Bob Kuhn retired from the hi tech Industry after having started in the power grid tube industry moving to the new semiconductor industry before the name Silicon Valley first evolved. He is now retired with his wife Sue in Calistoga Ca.
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Don't Call Me “Robert”
Don't Call Me “Robert”
Graduating from Primary School and moving on to Beamer School felt like a major promotion. Primary was always called “Baby School,” and after being told I was a “big boy,” attending a school for babies had become socially hazardous. Beamer, at last, meant I had arrived.
Like most milestones, it came with memories—some fond, some painful, and some that still sting when recalled. Beamer was an era when teasing was an art form, pranks were a form of self-expression, and corporal punishment was still not only legal but efficiently administered.
Minor offenses earned a swift “Whack” on the back of the hand. More serious crimes required a visit to the principal’s office, where boys were instructed to drop their pants and receive a decisive whack on the backside with a large leather strap. Girls were spared the pants-dropping, though not the humiliation, and the secretary was always present to ensure propriety. These visits usually included a note home—evidence for the family archives.
Despite the consequences, I found that a good joke was sometimes worth the price.
Many of us came from families that couldn’t afford cafeteria lunches. We watched from a distance as others ate hot meals, breathing in the smells—especially peanut butter cookies—that felt almost cruel in their appeal. One girl, Alice, could afford cafeteria food and occasionally reminded us of it. She also had a speech impediment that made certain consonants a challenge.
On chili day, Alice would announce the menu with great enthusiasm: “Oh, Duddy Titty Beans!” The phrase became irresistible material. I laughed. I teased. I paid for it with another trip to the principal’s office and another whack.
I learned nothing.
On another occasion, Alice was praising the chocolate milk. Determined to take her down a notch, I explained—very confidently—that chocolate milk did not come from cows. Everyone knew, I said, that it came from pigs. Pig snouts, to be precise. I cited my brother-in-law’s dairy as proof.
The reaction was immediate and unforgettable. Alice’s weak stomach betrayed her, and her lunch made a hasty return. I, once again, earned myself a whack. To my great relief, corporal punishment was banned the following year. Progress does happen—eventually.
Halloween that year presented a new challenge. Our costume budget was limited to one old bedsheet, which meant another ghost—hardly prize material. My three sisters came to the rescue with a bold alternative: I could be Rosie the Riveter.
I had no idea who that was, but they did.
They dressed me in my sister Lita’s skirt and blouse, adding strategic toilet-paper enhancements. They drew seam lines up the backs of my legs using a scratchy ink pen—ballpoints were still in the future. My hair became their masterpiece: tight spit curls secured with goo and bobby pins. Heavy mascara, thick rouge, and perfectly shaped red lips followed. A bandana was tied across my forehead. Everything was cinched tight enough to cause a mild headache.
The finishing touch was my sister’s wedgies, padded with paper for a snug fit. When they were done, they stood back, satisfied. Off to school I went, certain victory was mine.
The looks I received were… mixed. There were giggles. There was excitement. Then came the parade, with teachers judging. And then—nothing. No prize. No mention. No acknowledgment whatsoever.
What I did receive was a new nickname: “Sweetie Pie,” used primarily by kids who could beat me up.
The final blow came from my teacher, Henrietta Tootheacre—yes, her real name—who took me aside to tell me how remarkable I looked. She then dropped my given name entirely and christened me “Roberta.”
That was it.
Roberta followed me for the rest of grammar school. Even in high school, the name resurfaced from time to time, just to keep me humble. Fortunately, it never came from boys smaller than me.
Looking back, Beamer School taught me lessons that went well beyond reading and arithmetic. It taught me about embarrassment, resilience, and the lasting power of a nickname. It also taught me that words—once spoken—have a way of sticking far longer than bruises.
And to this day, anyone who suddenly calls me “Robert” still makes my hackles rise. Some lessons never really leave you.
~ Bob Kuhn
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