In Virginia: Pursuing "Positiveness"

By Kenneth M. Pierce

Back home, most adults don't notice these kids. Gangling Dan Voll, 18, is one of the stock boys at Pacemaker Foods in Rockford, Ill. Teresa Slowen works part time as a waitress in the Sundance Restaurant in Santa Fe, N. Mex. Curly-haired John Barker is the kid who cuts the grass in Birmingham, Mich.

But during this weekend in Williamsburg, Va., these three--and 99 others, drawn two apiece from 50 states plus the District of Columbia--are absorbing the interest of adults, for they have been judged the brightest and best leaders of the nation's 3.1 million high school seniors, class of 1979.

"The splendor of this setting pales before the splendors your contributions probably will be. You are the citizens of tomorrow, the leaders of tomorrow. You are America's future."

--Greeting by Owen Kiernan, National Association of Secondary School Principals (N.A.S.S.P.)

These 102 well-scrubbed and polite high school seniors, bused from Washington's National Airport, with their electric combs, three-piece suits, and dresses, triumphed over 350,000 classmates who entered this year's N.A.S.S.P. scholarship competition, a program called Century III Leaders. They are student-government presidents, church youth leaders, honor-society members. They were judged on their knowledge of current events, school grades and written proposals for solving public problems. Each of them received a $1,500 scholarship plus the free trip to Williamsburg. At the end of this two-day conference, funded by the Shell Oil Company, one will be named a kind of super Century III Leader, and awarded a $10,000 scholarship.

As they get acquainted, their chatter is national TV talk-show modern ("With those freeways in L.A., man, nobody says how far anything is in miles, it's just hours, you know"). The sophistication of kids from towns as small as Grey bull, Wyo., is passing wondrous, but it is disconcerting too; one wants something more than Johnny Carson from the leaders of tomorrow.

Saturday, 9:45 a.m. It develops that they can also do Walter Cronkite and Howard K. Smith. Dressed in jeans or slacks, sneakers or penniless loafers, they exude information as they discuss conference topics: this morning it's the Quality of Life, this afternoon Education, tomorrow Leadership and Community Involvement. Soft-spoken Ralph Shain of Bellaire, Texas: "If you want to talk about coal gasification, the Federal Government hasn't yet licensed a single plant." Dark-eyed Patti Anderson of Granby, Colo.: "The population of the underdeveloped countries will double in 20 years, but they're not going to start having fewer children when three out of four die before reaching adulthood."

When Discussion Leader Tom DiBacco of American University announces a refreshment break, the others ignore him; they are busy drafting policy proposals at the corners of the room. DiBacco walks alone out to the foyer and picks up a Coke from the silver tureen.

"Students, do not switch rooms. You must wear your badges at all times. Possession of alcohol and drugs is prohibited. Anyone violating this rule will be sent home immediately at your own expense."

--Terry Giroux, director of N.A.S.S.P.'s office of student activities

"All counselors have been armed with clubs. Those of you who break the rules will be taken into Colonial Williamsburg and destroyed."

--Student seated at Giroux's feet during the lecture on conference rules

Are the kids play-acting for conference purposes, or do public issues thrive in their teen-age lives? "I enjoy it, simply put," says Anthony Hazlett, of Lihue, Hawaii. Grinning, he adds, "Us intellectual types don't spend our time watching TV shows." "I'm a futurist freak," says Lauri Donahue of Espanola, N. Mex. "I think we have to consider topics like the mining rights on asteroids or the legal rights of clones." The skeptical observer is given a thoughtful zinger by Bill Hillegass of Marysville, Ohio. "I wonder," says Bill, "if the games we play around here are very different from the way people in Washington play around. They are doing it in part because it's an exciting game, and they play a role too."

"Students, we hear a lot about the importance of cutting federal spending. I think the way we can make military cuts is by removing the wings from the F-15s."

--Rulon Eames, Weber High School,

Ogden, Utah

Over lunch, the kids have some unkind cuts for many of the students back home. "Most of them don't even read a newspaper," observes Dora Wang, of Kailua, Hawaii. "I've never been to a gathering of students like this who know what's going on," says Lori White of Evans, Ga. "You can express yourself here without feeling like a freak."

What has made these students so different? "My parents," says Lori. Really? "My parents," agrees Kevin Piecuch of Muscatine, Iowa, who adds, "They encourage me to talk with them." This suggests a hypothesis: wheresoever you find kids who would rather debate foreign aid than drink Cokes, there too you will find kids who say they like their parents.

The kids know they seem conservative, and many are proud of it. "It's a backlash," says Bernie Knollinger of Wheeling, W. Va. "Everybody in America has been insisting on what they want for themselves, and people are tired of it." What makes them angry? "People who take away the rights of others," says Bernie. And Espanola's Lauri Donahue adds: "I'm mad at incompetence."

Saturday afternoon. A small group is proposing mandatory proficiency tests for elementary and secondary students. "Who should evaluate this test, HEW?" asks Utah's Eames. "Not HEW," snaps back Steve Rapkin of Millburn, N.J. "That's bringing in the Federal Government." Eames: "We can appoint community and business leaders to look at it." Rapkin: "Yeah, if we only have educators, we're just going to get the professional educator's viewpoint."

Saturday evening. The students are straggling through the conference center to their dorms. One of the few with longish hair, Indian-born Sanjiv Kripalani of Torrance, Calif., sums up what is on the minds of many: "There is immense pressure on because of the $10.000 award. Everybody is feeling, 'I want it, I want it, I want it.' People are saying to themselves. 'Have I said too much or not enough? Have I lost my chance?' It's not worth it, selling your soul for $10,000."

On Sunday, a number of the final proposals deal with energy, this year's national high school debating topic. They urge deregulation, conservation, the development of alternative sources. One group calls for free mass transit on Election Day to reduce voter apathy (another of the kids' most frequently mentioned concerns). Others propose curbs on Government spending, mandatory youth service (in the military, Peace Corps or domestic civic programs), and research on the growth of bureaucracy. Groans Chris Falter of Columbia, S.C.: "All we need is another study of bureaucracy."

These official recommendations seem a well-informed but familiar rehash. (Is it partly because N.A.S.S.P. officials promise to send the proposals to the White House for the attention of Jimmy Carter?) Lacking as yet a special style of their own, the kids lapse into officialese, the language in which adults in the bureaucracies back home so often speak to them.

Sunday evening. Sanjiv from Torrance makes it into the semifinals. So do nine others--an extra $500 for each of them. The big winner is lanky Dan Voll of Illinois, who raised $7,000 to fight alcoholism in Rockford, writes youth editorials for the local TV station and presides over his student government. His father works full time for the Boy Scouts of America. With five brothers and sisters, Dan needs the $10,000 scholarship very much. After a standing ovation, he closes his acceptance speech by saying, "If there's a word that sums up what Dan Voll is all about, it's 'positiveness.' "

It is the right word for these kids--a first draft of a word rather than a finished word, hopeful, awkward, the kind of word that experts in youth guidance adore. But--who can be against positiveness? Or Dan Voll? Or those who, in all their positiveness, devote themselves to children, as does Terry Giroux?

All that is left is the final disco, held in the room where policies on hunger, energy and voter apathy were thrashed out. Red lights flash over a parquet dance floor. The room fills with the blast of a band from Washington. The name of the band is Survival.

Dan is dancing with Alison from Opelousas; Lori from Evans is dancing with Kevin from Muscatine; Carl from Portland is dancing with Patti from Granby. The strobe lights blink. The singer sings:

I got the music in me. Yeah.

I got the music in me. Ooh-yeah.

I got the music in me. Uh-huh.

--Kenneth M. Pierce

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