24: High School, Part 1

33: Transfer from Lincoln High School to Crawford High School

In 1964 I was scheduled to attend Lincoln High School once I completed 9th grade at Gompers Jr High. Because of being jumped by five students from Wright Brothers Jr-Sr High School next door, my mother successfully appealed to the school district psychologist to have me transfer from Lincoln High School to Crawford High School. She argued (I was also in that meeting), that my psychic would be irreparably harmed if I attended Lincoln High School. But there was a caveat: there would be no transportation for me, and I would have to find my way to attend that high school. During the summer of 1964, I saved my money from odd jobs, gifts from my grandmother Addie Mae, allowances, and even a $1.00 I found in the checkout line at the Thrifty Drugstore at the corner of Euclid and Federal Blvd. With those $$$, I bought a new 10-speed bicycle for $50.00—adjusted for inflation, $505.95 in 2025 dollars. Thus, I started my three-year journey, riding my bike every day for what I thought was a 10-mile round trip to school. Today, Google Maps shows my route as a 6-7 mile round trip.

The dark blue line is the route I took from my home to Crawford High School.

In 1964, when I entered high school, one of the requirements for graduation was to learn a foreign language. A discussion ensued within the family as to what my language selection should be. Should it be German because of my German “mother,” I could practice and learn from her. When my father sent me to the States, I spoke and understood German. But since no one understood German, I was forced to exclusively speak English. Or, should I take French, because somewhere in the back of my mind, there was something French I thought I remembered, such as the phrase “Comment allez-vous, or Très bien,” or should it be Latin? With my interest in the sciences, it was felt that Latin would be the better choice. In hindsight, my parents should have encouraged me to take French—I would have had better use of the French language than the Latin I never used after high school. Unfortunately, I didn’t know about my French heritage at the time. And, my parents probably didn’t want to “open a can of worms” at that time to tell me the truth about my background - the person I knew as my mother, was not my biological mother. However, I recall telling my parents I knew I had French cousins. But how I knew, I didn’t know. My parents never confirmed or denied what I thought I knew, so I never mentioned the subject.

In his high school ROTC uniform, Daniel posing with his ‘mother” Doris, aka Jonnie.

As part of my studies, I decided to join Jr. ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corps). Little did any of us know that a year later (1965), the country would be embroiled in a major conflict in Southeast Asia—that conflict everyone knows as the Vietnam War. During this time, students in ROTC were looked down upon. Those of us in ROTC belonged to the “Royal Order of Tricycle Cops” or “Rotten Old Tin Cans.”

I will digress a little bit and write about a family friend, Capt Cooper USMC, during those days. He was a my father’ friend and had invested $$$ through my dad with Equity Funding Corporation. I have no idea how my dad got to know Capt Cooper - maybe through an investment seminar at the time. Some of you who were around in the late 1960s/early 1970s may have heard about the company known as Equity Funding Corporation. Equity Funding was the darling of the financial world at that time, until it wasn’t. I will write about its downfall and the implication on my family when my father, a black man, was being sued for $64,000,000.00. You read that correctly. I will write about that in a future episode.

In July 1965, Capt Cooper took me on a tour of the USS Chicago which was stationed in San Diego. He was the Captain of the Marine detachment aboard that ship.

From the book Ten Stars, by Kendal Weaver, 2016

In July 1965, Captain Cooper took me on a tour of the USS Chicago. Boy-o-boy, was I impressed with having lunch in the officer’s mess.

At any rate, why do I bring up this subject? Well, that is because Capt Cooper is really Major General Cooper USMC (Ret), who published a book a few years ago examining his life in the Corps and U.S. Government Service. The last time I saw Capt Cooper was when I was a 2nd Lt in the USMC attending flight school (the war in Vietnam was winding down) in Pensacola, and he living in Mobile, AL.

Through the years, we lost contact until a few years ago when I came across his name in an online article. Through some research, I found an email address and wrote to him. During this email exchange, I told him I still had the letters he wrote to me while he was in Vietnam. At the time of his deployment, he became the first African-American infantryman in the USMC to lead Marines into combat – he had to “fight” the Corps to allow him to do the job he was trained to do. He also told me his goal was to become the first African-American to rise to the rank of General in the USMC infantry. He accomplished that goal.

Earlier, he had asked if I could send him copies of the letters, which I happily did. Imagine my surprise when his book was completed, to find a few passages from my letters in it. I’ve included photos of the pages where passages from those letters were included. I am very proud to have known MajGen Cooper. If you ever get the chance, the book (Ten Stars by Kendal Weaver) is a fascinating read.

Letter to Dan Freeman, April 24, 1967

I traced my foot on paper, but never received the sandals. He was so busy staying alive and commanding his Marines in combat, he never had the time to send me a pair of those Sandals.

Letter to Dan Freeman, April 24, 1967

MajGen J Gary Cooper passed away on 27 April 2024 at the age of 87.

Back to my high school ROTC days, I was on the Drill Team in 10th grade, the Color Guard in 11th grade (we raised and lowered the U.S. and California State Flags every day), and the Rifle Team in 12th grade.

Next Episode: High School part 2/ Police give traffic tickets for “running” a stop sign on a bicycle.