Ron Chew, a Franklin graduate and honoree in our Hall of Fame, published an extensive autobiography in 2020. This book speaks to his roots in Seattle’s Beacon Hill neighborhood as well as to his lifelong connection to the Chinatown-International District. Chew covers key moments in his life as a journalist during the early years of the Asian American movement, as editor of the International Examiner, and executive director of The Wing, as he helped create our community-based exhibition model to spotlight community stories. Includes 56 pages of color photos.

With his blessing we are pleased to reprint a portion of it here.

Chapter 9: Turbulent Years at Franklin High (Part 1)

I arrived at Franklin High School as a freshman in 1968, during the height of the civil rights movement. The school was a serene beaux arts structure with classical columns, white terra-cotta, red bricks, and arched windows. It was perched on a hillside overlooking Rainier Valley, about a twenty-minute downhill walk from my home. From afar, it looked like a place of retreat. But inside, a storm had broken.

In the spring of 1968, protests against segregated facilities and unfair treatment of Blacks in the South spread north, reaching into my high school. On March 28, two black students were suspended after a fight with a white student. The white student escaped punishment. Two Black females were disciplined for wearing “natural” hairstyles. These incidents triggered a march on the principal’s office, a sit-in, arrests, and demands for immediate reforms at Franklin High and at the University of Washington. Protesters pressed for an end to discriminatory disciplinary practices, the teaching of Black history classes, and inclusion of diverse authors in the library collection.

Three organizers of the Franklin sit-in—UW activists Aaron Dixon, Carl Miller, and Larry Gossett—were convicted on July 1, 1968, and sent to King County jail, sparking violent uprisings.

National civil rights leader Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated in Memphis, further escalating tensions. On April 7, three days after his murder, thousands marched from the Central District to Memorial Stadium at Seattle Center to honor his legacy. I saw on TV and read in the Seattle Times and the Seattle Post-Intelligencer that the newly formed Seattle chapter of the Black Panther Party was calling for armed struggle. Those words scared me. I didn’t understand what that meant for me as a Chinese person or where this was headed. I watched with trepidation and curiosity.

That summer, hardly anyone came out to dine at the Hong Kong Restaurant. On the weekends, usually the busiest times, the waiters and busboys like me sat around in the front area booths, idly waiting for customers. A brittle stillness gripped Chinatown. On some days, the manager Uncle Alvin or the owner Sam Yee sent the busboys home several hours early.

Frank Hanawalt, a widely respected school administrator, was dispatched to Franklin to bring calm. He replaced principal Loren Ralph, a conservative old-school leader who alienated parents and teachers with his response to the sit-in. Ralph told faculty members that they shouldn’t expect Black students to excel in science. His racist beliefs extended to Asians. At one faculty meeting, he said, “There’s a lot of paperwork for all of you in the coming weeks. Find a nice Oriental girl to help you.” By outward appearances, Hanawalt looked a lot like every other white male administrator I had known: conservatively dressed, serious and stiff, with a furrowed, bushy brow and receding hairline. When he spoke at assembly, the tone of his words was surprisingly liberal and compassionate. But when I crossed paths with him in the hallway, he always looked grim. I didn’t dare say a word to him.

Mr. Hanawalt addressed a message to students on the front page of the “Back to School” edition of the Franklin Tolo, the semiweekly school newspaper. He noted that there were many new staff changes and that his goal was to “open up as many effective channels of communication as possible.” He vowed to involve the community, parents, and students “in the planning and development of the school program.”

Roberta Byrd Barr, an African American, was appointed vice principal. I had seen her on television serving as moderator for a local public affairs program on KING 5 TV called Face to Face, on which topics like desegregation and civil rights were explored at length. She had a quiet charisma and spoke with passion and grace in a calm, melodic voice.

Despite these changes, police still patrolled the school grounds. Inside, the school seemed on perpetual lockdown. Teachers and security guards were stationed in the hallways to make sure that no one was loitering or carrying weapons. Students were not permitted to roam without a signed hall pass.

I felt on edge walking to my cream-colored locker in the dark school hallway. I didn’t want to get jumped and beaten up by older students while my guard was down. This disquiet had little to do with the upheaval. I was in a new school, surrounded by gushing male hormones.

Bruce Solibakke, a popular white social studies teacher, was hit over the head with a stool in the lunchroom by a former student. He received sixteen stitches and was back in class the next day. This incident shook the school. Some teachers tried to conduct their classes as if the classrooms were sheltered from the mounting tumult, but it was a transparent charade. During lessons, they were distracted. Their fear rubbed off on students. My sophomore year was daunting. I wasn’t motivated. I felt scattered. I didn’t have buddies I could turn to when I didn’t understand what the teachers were talking about. I kept to the back of the classroom, sitting mutely, daydreaming, waiting for the rescuing clang of the bell. I yearned for Friday to arrive.

In my English class, students were asked to research a topic, write an essay, and read it aloud. I had never done anything like this before. I procrastinated. I got headaches. I was terrified.

Finally, I decided to write about the passenger pigeon. I copied my essay nearly word for word from an entry in the World Book Encyclopedia. When it was my turn, I stood nervously at the front of the room, mechanically reading my paper, never once making eye contact with the class. At one point, I heard several students giggle. I didn’t look up. I marched back to my seat as soon as I was done. After I sat down, my teacher gently explained to me that I had said “passenger penguin” instead of “passenger pigeon” throughout my talk. My cheeks and ears flushed. There were more peals of laughter. I grinned sheepishly, then slumped down in my chair. I wished I could magically vanish.

A very popular instructor was Mr. Rick Nagel, a wavy-haired young social studies teacher who taught contemporary problems, and law and society. His class was in the basement, in Room 15. He carried a row of pens in the pocket of his white shirt. He clutched a piece of chalk in his hand, pivoting effortlessly between scrawling on the blackboard and talking to his class. He kept his students listening with rapt attention because he offered up case studies about slavery, civil rights, and minority history.

Mr. Nagel openly criticized President Nixon’s decision to order secret bombing missions in Cambodia and Laos, expanding the Vietnam War. Nixon had been elected to office in 1968 because of his pledge to end the unpopular war. But American troops continued to fight and die overseas. When the first draft lotteries took place in 1969, assigning conscription numbers to young men turning eighteen, the prospect of being forced to fight overseas became real. In a couple years, it would be my turn.

On October 15, 1969, the Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam, a massive teach-in demonstration, took place across the country. Franklin High offered discussions on the Vietnam War in the auditorium. Students were free to skip their regular social studies classes. A propaganda film, produced by the Defense Department, was juxtaposed against presentations by those opposing the war.

During basketball and football games and at school assemblies, most students stayed seated during the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance to show support for the civil rights movement and to protest the war. Under the Ralph administration, students who had done this were suspended. But Hanawalt changed that policy. Like most of my friends, I chose to remain seated.

In class, Mr. Nagel handed out a sheet with information about a 1943 U.S. Supreme Court decision affirming the right of Jehovah’s Witnesses to refuse to salute the American flag and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I later learned that Mr. Nagel had put the same sheet in the mailboxes of the other teachers.

In Mr. Nagel’s class, minority students, especially African Americans, spoke unguardedly about their personal encounters with racism. I felt emboldened to write an essay about the awkwardness I felt as a Chinese American navigating between two cultures. More than two decades later, I had lunch with Mr. Nagel in Chinatown. He returned the original paper to me.

Another influential instructor was Mr. Robert Maestas, my Spanish teacher. We addressed him as “Señor Maestas.” At first, I regarded him as just another foreign language instructor whose assignments I had to endure as the price of graduation.

But after protests by Black students, his classroom persona transformed. He took time out from his usual rapid-fire Spanish drills to discuss the plight of Mexican American farm workers. He talked movingly about his own experiences as a Chicano. He apologized profusely for shortchanging us on the drills, but he said he believed that what was happening in the community was more important than the teaching of Spanish. Prior to this, I didn’t think Mr. Maestas was much different from the young white woman who was my Spanish teacher in an earlier grade. I had assumed, as did many other students, that he was from Spain. His skin coloring was light. He wore a suit and tie and highly polished black shoes, and he smelled of cologne. But now I saw him in a totally different light—as an American, just like me. I didn’t know what to make of it.

When I met one-on-one with Mr. Maestas to discuss my grade for the term, I hoped I might get lucky and squeak by with a C. My coursework had been mediocre. I hadn’t contributed during the crucial classroom conversations and drills. He began by asking me about my background as a Chinese American. I didn’t volunteer much beyond saying that my parents were immigrants and that I worked in a Chinatown restaurant.

He nodded, then asked, “Ronald, what grade do you expect to get from this class?” I paused, lowering my gaze. “Maybe a C.”

He grinned, then said, “How about if I give you a B. Are you okay with that?”

I took a deep breath. I didn’t say a word. I tried not to smile. He waited patiently. Gathering myself, I finally blurted, “Sure, a B is okay with me.”

He interjected, “If you don’t think it’s fair, I’m happy to raise that. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I believe in the grading system anyway.” I didn’t want to get greedy. I reiterated that a B was fine. When I got my report card, I was startled to find that he had given me an A.

It didn’t surprise me that several years after I had taken his Spanish class, Mr. Robert Maestas reappeared in the news as Roberto Maestas, the leader of a group of Chicanos who had taken over the abandoned Beacon Hill Elementary School, my old grade school. The group demanded that the city turn the property over to the community to develop as a service center for the growing Latino population. By this time, Mr. Maestas dispensed with his Establishment suit and tie. He allowed his thick, wavy hair to grow out. He sported a full beard. He had a colorful bandana around his head. He dressed in a black leather jacket, flannel work shirt, flared jeans, and dark shades.

The one teacher with the biggest impact on me was Mrs. Alice Allen, a young, chic African American language arts instructor with a huge Afro that covered most of her forehead and the tops of her ears. I took her creative writing course as a senior. She had an upbeat teaching style. One assignment was to write a poem that included all the senses: touch, sound, sight, smell, and taste. I titled my poem, “Wind.” I described the wind moving through the trees, “rushing up my nostrils,” producing a “sweet, flowing earthy” smell, tasting “mildly refreshing, yet somewhat hollow and transient.” The prose was overwrought, yet Mrs. Allen, recognizing my effort and sincerity, wrote on my paper, “You have a nice flair for writing.”

I also wrote a short prose piece about sitting in the grass against a tree as evening approached, surrounded by a breeze, birds and insects, watching “only the morose form of a moon pinned against a canvas of pure ebony.” She gave me an A, writing at the top of the page, “Beautiful, Ron. You have a definite feeling for nature in all its forms. Are you city-bred?” My self-confidence grew. I composed short stories and poems over the summer.

Privately, I yearned for an imaginary kind of peace that eluded me. The social unrest, conflicts at home and adolescent blues were too much. I sank into brief waves of depression. I suffered excruciating migraine headaches. It sometimes took every particle of willpower to lift myself out of bed to go to school. Writing helped me regain my bearings.

We will reprint the rest of this chapter in our next issue of the Quaker Times

Ron Chew, reporter and editor at the International Examiner (1975 – 1988); organizer of the Chinese Oral History Project of Seattle in 1990; executive director of the Wing Luke Museum from 1991 to 2008; scholar in residence in the museology department at the University of Washinton; and founder of Chew Communications, a community history and resource development consulting firm in Seattle.

Ron Chew’s (’71) My Unforgotten Seattle

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