NHS
A tranquil, warm week. Tranquil because we were in good health, and because, at IUSB, the tutees were few and not too demanding; and warm enough for short sleeves.
It felt like May. It felt like the school year was about to end. Really, it was alarming.
Some days ago, we ate at Karin’s mother’s house. My mother-in-law is in charge of the National Honor Society at the high school where she works. I told her that when I was in high school, I never was inducted. The first two years of my eligibility, I applied and was rejected, and the last year I forgot to submit my application. Why were you rejected, my mother-in-law said. My attitude, I conjectured. Ah, yes, my mother-in-law said.
She said her school was going to have to expel its valedictorian from NHS because he wasn’t taking the rituals and service projects seriously enough. Expelling him would only reinforce his view of the situation, I told her. Then I said that NHS was basically a snob deal, a way for the “best” people to feel happy about themselves; and that mercifully it had no real impact on people’s life prospects, unlike the college Greek system or charity groups run by the rich.
At our high school we run NHS on merit, clarified my mother-in-law.
Be that as it may, I said, to belong to NHS – even in a chapter in which it is run on merit – is to belong to a larger organization that’s snobby on the whole. Again, like the Greek system or philanthropy. The point of NHS is to prepare youngsters to belong to those awful clubs when they’re adults.
After I went home, I remembered that in my own high school, new NHS inductees were pulled out of bed before dawn and made to wear diapers and bibs all day, i.e., they were hazed, as in fraternities and sororities. But by the time I remembered this it was too late to call up my mother-in-law and tell her. Perhaps I’ll mention it on Sunday when we’re in church together.
It felt like May. It felt like the school year was about to end. Really, it was alarming.
Some days ago, we ate at Karin’s mother’s house. My mother-in-law is in charge of the National Honor Society at the high school where she works. I told her that when I was in high school, I never was inducted. The first two years of my eligibility, I applied and was rejected, and the last year I forgot to submit my application. Why were you rejected, my mother-in-law said. My attitude, I conjectured. Ah, yes, my mother-in-law said.
She said her school was going to have to expel its valedictorian from NHS because he wasn’t taking the rituals and service projects seriously enough. Expelling him would only reinforce his view of the situation, I told her. Then I said that NHS was basically a snob deal, a way for the “best” people to feel happy about themselves; and that mercifully it had no real impact on people’s life prospects, unlike the college Greek system or charity groups run by the rich.
At our high school we run NHS on merit, clarified my mother-in-law.
Be that as it may, I said, to belong to NHS – even in a chapter in which it is run on merit – is to belong to a larger organization that’s snobby on the whole. Again, like the Greek system or philanthropy. The point of NHS is to prepare youngsters to belong to those awful clubs when they’re adults.
After I went home, I remembered that in my own high school, new NHS inductees were pulled out of bed before dawn and made to wear diapers and bibs all day, i.e., they were hazed, as in fraternities and sororities. But by the time I remembered this it was too late to call up my mother-in-law and tell her. Perhaps I’ll mention it on Sunday when we’re in church together.