Cup O' Joe: Saying "howdy" to our neighbor, Joe Panstingel
Joe Panstingel
Issue date: 2/4/10 Section: Columns
So, if you ever see me and wonder why I rub my arm every time I enter Hollenbeck Hall, it's because I have just pinched myself. I do this to make sure that I'm not dreaming.
You see, I grew up in Springfield. As a native, I rarely stepped foot on the Wittenberg campus unless I was lost or taking my kid sledding. As a teenager, our high school marching band (Shawnee High School) was invited to march at halftime for a Wittenberg football game (yes, they bussed us in and we were told not to touch anything).
We had rehearsed a nifty script "W." I don't think it turned out very good (more like a confused "V" with a zit in the middle). We were never invited back. The Wittenberg bubble is perceived to go only one way, but I assure you it can be just as impervious from the other side.
Two of my Shawnee classmates did attend Wittenberg (their parents were employees). They were one of those couples who meet and stay together because they breathe a rarified air that isn't available to the rest of us. When they graduated from Wittenberg, they married and left Springfield.
They now live in Connecticut and refuse to acknowledge reunion invitations. I think that they imagined themselves as born in the wrong place and Wittenberg considered them as the "native quota" back in the day. It's not that the rest of us weren't welcome to join the Wittenberg party; we just couldn't afford the cover charge.
When I graduated high school (I'm not telling you when), the tuition for a year at Wittenberg was approximately the same amount with which my parent's supported a family of six.
We natives thought that only people from Connecticut or France went to Wittenberg. Let's face it: historically, Springfield is a blue collar town. Hometown graduates of my generation rarely went to college and if you did, you went to Clark Tech (Clark State, now) and hoped that would qualify you for a job that didn't involve an assembly line.
Back then, natives needed an interpreter to cross Fountain Avenue. Springfield and Wittenberg were like two dowager sisters inhabiting the same apartment but with diverse interests, one enjoying Bach while the other crooned along with Hank Williams.
You see, I grew up in Springfield. As a native, I rarely stepped foot on the Wittenberg campus unless I was lost or taking my kid sledding. As a teenager, our high school marching band (Shawnee High School) was invited to march at halftime for a Wittenberg football game (yes, they bussed us in and we were told not to touch anything).
We had rehearsed a nifty script "W." I don't think it turned out very good (more like a confused "V" with a zit in the middle). We were never invited back. The Wittenberg bubble is perceived to go only one way, but I assure you it can be just as impervious from the other side.
Two of my Shawnee classmates did attend Wittenberg (their parents were employees). They were one of those couples who meet and stay together because they breathe a rarified air that isn't available to the rest of us. When they graduated from Wittenberg, they married and left Springfield.
They now live in Connecticut and refuse to acknowledge reunion invitations. I think that they imagined themselves as born in the wrong place and Wittenberg considered them as the "native quota" back in the day. It's not that the rest of us weren't welcome to join the Wittenberg party; we just couldn't afford the cover charge.
When I graduated high school (I'm not telling you when), the tuition for a year at Wittenberg was approximately the same amount with which my parent's supported a family of six.
We natives thought that only people from Connecticut or France went to Wittenberg. Let's face it: historically, Springfield is a blue collar town. Hometown graduates of my generation rarely went to college and if you did, you went to Clark Tech (Clark State, now) and hoped that would qualify you for a job that didn't involve an assembly line.
Back then, natives needed an interpreter to cross Fountain Avenue. Springfield and Wittenberg were like two dowager sisters inhabiting the same apartment but with diverse interests, one enjoying Bach while the other crooned along with Hank Williams.
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