Examples from the history of a life might answer the question of whether we are born or made. Whether we are screwed up from the start, unscrew ourselves, or are unscrewed with the help of others.

Some of us are wise, brave, and kind from the start, of course.

Nonetheless, youth can be a screwing-up experience all by itself. Though some of the time is wonderful, everything is new, lots of mistakes are made, and an audience of endless judgment seems ever-present.

Moreover, there is this:

The General Science teacher in the first year of high school was Sidney Rothstein. Here was a man over 40, tall, built to the point of rugged muscularity, and displaying a presence not to be messed with.

Mr. R. introduced himself by telling the class that he might make blunders when grading the tests he prepared and scored. Sid followed up this admission of imperfection by saying we should tell him if we found any such errors.

Then came the kicker. The haughty figure added that if his mistakes were found, he would not change our grade.

Adults, it seemed to me at the time, were creatures as strange and inexplicable as children—maybe more.

Earlier on, as a small boy, an unspoken concern occurred to me: Why was I me? Why weren’t my thoughts in another body, within a different person, or perhaps lodged in someone in the world’s past or future?

The 15th century came to mind for no particular reason.

Later I learned about evolution, but the existential question remained unanswered. In its way, this might have been my first thought about the randomness of human existence.

I don’t recall any of this being mentioned in Biology class, and I never raised the issue there. I do, however, remember one incident. It was the day Afton Scroggins, our teacher and a man of the South, turned back our first graded test.

He had written a note on mine.

I would have had 100%, but he took off a few points because I didn’t write my homeroom number at the top of the page. Yes, he had required us to do this. My failure taught me to listen to instructions with care and attend to details.

At age 14, a new friend showed me the condom he carried in his wallet. This was before any kid I knew had experience with sex. I suppose it was a kind of badge of honor or a sign of hope—the hope he would get lucky.

Another complicating factor in our imaginary love lives was walking to the pharmacy to buy a prophylactic. There was no internet to ease the purchase. The potential face-to-face embarrassment made it feel like a death march.

We lacked both the item and someone to use it with. The never-before-attempted process of finding a comely, compatible, and cooperative female heightened the emotional whirlwind.

Plus, do realize, sex was in our brains, in our body, implied in TV ads, in our eyes, taking us over, and everywhere inescapable. Unyielding, unstoppable, and relentless.

Sigmund Freud described another part of our problem. “What do women want?” he wrote, but never provided a satisfying answer.

My buddies and I shared puzzlement about how to approach the girls we knew, but were just as clueless as Dr. Sigmund. His death in 1939 prevented us from asking his help in getting a condom. Geez, I thought—at least he could have left us some guidance about that.

The early 1960s, prior to the Sexual Revolution, presented us with the connection between the words condom and condemn. What would the pharmacist say? What would a neighbor or our parents say if they found out?

I knew what the Catholic priest would say, and I wasn’t even Catholic.

Most of us were paralyzed by all this—daunted for as long as it lasted.

Years later, at a high school reunion, a female friend from days past said the girls were waiting at the telephone, wondering why they weren’t being called.

Upon the further awakening of our bodies and entering the playing field of dating, we also addressed the issue of unprotected sex, possible impregnation of the female, and even disease.

Theoretically.

For a while there was talk of the rhythm method of birth control.

As for myself, I wasn’t sure I could keep a beat.

Somehow one survives high school, but at the time it is like running the gauntlet.

We were, without doubt, a studious and thoughtful bunch. I’d guess most of us were preoccupied with possibilities, many of which might lead to some form of public or private humiliation.

The males who were less reflective had a better chance of engagement in the various forms of youthful romance. That, and any of us who became the target of a take-charge young woman’s desire for sexual experimentation.

On the plus side, though we might have been slow to get to the erotic firing line, we did well in school. Three of our group of 10 earned Ph.Ds., two J.Ds., one M.D., plus a veterinarian. The remaining three, every bit as bright, all obtained Master’s degrees.

Better still, we created a college scholarship fund in the year 2000 at our alma mater. By the time we dissolved it about 16 years later, we had awarded over a quarter of a million dollars to needy students, more money than the other 50+ graduating classes had donated in the school’s history.

Combined.

Is there a moral to this story?

Simple. We were lucky, learned to play fair, and were born at the right moment in history. Our group had decent working-class parents, lived in a land of opportunity, and discovered how to open doors for ourselves and, later, for others.

Because it was right. Because it was our responsibility and still is.

Back to my childhood question about why my being and identity—the me in the body that carried me—didn’t live in the 15th century and belong to someone else.

I’m sure I wouldn’t have been involved in creating a college scholarship program or becoming a clinical psychologist. What I’d have missed most, however, were the 10 teen friends I made five centuries ahead, nine of whom survive, and seven of whom stay in touch today, over 60 years later.

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All of the images are sourced from Wikimedia Commons. At the top is a Plastic Dowel for Screw by Emilian Robert Vicol.