Personal Narrative: My Day At Pacoima Junior High School

One bright but chilly January morning in 1957, I ambled across the campus at Pacoima Junior High, killing time, stalling on my way back from the restroom to class. It was report card day and I, like most eighth graders, felt relieved that the fall semester had come to a close and something new would get under way; new teachers, new kids to meet, new assignments to ignore. My classroom was near the gym in a row of low-slung, drably painted buildings that were symptomatic of 1950’s public architecture. I rounded a corner, giving me a direct view of the gym field, where, since no one had to dress for P.E. classes that day, only a few people were out playing. I saw no girls on the field at all, just boys playing kickball, softball and generally hanging out.

Suddenly a high pitched scream, a whine of deep intensity came out of the sunny sky. I looked up, confused, and heard a blistering boom, an explosion so loud that the fence in front of the field began to wave, to undulate. I stopped. The sky filled with dark smoke and bits of pink and green fragments of insulation one might find in walls or in packaging. I thought, “Oh, confetti!” The silence that followed lasted for a few
Then things changed quickly. Injured kids came off the field, dazed, hurt and seeking help. Mothers who lived nearby raced between the buildings and across the quad, shouting and crying in a crazed effort to find their kids. Small airplanes buzzed overhead. Cops flooded the campus. Fire trucks and ambulances circled the school seeking close entry to the destruction on the field. I recall being herded into the school library, relieved to find a space where an orderly mood prevailed even as parents met up with their children and students waited for instructions about what to do. One boy came in with oil and blood splattered on his clothing. He seemed unhurt. He smiled and said, “Well, I won’t get any punishment for this report card. My mom will be so happy I’m