Fac Brat

fac brat (plural fac brats): (slang) A child of a faculty member at a high school, university, or college.

     (from Wikionary,com)

I was a fac brat throughout all my years of living at home--from my birth in 1944 to my heading off to begin my teaching career in the fall of 1966.

On November 11, 1944, my mom and older brother were living upstairs in the house of her parents, 1609 E. Broadway Ave.; Enid, Oklahoma. Then I arrived.

Dad was overseas then with the U. S. Army--something about Nazis in Europe? (Oh, would he have raged in disbelief about Nazis parading in the streets of Virginia a few years ago!)

My grandfather, Dr. G. Edwin Osborn, in whose house we were living, was a professor at the Bible College associated with Phillips University, just a few blocks east of his house.

When my dad returned from the war, he began his own career at Phillips--he would become the provost--and did not surrender that position until the Korean War: He was called back to active duty and became a chaplain at Amarillo (Tex.) Air Force Base for a couple of years.

Then ... back to professor time.

We moved to Hiram, Ohio, in 1956, and there he began his ten-year career as the Head of the Division of Education at Hiram College. I had him for a teacher education class. He never called me by name when I raised my hand; instead, he would nod toward me and say, "Yes?"  I never called him by name, either.

In 1966 he and Mom (who had acquired her Ph.D.) headed off to Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa, where both would complete their careers.

I don't recall a lot of hassle about being a fac brat--except, occasionally, in the Hiram Local School when older/bigger kids would grab me (and other fac brats) by the arm and say, "Oooooh, your father's in the college!"

I couldn't understand what was so bad about that--my father's being in the college--but the guys who did that to me didn't ever look as if they were interested in a discussion about it. But I was proud of my dad--knew that he'd come off a farm in the Depression, worked his way through school, served his country in two wars, earned a Bronze Star.

So I could have said, "Hell, yes, he's in the college--and he worked for it." But if I had? I wouldn't be typing these words right now. I'd be lying in Fairview Cemetery in Hiram.

Later, our son would also become a fac brat. It began in sixth grade (1983-84) when we removed him from our local school and took him over to Aurora, where I was teaching eighth grade English at Harmon (Middle) School. There, he had a wonderful time--made great friends he still has, was in sports, band, plays, and other school activities (from bowling club to whatever).

He was in my class in eighth grade, and for a few days it was ... awkward. He couldn't help calling me "Dad,” which, early on, made the other kids laugh. I did give him a detention one day for arriving late--and when I did so, the other kids cheered. So it goes.

For me, it was a wonderful year--and when I directed our final play production (our Eighth Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show), I wept like a baby on closing night when he embraced me in the Commons (where we put on our shows). I think he had some tears going, too.

He then attended Western Reserve Academy for four years--had his mom as an English teacher for his sophomore and senior years. More fac-brattery. I believe he had a great time there, too--sang in the Glee Club (and adored his director, the late William Appling), was in plays and sports.

But his fac-brat years finally ended in 1990 when he graduated.

I guess where I'm coming down on all this--from my point of view only (you'll have to ask Steve about his)--is that I feel incredibly fortunate. My grandfather, my father--both were wonderful men, and they taught me every single day. (Okay, some of their lessons didn't, uh, catch hold until some years/decades later.) And my mom, who was a teacher (but never mine--she did teach my younger brother at James A. Garfield HS in Garrettsville, Ohio), also presented lessons that, again, I didn't exactly observe for ... a while.

I loved that year having Steve in class--and his particular crop of eighth graders was extraordinarily talented in so many ways (I'm FB friends with quite a few of them). I've not regretted for a second taking him to Harmon with me. I would drive him to school with me in the morning; Joyce would pick him up afterward. And the talks we had on those drives ... seeing the goslings each spring around a pond we drove by ... seeing him head off to classes taught by some of the greatest teachers I've ever known ... seeing him so excited by something he'd done, learned, experienced. Seeing him so happy ... nothing like it.

I've been incredibly lucky in my life--my family in boyhood, my wife and her wonderful family, our son--and now his terrific family (wife, Melissa; sons Logan (15) and Carson (11)). I "deserved" none of it, but I cherish all of it. Deeply so. And will until my final breath ...