Most of us have heard the terms “rumor mill” or “rumor central” — as if there’s a place on Earth where mischievous creatures cackle and wink as they manufacture stories out of whole cloth.
Well, there was such a place in 1965, and I was part of it, along with my co-conspirator Bob Bird. We were high school students on the staff of The Pirates Pages, the school newspaper at Antilles High, San Juan, Puerto Rico. Antilles was an excellent English language high school, the mascot being pirates, of course.
Our newspaper staff met every afternoon at the end of the school day. An article would be submitted to Mrs. Aumiller, our beloved English teacher, who whipped out her trusty red pen for editing. Then the article traveled next door to seventh-period typing class.
One day, Bob and I made up a bogus story, with a couple of deliberate errors we corrected in red, and shot it next door to the typists, bypassing Mrs. Aumiller. The story never appeared in The Pirates Pages because we intercepted it as it was returned from typing class.
We were awestruck by the results. Not only did the typing class accept the story as true — otherwise, why would it be submitted to appear in the school newspaper? — but even more amazing was the speed with which the “news” spread throughout our school by word of mouth.
Bob and I decided this was great fun, and did it again. And again. The stories kept getting a little bigger every time, testing to see what the gullibility limits were. We realized, after a while, that there were no limits, at least none we could discern. The typists seemed to relish their role in breaking big news. Bob and I simply accommodated them.
Although we started many rumors, I can only recall three of them. One involved a disgraced music teacher, fired the previous year. Antilles High School was abuzz with the news we provided that he’d been bitten by a rabid bat in Alaska.
Bob and I decided to throw caution to the wind, and came up with a real whopper. Most schools in San Juan were Catholic, requiring uniforms. Attending a non-Catholic school, Antilles students were proud of their freedom to dress however they wanted: shorts, sandals, surfer duds, you name it.
So our next newspaper article broke the news that, next year, school uniforms would be required. And not cool or sexy uniforms, no sir. Brown lace shoes, brown pants or skirts, green tops and brown beanies.
This did not go over well. Students were outraged, and soon parents were outraged as well. Teachers were pummeled with questions: Whose idea was this? Why wasn’t the PTA consulted? Why the sudden need for uniforms? Teachers were as perplexed as anyone, and Mr. Parker, the principal, couldn’t help because he was off the island for a two-week conference at Northwestern University.
When Mr. Parker returned to Antilles, it was as if a hornet’s nest had dropped on his head. Teachers as well as parents demanded answers. His denial just made things worse; no one believed him since everyone “knew” it was true. No one seemed to recall the origin was an article supposedly written for The Pirates Pages but never published!
Frustrated beyond belief, the principal finally called a student assembly. He vehemently declared the school uniform requirement was a rumor, not a shred of truth to it. He also threatened to find the source of the rumor and mete out punishment. Bob and I sat in the back of the assembly, amazed we were getting out of class to hear the school principal try to squash one of our rumors.
By the end of the school year, panic over the school uniform rumor had dissipated and Mr. Parker was calm again, so Bob and I decided to write one final rumor article and then retire. The article would be so outlandish it would be impossible for people to believe it.
Back in the 1960s, students purchased “student body cards,” which were like school ID cards. For a modest fee they allowed admission to school activities like football games and dances. The cost of an Antilles student body card had recently increased from $4 to $5, bringing about a ridiculous amount of complaining, hand-wringing and gnashing of teeth.
So of course Bob and I wrote an article revealing the cost of student body cards the next school year would increase from $5 to $25. The reason given for the huge increase: construction of a brand new “Piratorium,” which would be the biggest building in Puerto Rico when completed in five years. So big, in fact, our football field would be on the second floor.
Bob and I made the usual red ink edits to the article and passed it next door to the typing class. About 15 minutes later, the typing class teacher came to Mrs. Aumiller, handed her our article and said, “This must be a joke, right?”
Mrs. Aumiller read it, confirmed it was not true and announced, “I’d like to speak with Bob and Dan after class.” She had figured out where all the rumors had been coming from.
“I like you boys,” she said, “but if Mr. Parker finds out you were the ones behind all the mischief … well, he can’t find out. Up until now I didn’t know what was going on, but now that I know, it has to stop. Is that clear?” We nodded.
Just before she left us, I swear I could see a slight smile on her face.
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