Mr Boan was my elementary school principal for the seven years I spent in grade school. In kindergarten, I heard that he spanked kids who were naughty. In addition to his duties as principal, he taught fifth and sixth grade math. During math classes, he instructed his students to work the problems on certain pages of the math book. As we tried to figure out how to solve the problems, Mr. Boan read fiction books to us. I enjoyed hearing him read the stories, but I lost out on two years of basic math. I needed someone to show me how to do the problems. My mind was on the books he read to us, and I could remember all about the stories but nothing about the math problems in the book. Mr. Boan was fat, balding, had cold gray eyes behind his myopic, thick glasses, and his face looked red like he was mad at someone. I didn't care for him, so usually I tried to stay clear of him.
As a fifth grader ( I was too small to play on the basketball team), I sat perched on the monkey bar watching our game against the segregated Mexican school in Anaheim. The principal of each school served as coach for his own team and also served as referee against fouls. This was during the depression and the Chicano boys were skilled, fast, and agile athletes. During the game, in their excitement, the boys yelled back and forth to each other in Mexican Spanish. Mr. Boan saw that his team was not winning, and his face got redder and redder. Finally he stopped the game and bawled out the Mexican kids, and told them they were not allowed to talk Mexican at his school. "I don't care if you talk Mexican at your own school, but you're not gonna talk Mexican at my school." The Mexican principal kept his mouth shut, but I didn't.
“Mr. Boan,” I said as I sat on the elevated monkey bar. “These Mexican boys have a right to speak in their own language.”
Mr. Boan stared at me with hatred. "I've a good mind to slap your face! You get down from that bar and come here to me!"
Mr. Boan held a large clip board he used to keep score on. I approached him, and he swung the clip board in a round house way and slapped me on the side of my face. I didn't cry. I gave him my most cruel, unfriendly, squinty eyed look. Everyone was watching me as I gave my coldest stare and evil eye to Mr. Boan. Then I turned and climbed up to my perch on the monkey bar.
Two years later at Fremont Junior High School, I found myself surrounded by a bunch of Chicano boys who wanted to fight me. One of them recognized me from that time with Mr. Boan, and he ordered the other boys to leave me alone. It turned out, the slap the principal gave me saved me from a beating and perhaps other beatings later on. Some of those Mexican American boys were Pachucos during the nineteen forties. Some of them carried knives or razor blades for fighting.
So, although I did not like the grammer school principle, there was some good that came from knowing him.