August 23 2019
1:40 PM
More Stories
Page width:
Life is like a box of chocolates

Tom Hanks Thursday January 15, 2015    11:02 AM

In 1974, I graduated from Skyline High School in Oakland, California, an underachieving student with lousy SAT scores.

Allowed to send my results to three colleges, I chose MIT and Villanova, knowing such fine schools would never accept a student like me but hoping they'd toss some car stickers my way for taking a shot. I couldn't afford tuition for college anyway.

I sent my final set of stats to Chabot, a community college in nearby Hayward, California, which - because it accepted everyone and was free - would be my alma mater.

For thousands of commuting students, Chabot was our Columbia, Annapolis, even our Sorbonne, offering courses in physics, stenography, car mechanics, certified public accounting, foreign languages, journalism - name the art or science, the subject or trade, and it was probably in the catalogue.

The college had a nursing programme that churned out graduates, sports teams that funnelled athletes to big-time programmes, and parking for a few thousand cars - all free but for the effort and the cost of used textbooks. Classmates included veterans back from Vietnam, women of every marital and maternal status returning to school, middle-aged men wanting to improve their employment prospects and pay packets.

We could get our general education requirements out of the way at Chabot - credits we could transfer to a university - which made those two years an invaluable head start. I was able to go on to the State University in Sacramento (at US$95 a semester, just barely affordable) and study no other subject but my major, theatre arts. After a year there, I moved on, enrolling in a little thing called the School of Hard Knocks, aka Life.

By some fluke of the punch-card computer era, I made Chabot's dean's list taking classes I loved (oral interpretation), classes I loathed (health, a requirement), classes I aced (film as art - like Jean Renoir's Golden Coach and Luis Bunuel's Simon Of The Desert), and classes I dropped after the first hour (astronomy, because it was all maths).

I nearly failed zoology, killing my fruit flies by neglect, but got lucky in an English course, The College Reading Experience. The books of Carlos Castaneda were incomprehensible to me (and still are), but my assigned presentation on the analytic process called structural dynamics was hailed as clear and concise, though I did nothing more than embellish the definition I had looked up in the dictionary.

A public-speaking class was unforgettable for a couple of reasons. First, the assignments forced us to get over our self-consciousness. Second, another student was a stewardess, as flight attendants called themselves in the 70s.

She was studying communications and was gorgeous. She lived not far from me, and when my VW threw a rod and was in the shop for a week, she offered me a lift to class.

I rode shotgun that Monday-Wednesday-Friday totally tongue-tied. Communicating with her one on one was the antithesis of public speaking.

The classes I took at Chabot have rippled through my professional pond. I produced the HBO mini-series John Adams with an outline format I learnt from a pipe-smoking historian, James Coovelis, whose lectures were riveting. Mary Lou Fitzgerald's Studies In Shakespeare taught me how the five-act structures of Richard III, The Tempest and Othello focused their themes.

In Herb Kennedy's Drama In Performance, I read plays like The Hot L Baltimore and Desire Under the Elms, then saw their productions. I got to see the plays he taught, through student rush tickets at the American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco and the Berkeley Repertory Theatre. Those plays filled my head with expanded dreams. I got an A.

Of course, I goofed off between classes, eating French fries and looking at girls; such are the pleasures, too, of schools that cost thousands of bucks a semester. Some hours, I idled away in the huge library that anchored Chabot's oval quad. It was where I first read The New York Times, frustrated by its lack of comics.

If Chabot's library still has its collection of vinyl records, you will find my name repeatedly on the takeout slip of Jason Robards' performance of the monologues of Eugene O'Neill. On Side B, he was Hickey, from The Iceman Cometh, a recording I listened to at least 20 times. When I worked with Robards on the 1993 film Philadelphia, he confessed to recording those monologues at 10 in the morning, after lots and lots of coffee.

United States President Barack Obama hopes to make two years of free community college accessible for up to nine million Americans. I'm guessing the new Congress will squawk at the US$60 billion (S$80 billion) price tag, but I hope the idea sticks, because more veterans - from Iraq and Afghanistan this time - as well as another generation of mothers, single parents and workers who have been out of the job market, need lower obstacles between now and the next chapter of their lives.

High-school graduates without the finances for higher education can postpone taking on big loans and maybe luck into the class that will redefine their life's work. Many lives will be changed.

Chabot College is still in Hayward, though Mr Coovelis, Ms Fitzgerald and Mr Kennedy are no longer there. I drove past the campus a few years ago with one of my kids and summed up my two years there this way: "That place made me what I am today."

Tom Hanks is an actor, producer and director. His 2011 film "Larry Crowne" was inspired by his years at Chabot College.

A version of this op-ed appears in print on January 14, 2015, on page A25 of the New York edition with the headline: I Owe It All to Community College.

Image Search:    |     Last 48 Hours     |     Last 30 Days     |     All Time

Story Search:    |     Last 48 Hours     |     Last 30 Days     |     All Time