having any merit. Come to think about it, I’m not sure the word rapport had been invented at that time.

I also remember the algebra teacher who joked with one of the students all the time, a student who was always smiling. I was never a recipient of her attention, although I liked her as a person. I don’t know how she felt about me. Also, the English teacher stands out in my mind as a difficult woman who I am convinced hated boys. She was always giving attention to the cutest girl in class who sat directly in front of the teacher’s desk. Boys were never smiled at and were never the recipient of a kind word. Many women in those days viewed males as dirty minded and not to be trusted. If I recall correctly, it was a carryover from the Victorian era. Come to think of it, there are still a few of those lovely pure-minded ladies around, still making life difficult for boys who, after all, are still boys, as they were back in the Dark Ages when I was in school.

Speaking of English, I still recall those dreadful vocabulary tests we took on Fridays. Many students cheated because the definitions were before us, but we were expected to not refer to the correct responses. I was one of the few who kept my eyes where they were supposed to be. I don’t want to sound self-righteous, but it was drilled into my head that I was going to hell if I cheated. That sounded rather painful to me, so I never cheated. Aren’t you impressed with what a fine, upstanding young man I was? Consequently, I did very poorly on these tests. My vocabulary and grammar were, indeed, poor. My uneducated parents were not into polysyllabic words. Because I had a fascination and a love for words, I acquired a better than average vocabulary rather quickly. I remember the enjoyable challenge I received when I entered college where professors had a markedly better vocabulary than my high school teachers, or at least used more difficult words in their normal speech.

Next door to English was the social studies teacher with a disposition the opposite of the English teacher’s. She was very kind to me and treated me as a special human being. Another of my teachers, who eventually became the city mayor, once singled me out to run an important errand for him. I was highly complimented. And then there was the teacher who was perpetually late for class. I am sure he hated teaching and had to have one more cigarette before facing a room full of obstreperous young men, no girls. During his tardiness, the class was in chaos.

You would likely surmise that I was not particularly gregarious in high school and that I was a bit insecure and shy. You would be correct. You would also be on the right track if you concluded, without knowing me personally, that I have grown out of those tendencies.

As I reflect on those adult acquaintances, I have come to realize how important a teacher is in the life of a student. Being impartial, showing trust for a student, being congenial, being willing to help, being willing to listen, and showing a joyous personality all make a lasting impression on students who are at a pivotal stage in their lives. In twenty-first-century schools, we now have many students who are estranged from their parents or who reside in dysfunctional families or with divorced parents in which the non-parent adult in the family can intentionally or unknowingly project a disdain for the student’s problems.

Numerous books have been written discussing social problems and advocating solutions and treatments. One such book has resilience in the title. Students who have been deprived of love and attention tend to seek out an adult/s who can fill the void. Teachers, administrators, custodians, cooks, a neighbor, a friend, a relative who will just listen and not necessarily tell the young person how to live are needed. Sadly, pedophiles have achieved such a high profile today that we tend to think that anyone who spends time talking with a student in private has less than admirable motives in mind. Yet many, many children and young people are in desperate need of someone to just talk to; they need to feel that they are valuable, worthwhile individuals.

Yes, students are resilient, as are most humans. Someone who simply provides a pat on the shoulder or an encouraging word can make a world of difference. A recent example of this is Dr. Ben Carson, who emerged from poverty and a spotty childhood to become a renowned surgeon and to launch a respectable run for president of the United States. He has succeeded in his life because of a mother who would not allow poverty to be an excuse for not reading and applying himself in school. I suspect this attribute of resilience is common in the human existence, but sadly it is often not appreciated. Some individuals build up a strong resistance to allowing anyone into their psyche. They have been burned many times and are thus guarded in their human interactions. Building up trust and sharing time with these needy individuals can point a student in a positive direction and help him/her to begin enjoying a feeling of success and acceptance. This is about adults consciously or unconsciously being models for young people to emulate.

In my school days, I am sure there were also students from dysfunctional families, but frankly I was not aware of any. My friends all seemed to come from intact families. Also, I don’t recall seeing pregnant students in the school. I heard of one who went away for a time until her child was born, because being unmarried and pregnant was considered an embarrassment, something to be hidden from the public. Pregnant girls were not permitted to attend school. Pregnant teachers were likewise not allowed to teach. We seem to have removed the stigma, but now more than 50 percent of babies are born out of wedlock, most of them from adults who choose to live with a member of the opposite sex in an unmarried state.

Prejudices are not unique to today. In my high school, the in group members were all from professional families living in the city. The out students,