A Summing Up. Robert Eaker

my mind, the journey began at Brainerd High School in Chattanooga, Tennessee, in 1968, with my first teaching position. But perhaps it began even earlier, when I was an undergraduate.

      I have generally paid attention to suggestions and advice from others, especially people I know well and admire. However, in college, there was one piece of advice I chose not to accept. I chose to major in history and become a teacher, despite many friends pointing out that teaching positions in history were few and far between, and if I didn’t become a teacher, what employment could I count on with a degree in history?

      Regardless of the odds, I stuck with it. I enjoyed my history classes, and without exception, I enjoyed my history professors at the University of Chattanooga. In the 1960s, the University of Chattanooga was still a small private liberal arts university, only later becoming part of the University of Tennessee system. I thrived in such a place. The classes were small, I got to know my professors, and they likewise knew me. I decided to stick with history, believing that somehow I would be able to get a teaching position following graduation.

      A huge break came when I was assigned to Brainerd High School for my student teaching experience. In the late 1960s, Brainerd was considered by many to be the top public high school in the Chattanooga public school system, both academically and athletically. The school had only been open a few years (my wife, Star, was in the first graduating class) and was located in an upper-middle-class section of the city.

      I can’t remember anything remarkable about the experience, except that it gave the principal and others the opportunity to know me, both personally and as a teacher. However, the prospects of attaining a teaching position there were very bleak. The history staff had been at the school since it had opened, and since none were near retirement, no openings were likely in the foreseeable future.

      And then, a stroke of luck! One of the history teachers at Brainerd accepted a position at a nearby community college, and I was offered his position. At the time, I didn’t realize there was a storm brewing at Brainerd and in the larger Chattanooga community—a storm that would set my life on a new, and profoundly different, path.

      Although over a decade had passed since the Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka (1954) decision, by and large Chattanooga’s public schools remained segregated. Of Brainerd’s approximately twelve hundred students, just over a hundred were African American. Through the lens of the white population of the school—both students and adults—race relations seemed to be very positive, especially since some of the star athletes were black students.

      As the number of African American students increased, however, so did their confidence and willingness to air their grievances. In retrospect, it’s astonishing that most white students and adults were surprised when black students expressed displeasure regarding the school’s nickname (the Rebels), fight song (“Dixie”), and logo (the Confederate flag).

      In 1969, conflict erupted when word spread that the principal had met with a group of black students and was considering changing the offending symbols. Brainerd’s white students walked out of the school and gathered on the front lawn and in the parking lot. After some time, the principal met with them and assured them that no real consideration was being given to changing the name, the fight song, or the flag. Word of this news also spread, and as the white students walked back into their classes, the black students walked out!

      Over the next few days, tensions intensified and ultimately stretched beyond the school. People with no connection to the school rode through predominately black neighborhoods of Chattanooga flying Confederate flags from their cars. Shots were fired into the air. Groups such as the John Birch Society joined in the fray by contending students had every right to not only support the school symbols but to proudly display them on their clothing, even though doing so was obviously provocative. The situation worsened to the point that some small but serious riots broke out, and the school was closed as district leaders struggled to find a solution.

      At the time of these events, I was serving as dean of students and trying to de-escalate the conflict. Obviously, if the symbols remained, the black students were going to continue to protest, and the potential for more serious rioting was real—along with the likelihood that the rioting could spread throughout the city. As we struggled to find a solution, someone at the district office suggested the Educational Opportunity Planning Center at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville as a possible resource.

      As school districts all over Tennessee were grappling with how to successfully desegregate, the University of Tennessee had received a federal grant to create the Educational Opportunity Planning Center to assist districts as they struggled with both practical and cultural issues associated with school desegregation. Dr. Fred Venditti served as director of the center and agreed to offer the center’s assistance with the problems in Chattanooga. Ultimately, the Confederate symbols and fight song were changed, and although the climate remained tense, eventually things returned to order.

      I have been blessed by the people who have helped and encouraged me along my life’s journey, and certainly Fred Venditti was one of those people. Fred changed my life trajectory without really realizing the full effect of what he was doing. We got to know each other during his days of meeting with faculty and student groups at Brainerd, and eventually, Fred asked if I had ever considered pursuing a doctoral degree.

      With Fred’s encouragement, as well as a rather sizable bank loan, I applied for and was accepted into the doctoral program at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. Fred’s efforts to ease racial tensions at Brainerd High School had little impact on the school’s culture, but his encouragement and support had a huge impact on me, and I have been forever grateful. Although Fred and I were friends until his death, I did not ask him to chair my doctoral committee. Instead, I turned to Jerry Bellon, the new chair of the Department of Curriculum and Instruction. Little did I realize the positive impact this decision would have on my life, both professionally and personally.

Jerry Bellon and Clinical Supervision

      To say that I was unprepared for doctoral study is an understatement. I was confident academically, but I really did not have a clue about the processes and procedures for advanced graduate study at a major university. When Star and I arrived in Knoxville in March for the beginning of the spring quarter of classes, I assumed I should enroll in classes and get underway, which is exactly what I did.

      I registered for three or four doctoral-level courses that first quarter. I simply selected courses I thought would be interesting and helpful. Since my background was history, I enrolled in a doctoral history course taught by a visiting professor from Yale University. Given my recent experiences with race relations at Brainerd High School, I was interested in his course in African American history. Only five or six students were enrolled, and in the first class meeting, I was taken aback when the professor assigned six books to read and noted that in each class meeting, we would discuss one of those books. And this was only one class in which I was enrolled! But I quickly adjusted and was able to hold my own in the class discussions and writing assignments.

      My most immediate problem was that although I had been accepted into the university’s graduate school, I had not been accepted into a particular program of study. When my friends and fellow students would ask, “What program are you in?” I would respond, “I’m in the doctoral program.” To which they would say, “No, I mean what program of study are you in—administration, curriculum and instruction, or what?” I began to realize I had a big decision to make.

      It was logical that I enroll in the administration and supervision program, since Fred Venditti was a prominent faculty member in the department and had been so encouraging to me. Plus, I was on leave from the Chattanooga public school system, where I had most recently served as dean of students. Returning to Chattanooga as a principal after I completed my degree would be a practical course of action.

      On the other hand, deep down, I recognized I did not find the nuts and bolts of administration interesting, at least intellectually. This is odd considering that I later served as an administrator for most of my career in higher education. But I never applied for or actively pursued any of the administrative positions I subsequently held, and quite honestly, the administrative