A Return To Lee High

New Haven’s Richard C. Lee High School (1964 – 1986) was an experiment.

The school was divided into four 400-student ​“houses” intended to create smaller schools within a big one. The school was built in in four quadrants in the Brutalist style by big-name architects Roche Dinkeloo.

The roof leaked. The classrooms were windowless. The central library became a Grand Central Station as hundreds of students moved between houses during the three minutes between classes. Students had to go outdoors to get to the gym. 

In a deliberate effort at integration, the school drew from three distinct and geographically separate neighborhoods — Black and Puerto Rican students from the Hill, Italians from Morris Cove, Jews (and assorted Christians) from Westville.

That third element was clear at the September 2024 induction ceremony for the Lee High School Hall of Fame: Two Jews (including me), two Italians, one Eastern European Catholic, one Hispanic, and nine African Americans.

To set the scene, a couple hundred people gathered in the sunshine on the outdoor patio of Anthony’s Ocean View in Morris Cove. Several of the women, and at least one man, wore purple outfits in a celebration of one of the school colors. (I asked one of the women if she had the dress already or bought for the occasion. ​“Bought it for this,” she said.) 

I regretted not wearing a purple tie. A trumpeter — band teacher at a New Haven elementary school — played. People huddled in groups, mostly with folks they knew. A few hugs and embraces as high school classmates reconnected. A handful of teachers, a couple of them in well into their 80s, enthusiastically greeted former students they hadn’t seen in decades.

As we moved inside, Stu Katz, the organizer, told me that each of the honorees needed an escort and would be introduced ​“debutante-style” though he assured me we didn’t have to twirl. My wife stayed home, so my sister, Lois, Lee ​’80, agreed to take my arm. 

We were asked to line up alphabetically, an exercise in frustration for the woman trying to get us in order. I was behind ​“Warner” and before ​“Williams.” For some reason, Paul ​“Hollywood” Henderson was at the end of the line. Each couple descended a spiral staircase into the ballroom, was announced with a flourish, walked along a strangely short red carpet (recalling an episode from Parks & Rec) and then posed for pictures. Then we took seats at our tables. The two tables of Jews were in one corner. Sort of like the Lee High School cafeteria back in the day.

Because Rick Colon, the chief operating officer of Dunkin’, is a Lee grad, the donut-and-coffee company’s sponsorship was everywhere. Each seat place had a box of two donuts, sprinkled in the school colors of purple and gold, and a $5 Dunkin gift card.

At my table, my brother Bruce and our friend Cathy nibbled at the donuts as the awards ceremony delays the call to the buffet for a couple of hours. We were restless.

Then the speeches started. Each honoree was given two or three minutes, some took that seriously, some went longer. Pete Evans, the former Lee basketball coach, was the MC and the cast of inductees was athlete-heavy, perhaps because the selection was made by a vote of the alumni association. I quipped to my siblings that I was the token non-athlete in the bunch. 

I’m class of 1971, and most of the honorees were younger than me so they didn’t mention or even recall the tension in New Haven during the 1960s and 1970s: Black Panther trials; the chair-throwing in the cafeteria that brought the police to patrol the halls; the young, enthusiastic, and idealistic teachers, some of whom used teaching in an urban school to avoid the Vietnam War draft.

But beyond the Oscar-like thank you lists, the shout-outs to family members, the thanks to God, honorees offered a kaleidoscope of experiences. One had been a TV sportscaster. Another an Ivy League basketball all-star turned tax accountant. A DC public-interest lawyer. A special ed teacher. A couple of awardees were former Lee High teachers who doubled as coaches who, the speeches testified, played a significant role in their players’ lives. 

Hollywood Henderson, Class of ​’82, recalled coach John ​“Buddy” Chernovetz, another inductee to the Hall of Fame, running across the street to a nearby housing project (“the jungle,” he called it) to bring wayward students back to school. ​“Eventually, the gangsters had to have a meeting [and asked], ​‘Who is this white guy who keeps coming over here and telling us what to do?’” 

I choose not to thank anyone and instead read the speech I gave at my 1971 graduation. (“Our nation professes a goal to educate all Americans. If we truly want to do this, we must nationally commit ourselves…”) It felt disturbingly current to me. From the quiet reaction, I’m not sure the audience agreed. Maybe a middle name would have helped. Given my three-plus decades as a reporter, perhaps David ​“The Scribe” Wessel would have drawn a louder response.

Cedric ​“Say Hey” Robinson, Class of ​’80, spoke late in the program. He is a big, burly man in a bright white sports coat, black shirt and gold chain. It had been a long afternoon and I winced when he describes himself as a man of few words and prepared for more than that. The program gave a sanitized version of his bio: He was captain of the basketball team, became a correctional officer, won a citation for chasing and capturing an inmate who escaped from the local jail, and now counsels middle-school students.

“What my bio doesn’t say …” he began. Robinson was born in Birmingham, Alabama. After the church bombing that killed four girls, his parents decided to move north to New Haven. After his parents split up, he, his mom, and his younger brother moved to Akron, Ohio, where he went to six schools in six years. They returned to New Haven. When he started at Troup Middle School, his problems began. ​“I ran into the local bully,” he said. ​“He was from Ashmun Street. I won’t say his name.“ Apparently he was notorious because someone shouted out the name. ​“I had to fight him every day or join the gang.”

One day, he had enough. He took two kitchen knives from the drawer and headed for school. His mother noticed and called the police, who met him at school. He was locked up in juvenile detention for more than six months. ​“That’s where I learned to play basketball,” he said.

When he returned home, he discovered that his brother had been taking care of the house. There was a new TV and plenty of groceries. On Saturday morning, he heard a lot of hollering from the basement. He went to investigate, and the door was locked. He knocked. ​“Security” blocked from him entering. He told ​“security” to tell his brother who is at the top of the stairs. He was admitted and discovered his brother was running a gambling game in the basement.

And who was ​“security?” Robinson pointed to a table off to the left side of the room and shouted: Gary Highsmith! Highsmith, Class of ​’83, stood and raised his hand in acknowledgement. Highsmith, also an honoree, is now superintendent of schools in Hamden. The crowd roared.

Robinson wasn’t done, though. He talked with admiration and affection about the Lee High basketball coach (“the hippie with long hair”). He described the work he does today with middle-school students. The chess club he started. The trips to Disney World. Food drives. ​“I didn’t have anybody to talk to when I was in trouble,” he said. ​“You should never give up on any child.”

When the buffet opened, people lined up at food stations and looked for long-ago classmates from long ago. After the induction ceremony, we were all prouder than ever to calls ourselves graduates of Lee High School. Preparing to leave, I peeked into the Dunkin’ branded Yeti cooler that each awardee received. Nestled in the bottom — ten $5 Dunkin’ gift cards.

David Wessel is a Pulitzer Prize-winning author and financial commentator, and a 2024 inductee into the Lee High School Hall of Fame.