“No, but I’m very quick and—”
“And you’d like to be on this team? Son, forget about it.” And his attention went back to the scrimmage.
That was the end of my football aspirations.
The professors at Northwestern were wonderful and the classes were exciting. I was hungry to learn everything I could. The week after I started school, I passed a sign in the corridor that read: “Tryouts tonight. Northwestern Debating Team.” I stopped and stared at it. I knew it was insane and yet I felt compelled to try out.
There is a maxim that death is the number two fear that people have and public speaking is the first. That was certainly so in my case. To me, there was nothing more terrifying than public speaking. But I was obsessed. I had to do everything. I had to keep turning the pages.
When I walked into the designated tryout room, it was filled with young men and women waiting their turn. I took a seat and listened. All the speakers sounded fantastic. They were articulate and spoke fluently, with great confidence.
Finally it was my turn. I got up and walked over to the microphone.
The man in charge said, “Your name?”
“Sidney Schechtel.”
“Your subject?”
I had prepared for this. “Capitalism versus communism.”
He nodded. “Go ahead.”
I began to speak and I thought it was going very well. When I got halfway through my subject, I stopped. I was frozen. I had no idea what came next. There was a long, nervous pause. I mumbled something to end the speech and slunk out, cursing myself.
A student at the door said, “Aren’t you a freshman?”
“That’s right.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Freshmen aren’t allowed on the debating team. You have to be an upperclassman.”
Oh, good, I thought. Now I have an excuse for my failure.
The following morning the names of the winners were posted on the bulletin board. Out of curiosity, I took a look at it. One of the names was “Shekter.” Someone with a name similar to mine had been chosen. At the bottom of the board was a notice that those who had been selected should report at three-thirty in the afternoon to the debate coach.
At four o’clock, I received a telephone call. “Shekter, what happened to you?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “What? Nothing.”
“Didn’t you see the notice to report to the debate coach?”
Shekter. They had gotten my name wrong. “Yes, but I thought— I’m a freshman.”
“I know. We’ve decided to make an exception in your case. We’re changing the rules.”
So I became the first freshman ever to be accepted on the Northwestern Varsity Debating Team.
Another page had turned.
As busy as I forced myself to be, something was still missing. I had no idea what it was. Somehow I felt unfulfilled. I had a deep sense of anomie, a feeling of anxiety and isolation. On the campus, watching the hordes of students hurrying to and from their classes, I thought, They’re all anonymous. When they die, no one will ever know that they lived on this earth. A wave of depression swept over me. I want people to know I’ve been here, I thought. I want people to know I’ve been here. I want to make a difference.
The next day my depression was worse. I felt that I was being smothered by heavy black clouds. Finally, in desperation, I made an appointment to see the college psychologist, to find out what was wrong with me.
On the way to see him, for no reason I started to feel so cheerful that I began to sing aloud. When I reached the entrance of the building where the psychologist was located, I stopped.
I don’t need to see him, I thought. I’m happy. He’ll think I’m crazy.
It was a bad decision. If I had gone to see him, I would have learned that day what I did not find out until many years later.
My depression returned and showed no signs of abating.
Money was getting tighter. Otto was having difficulty getting a job and Natalie was clerking in a department store six days a week. I worked every night in the checkroom and at Afremow’s on Saturday afternoons, but even with what Otto and Natalie earned, it was not enough. By February of 1935, we were far behind on the rent.