Saturday, July 22, 2017

Student of the Month Nightmare

This is something I wrote for a monthly gathering to honor some of the best students at our school. I figure most teachers will relate:

I was grading papers late last night—and had already polished off my second Twix bar—because I hate grading papers and have to reward myself with sugar to make the process palatable. (I also eat four cookies each day at school for lunch. But this story is not about sugar addiction.) So let’s continue.

Anyway, it was well past midnight and not a creature was stirring in the Viall house.  You could have heard the Twix wrappers rustling if you listened. I was exhausted and needed rest.

Bleary-eyed from reading seventh-grade essays, I threw myself into bed and was soon fast asleep. 

At some point in the night I had a terrifying dream. I found myself in front of a classroom filled with seventh graders. Mist floated across the floor. There was a chill in the air.

Instinctively, I shivered under the covers. 

Then, in my mind’s eye, I looked closely at the pupils in front of me. They looked pale and deathly, zombie-like. I heard myself say, “Time to turn in your homework.”

The zombies chanted, “We don’t have it. We never do homework.”

“We’re all DEAD,” explained one of the corpse-like figures. He waved his ghoulish hand about, as if to indicate his peers, but a finger broke loose and flew across the room, landing on another zombie’s desk. 

A third ghostly figure explained, “I didn’t do the work. I forgot what page the questions were on. My mother says I have A.D.H.D. and can’t be expected to do any homework.”

“You never gave me the assignment, Mr. Viall,” another zombie-student claimed.

“I did. I did too,” I mumbled in my sleep.

“Can I go to my locker? I think I left my homework in my math folder,” said yet another pale dream student.

“Can I go to the bathroom now,” interrupted one of the near-dead. “When a zombie has to go a zombie has to go,” she added rudely.

“I didn’t do my work either,” said a male zombie in the back. “What do you expect? I’m a stupid zombie.”

“Shut up, you retard,” shouted the rude and also politically incorrect zombie girl.

Two other zombies were doodling on their notebooks and not paying attention to a word my dream-self said. 

At that moment Brent, one of the least motivated of the walking dead arrived late for class. “What’s your excuse for being tardy?” I asked with a pained look.

“I’m a zombie,” he replied. “We don’t move fast. We sort of shamble and stagger along, moaning as we go.”

“History is boring,” grumbled another gore-covered student.  “And you’re old and wrinkled,” he added with a leer.

Like I said: it was a bad dream…too many Twix bars…but even in a dream that hurt….

Then I looked again and rubbed my eyes. In the left rear corner of the classroom was a smiling young lady. She had long blonde hair and she looked like she was there to learn. And she had her paper ready to turn in; in fact, she was passing it up to the front of the room now. She handed it to the nearest zombie, who was wearing a cheerleader’s costume, who passed it to the zombie seated in front of her, who passed it forward to the zombie in the Devon Still jersey. (That’s a zombie with a heart right there, my subconscious told me.) Then I did a double take and noticed that the Still zombie was missing a leg. 

I took the lonely homework paper—and looked at the name: Hannah L-----.

I seemed to remember her. Wasn’t she the girl who did a great job in the play, Jessica of Troy? Wasn’t she the girl who exploded with delight when we had a fire drill? I never saw that kind of enthusiasm before! What was she doing in this dream?

The zombies seemed to have the same question. “Homework, hoooooooomework,” they moaned. 

The Still-shirted zombie groaned even more loudly, “Steeeeeers….Steeeeeeeeelers.” He seemed agitated, as if his soul could find no rest.

Then from another corner I heard a pleasant voice, “Mr. Viall, I have my homework, too, but I was wondering if the answer to #48 is right.” This girl had brown hair and glasses, and wore a look of concern upon her face. The zombies groaned in unison and shot her evil looks. But she paid them no heed. She was focused and not to be deterred by a few walking dead. 

I rubbed my eyes—at least I thought I did—and recognized…Andrea D-----!

With a start, I sat bolt upright in bed. “%$#@@& *&(^%$,” I shouted. “Today is student of the month.” I forgot to prepare anything. Now what do I do? 

I’ll have to fake it entirely. 

“Hannah and Andrea! I have to talk about both this morning. *&&^^%, I need a donut.” I stumbled toward the bathroom, wondering to myself: How many days till retirement?

Gradually, while I showered, I calmed down. This would be easy. L----- and D-----?

Piece of cake! Darn. That sugar issue, again. 

Two of the coolest students you could have in class. What’s so hard about talking about them? Darn. I hope I don’t have to follow Mr. Sharpless. His songs for Student of the Month gatherings are hilarious. A cream Danish sure would help....Wait, snap out of it, John, this is going to be easy.

Here’s all you have to say: You love having these two young ladies in class. Andrea had a 102 average one quarter but called you at home before a test when she couldn’t find the answer to…#48…on her review sheet. Tell everyone that she is always a hard worker—conscientious, studious, dependable beyond all normal standards, and it’s like having a college student in class. Show the people the puppet of Confucius she did for a project. And L-----?  Explain that she is a young lady who thinks for herself…mature beyond her years…a good athlete…yet hilarious in class, a young lady with a fine sense of humor who keeps you on your toes with her thoughtful insights. L-----…she carries a 100+ average too.

L----- and D-----?  What’s not to like. Just explain that you think both have the talent to become doctors, or college professors, or CEO’s. If either one is valedictorian for this class you won’t be surprised. 

If ever we have a woman president…I’d vote for either one. 

Okay, now I knew I was ready. I looked in the mirror and spoke calmly to my reflection: “Just tell the parents, ‘I love having these two fine young ladies in class.’”


I was fortunate to teach for 34 years and liked almost every one of the 5,000 students who passed my way. 

But it is true: not all of them could be relied on to do their homework.

P. S.: Devon Still was a player for the Cincinnati Bengals. When his daughter Leah, age 3, developed cancer, the team started selling his jersey and donated all proceeds to the fight against childhood cancer.

Countless fans bought #75 Still jerseys and helped raise more than $1 million dollars for a great cause.

P.P.S.: My friend Jeff Sharpless is still doing the same kind of dedicated work millions of teachers do in classrooms across the nation every day. As a teen, he played guitar in a rock band, and as a teacher managed to create hysterical songs for all kinds of occasions, including a play we worked on together, called Jessica of Troy. (It was the story of how Jessica Simpson beat out Helen to win the title of the most beautiful woman in the world, and how the Greeks and Trojans later rumbled.

Hector takes a spear to the neck (student artwork).

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Donald Trump in Kindergarten

The young tyke sitting before her was unlike any kindergartner Mrs. Nixon, a veteran of 35 years in the classroom, had ever dealt with before. Once again, Donald was accused of causing serious trouble. Sometimes problems exploded in the lunchroom. He tripped, shoved and insulted other little children on playground. In class the boy was often disruptive and disrespectful.

She had seen and heard him insult and bully others during math and science and reading. Yet, when she cautioned him for his behavior, it was never his fault. He said those who complained about him were “liars” and “losers.”

“Donald,” she now said to the boy, “Juan says you made called him a wetback at lunch yesterday.”

“Who are you going to believe,” the little fellow responded. “Me? Or that Mexican? You know all Mexicans are criminals. His mother probably sells drugs.”

The teacher took a deep breathe. “Donald, you know it isn’t nice to mock Juan or anyone else. Remember the time you made Carli cry?”

Donald shrugged. “I told the truth. Can you imagine looking at that face of hers in the mirror every morning?” Then he shuddered in theatrical fashion. Apparently, he thought he was being cute.

“Donald…You know, several students say yesterday at recess you grabbed Brandi in a place where no little boy should ever grab a little girl.”

“One hundred percent fabricatedThat’s a word my Daddy taught me. Besides, we’re rich. That means I can do whatever I want. Daddy says I can get away with anything I do. Because, we are really rich!”

 “I’ve also been told you made fun of Serge during art class, Mrs. Nixon tried. You know Serge has a serious handicap.”

“He’s a stupid spastic. He can’t even finger paint,” Donald laughed,mimicking Serge’s flailing hand gestures. “Pretty good imitation, huh?” Donald asked with a smirk.

For a moment, Mrs. Nixon rubbed her forehead gently with her right hand. She had been trying for months to help Donald see how cruel his behavior was. She thought back to the day he tripped Megyn on an asphalt playground and she tore up her skirt and both knees. When accosted by the playground monitor, Donald replied, “She tripped me first. And if someone trips me, I trip them back ten times harder. He had laughed at the time over the monitor’s concern, saying of Megyn, “You could see blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever…”

The playground lady had simply pointed out that several children had watched Donald attack Megyn without reason. James watched him push her. “He’s a liar,” Donald had said, “and a nut job.” Ted also told the monitor Megyn was the innocent victim. “Lyin’ Ted,” the Trump boy had replied.

Now, Mrs. Nixon found herself at a loss for words. “Donald,” she offered, “how about if I mention some of your classmates by name and you think of something nice to say about each one? Could you try?”

The little boy narrowed his eyes and a scowl formed on his face.

“Barack,” Mrs. Nixon began.

“Not even born in this country! He’s a Muslim. And all Muslims are bad. And we should torture them. After 9/11, I saw a tape of thousands of Muslims celebrating in New Jersey when this country was attacked.”

An observer might have noticed that Mrs. Nixon blanched. “Donald,” she replied calmly, “no one else has ever seen the tape you claim you saw…”

She stopped short. She tried again: “Mika?”

“Dumb as a box of rocks.”


“Hes a psycho.


“She’s a dog,” Donald sneered. “She’s ugly inside and out.”


“A fat pig.”


“A total clown. Low-class slob.”


“A wacko.”


“He’s no hero.”

“Donald,” Mrs. Nixon felt almost compelled to interject, “you know he told you not to insult the lunch lady when you mocked her after her son was killed in an accident. You backed down and wouldn’t fight. You said you couldn’t because your feet hurt.”

“He’s still no hero,” Donald fumed. He hated to be reminded of his own cowardly actions.

 “Bernie?” Mrs. Nixon began again.



“A total joke.”


“Overrated. The other kids think she was so great in the Christmas play! She’ll never be a real actress.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Nixon said softly. “Donald,” she tried again, “you have insulted almost the entire kindergarten class. You said we needed a wall around the playground to keep immigrants out. You said the other children would have to give up their lunch money to pay for it. Or you hoped they’d be deported.”

“I never cause trouble,” Donald whined. “Everyone hates me. They’re jealous. The other kids are losers. Scum. Animals. Thugs. They’re sick, biased, stupid, pathetic and sad! They are weak. They are weak and sad!!! I don’t need to apologize for anything. Everyone else is wrong.”

Mrs. Nixon groaned, as if in pain. 

She wasn’t sure what to do—except maybe retire as soon as possible. She couldn’t be sure what would become of Donald in years to come but she worried about what he’d be like as an adult. If he didn’t change his ways, he’d be absolutely insufferable. She blinked once, twice, and told him he could go outside for the remainder of recess.

Just as he reached the door, little fellow wheeled and said, “You know, you’re not a very good teacher. You’re old and your hair is unstylish. My father is rich. He can get you fired and you’ll lose your crappy job. You’re another loser.”

And with that the little shit vanished down the hall. 

Outside, on the playground, he studied the situation with a certain sly ability. He was looking for a fresh target, someone new and weak to attack.

Ah, why not knock down that kid with cerebral palsy! “Hey, you gimpy cripple,” little Donald shouted.

Yeah, he thought to himself.
Nobody tells little Donald J. Trump what he can and can’t do.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

A Watergate Refresher for 2017

Whether or not you like President Trump or not, even if you’re ambivalent, I thought a few teachers might be interested in this story of Watergate which I wrote for my students twenty years ago.

Current references to the “Saturday Night Massacre” and the need for a special prosecutor might have students today asking questions.

Feel free to copy and use it if you like (or email me and Ill gladly send you a copy of the original Word document:

An Affair Called Watergate

A few days before President Richard M. Nixon left office in disgrace, an advisor tried to cheer him. History would mark him as one of our great presidents, the aide predicted. 

A gloomy Nixon could only reply, “That depends, Henry, on who writes the history.”


If you ask people what they remember about President Nixon’s time in office today, most of what he did right is forgotten. The Watergate Affair is what they are likely to mention. Nixon is the only president ever impeached and driven from office before his term ended.[1]

His downfall began with a botched burglary at “The Watergate” building in Washington, D. C. It was there, on June 17, 1972, that a night watchman with a flashlight noticed something unusual. The locks on several doors, including those in the offices of the National Democratic Party were taped open. Police were called and five burglars rounded up. 

Normally, burglary isn’t national news. This was no ordinary break-in. The suspects carried $1,754 in cash, along with cameras and film. They had sophisticated equipment for tapping phones and recording conversations. One burglar, James McCord, had worked for the C.I.A. Even stranger, police found this notation in his address book: “Howard E. Hunt, W. House.”

From the start police were suspicious. Why would burglars break into the headquarters of the Democrat Party? Could McCord’s note mean the White House? Could the suspects be spying on Democrats because 1972 was an election year? Who had hired them and turned them loose? 

The next day White House staff members spoke to reporters. No one who worked for the President, they said, knew anything about the break-in. President Nixon shrugged it off as a “third-rate burglary.” Then he assured reporters there was no reason for concern. Everyone, from the President down, seemed surprised. Almost all of them were lying.


            Today we know what was involved. Nothing added up in the summer of 1972. Nixon had been elected four years earlier, partly on a promise to end the Vietnam War. (Lyndon Johnson, president before him, had been attacked over handling of the fighting in Vietnam. Johnson took criticism so hard he decided not to run for reelection in 1968.) Even after Nixon took office, however, the war dragged on and on. The list of dead grew with each week. 

Americans who believed the government had made a mistake by leading us to war turned on the new man in the White House. In 1970 there were anti-war protests on college campuses across the country. Four student protestors were killed at Kent State University (Ohio) when National Guard troops opened fire. In 1971 thousands of peace marchers flooded the streets of Washington, D. C. They threatened to “shut the government down” unless bloodshed ended. Americans who weren’t sure what to think had real doubts about the war.

Criticism of Mr. Nixon mounted. With the election of 1972 approaching, he seemed unable to end the fighting.

We couldn’t win the war; but the President refused to accept defeat, to be part of what he said would be a “cowardly retreat.” He insisted the United States must have “peace with honor.” Nixon chose to increase pressure on the enemy. American warplanes rained bombs on North Vietnamese targets. Fighting spilled over into neighboring Cambodia. The President had promised to end the war. Instead, it seemed to grow. Meanwhile, Daniel Ellsberg, who once worked for the U.S. government, added fuel to the debate. Secretly, Ellsberg removed thousands of pages of documents from government files. These papers he handed over to reporters. Soon known as “The Pentagon Papers,” the documents seemed to show that U.S. leaders before Nixon took office had failed to tell the truth about the war and had overstated our chances of winning.

American troops had been fighting in Vietnam for nearly a decade. Voters were weary. Democrats who planned to run for president in 1972 increased attacks on Nixon, questioning his handling of the war.

Hadn’t he had four years to find a solution? Wasn’t it clear he had failed? Why not elect someone new and let them end the war?

Senator George McGovern, for one, claimed he could stop the fighting “twenty-four hours” after he was sworn in as president. Opinion polls that summer indicated that Nixon might lose the election in November.


So, what went wrong? In his heart, President Nixon believed anti-war protests were hurting U. S. chances for victory in Vietnam. The enemy would not give up, he argued, if they thought the United States might quit first. Nixon was angered by the criticism—and considered Ellsberg nothing less than a traitor. More importantly, the President believed if America backed down in Vietnam we would lose respect round the globe. To the President and his advisors the danger seemed clear. For the good of the country, to insure our nation’s strength, Nixon had to be reelected. The protestors and Democratic rivals had to be silenced—had to be put out of action—even if that meant drastic action. 

Government agents received secret instructions to begin tapping phones and opening mail of anti-war individuals and organizations.

Newspaper writers who criticized Nixon had their phones bugged, too, all these actions taken without search warrants.

John Erlichman and Charles Colson, top White House aides, ordered several illegal break-ins, what became known as “black bag jobs.” The office of Ellsberg’s psychiatrist was raided in an effort to gather information that would make him appear “sick” or crazy. These actions were clearly illegal. The men who worked for Nixon, however, felt justified. They were acting for the “good” of the country. Ellsberg and those who leaked material to reporters were a threat—to the safety of America—or, so said Nixon’s men. They even coined their own nickname: “The Plumbers.” In an effort to stop “leaks” of information to the press, they repeatedly broke the law.

            As Election Day approached, questionable activities multiplied. In the spring of 1972 it looked like Senator Edmund Muskie, a Democrat from Maine, would be Nixon’s strongest challenger. A Committee to Re-elect the President (CREEP), was set up by some of the President’s allies and swung into action. Donald Segretti and several young political workers were hired to harass and damage Muskie’s campaign any way they could.

            On one occasion, Segretti put in a fake order for 200 pizzas to be delivered to a Muskie campaign dinner. That might sound funny; but more serious tricks quickly followed. Fake campaign literature was passed out. Supposedly, it laid out Muskie’s positions on various issues. Materials were written to make him sound bad, like someone you wouldn’t want for your president. Important records turned up missing from his office. Fake callers cancelled meetings and changed plane reservations. A fake letter to a newspaper ruined Senator Muskie’s campaign for good.    

Nixon encouraged top aides to gather information on Senator Ted Kennedy, another possible challenger. A private detective was hired to look into details of a car accident involving Kennedy in 1969, during which a young lady drowned. Colson turned up a picture of Kennedy, who was married, leaving a night club with a hot blonde. It was printed in several papers. Nixon congratulated Colson for his work. Colson moved on to more questionable activities. Once he hired several men to pose as homosexuals and stand outside Senator McGovern’s meetings. Pretending to support McGovern for president, Colson knew their presence would cause many Americans to vote against McGovern instead.

            Laws on the collection and use of money in elections were broken in various ways. Several companies secretly donated as much as $250,000 to CREEP.[2] Nixon overstepped the rules, himself, asking the Internal Revenue Service to check the tax returns of individuals who questioned his handling of the war. If people on an “enemies list” the White House now kept could be caught in mistakes it might silence their criticism.


            Before June 17, 1972 these activities were mostly secret. Now, with the arrest of five Watergate burglars, the White House had problems. The original burglars and G. Gordon Liddy who helped with the break-in and was arrested shortly thereafter, knew plenty. Some of Nixon’s closest advisors had knowledge of the break-in plan. The trail led right to (and possibly through) the door to the Oval Office. Police investigations soon showed a direct connection between the burglars and Howard Hunt. Hunt had an office in the White House. Liddy and McCord were on the CREEP payroll. CREEP was headed by John Mitchell, Nixon’s personal friend.

            Fearing the investigation might spread like cancer the White House decided their best bet was to “cover up.” The day after the burglary, Mitchell lied, denying any connection to the men arrested. The day after that one of Mitchell’s workers, a lawyer named Jeb Magruder, asked what to do with notes that might prove CREEP knew what was going on. Mitchell’s reply: “Maybe you ought to have a little fire at your house tonight.”

            John Erlichman, second in line to leadership of the White House staff, panicked when the F.B.I. joined the case. Erlichman had been deeply involved with Hunt and Liddy. He knew about the Ellsberg burglary. Now he ordered John Dean, President Nixon’s personal lawyer, to empty the safe in Hunt’s White House office. Dean did what he was told but not before putting on a pair of surgical gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints.  What about the evidence in the safe? What should he do with it? Erlichman told Dean to “deep-six” the contents. He should dump everything in the Potomac River. Dean, like several top men at CREEP, got busy with a paper-shredder. Box after box of evidence turned to confetti.

            Despite these cover-up efforts, reporters kept sniffing. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who wrote for the Washington Post, did more than anyone to break the story. Early on, a secretary at CREEP warned them privately, “The whole thing is being very well covered up and nobody will ever know what happened.” Then the two reporters uncovered a key lead. CREEP officers had used a secret fund of $350,000 to pay for illegal activities. Another source, deep inside the F.B.I., began providing them with a variety of leads.[3] Woodward and Bernstein picked up Donald Segretti’s trail. A friend who worked for the phone company checked records for them—ironically, in illegal fashion. Segretti had used a credit card to call Hunt and Dwight Chapin at the White House.

            Chapin was Nixon’s private secretary.

            As early as June 23, 1972—six days after the break-in—Nixon made a fatal decision.

            That day he told H. R. Haldeman, his chief of staff, to pressure the F.B.I. to go slow on the investigation. From that point forward the “Watergate Affair” was something more than a “third-rate burglary.” At first, the question was: “Who planned the break-in?” There was a possibility Nixon was innocent. After the meeting with Haldeman, an illegal cover-up was underway. And the President of the United States of America was involved.


            By late summer, the trials of Liddy and the five burglars had begun. Several witnesses lied in hopes of keeping the investigation from spreading, adding perjury to a growing list of crimes. The White House secretly arranged to pay the burglars to remain quite, to “hush them up.” John Dean hinted to defendants that after the election, when it was politically safe to do so, Nixon would “take care” of them. A quick pardon would follow.

            Judge John Sirica, who heard the case against the Watergate burglars, was suspicious from the start. The six men insisted they planned the job themselves. So, when it came time to sentence the defendants, Sirica put on the squeeze. They were expecting three-to-five years, fairly typical in burglary cases where no one was harmed. Sirica wanted to force them to talk. So he slapped them with the maximum penalty: thirty-five years in prison. 

James McCord broke immediately. In a letter to the judge, written almost as soon as he returned to his jail cell, he admitted money and pressure had been applied to keep him silent. Sirica read the letter to reporters and a stunned courtroom audience the following day. 

            Nixon and his aides kept a lid on the story enough so that he was able to win reelection. But the shadow of Watergate lengthened. Congress set up a special committee to investigate. Reporters from various news organizations kept digging. Doubts about Nixon grew with each passing week. By the spring of 1973 the story was making daily headlines. To show he was “anxious” to get to the bottom of the mess, the President appointed Archibald Cox as “special prosecutor” to investigate matters. 

            Startling developments only complicated Nixon’s dilemma. During questioning in Congress, a White House aide named Alexander Butterfield let a critical detail slip. The President, he admitted, “bugged” his own office. “I was hoping you fellows wouldn’t ask me about that,” Butterfield told the Congressional panel. For years President Nixon had recorded every conversation he held in his White House office, including dozens which might tell who knew what, when, and how much about the Watergate affair. Nixon wrote in his diary soon after: “At the present time we are really caught without knowing how to handle it.” Normal White House business was at a standstill. The presidency seemed “paralyzed.”     


            Opinions vary even today. We do know Nixon chose, at the very least, to protect friends rather than tell the truth. At one meeting he told John Mitchell how aides should testify in Congress and in court. Let them “stonewall it” and say nothing. They could “plead the Fifth Amendment,[4] cover up or anything else if it’ll save it—save it for them,” he explained.

It was harder and harder to keep a lid on the truth. By March 21, 1973 Nixon’s lawyer, John Dean, was warning his boss there was “a cancer on the Presidency” which would grow. He (Dean), Colson, Haldeman, Erlichman and others were likely to face criminal charges. The worst problem was Howard Hunt, who was blackmailing the White House. Dean explained that it would take $1,000,000 to keep Hunt and the original burglars quiet. Even that might not be enough. The President was willing to pay. But it made no difference. Dean began spilling the truth to investigators himself. So did other top officials. 

One by one, Nixon’s closest aides were caught in a spider web of lies. Top CREEP officials were found guilty of planning the burglary and lying in court. Chapin, Colson, Haldeman, Erlichman and Dean were charged with a list of crimes. Mr. Nixon continued to insist he had not been involved.

During one famous TV address he looked into the camera and assured a worried nation: “I am not a crook.”


            The beginning of the end came in September 1973. Archibald Cox, the special prosecutor, asked to listen to nine tape recordings from the Oval Office, covering key conversations related to Watergate. Nixon refused to give him the tapes, offering written transcripts instead. Fresh problems arose. One recording, a meeting on June 20, 1972, was found to have a mysterious 18 ½ minute “gap” or erasure. No one could explain how this happened. Nixon’s secretary said she might have erased a few minutes by mistake. It seemed like more than a “coincidence” that this tape covered the first meeting between H. R. Haldeman and Nixon, days after the break-in.

            Cox insisted transcripts were not enough. He demanded the recordings. Nixon responded by firing him, the very man he had chosen to get to the “truth.” When the President asked Attorney General Elliot Richardson to carry out his order, Richardson quit. His top assistant quit, too. Finally, a third official was found who would carry out the order. The firing and resignations of these three top law enforcement officials became known as “The Saturday Night Massacre” and stirred a storm of protest. 

A week later the White House roused the nation’s anger again. Nixon’s staff reported that one of the nine tapes Cox asked for did not exist. A third ran out in the middle of a conversation. In the last ten days of October a million telegrams and letters poured into Congress, demanding action. On November 12, 1973, Time magazine ran its first editorial in fifty years. The headline: “The President Should Resign.”

Nixon tried to save himself. He appointed a new special prosecutor, Leon Jaworski. But the President had no time to relax. Jaworski asked for more tapes, sixty-four in all. Nixon released thousands of pages of transcripts but no tapes. The printed record was bad enough. It showed our nation’s leaders had been involved in what one magazine called “sleazy, cheap and vulgar” activities. Nixon dug in his heels and refused to give up any more transcripts or any tapes at all. According to the powers granted by the U.S. Constitution, Nixon said, Congress had no right to pry into his private records.

Faced with evidence of a long list of crimes, the House of Representatives opened impeachment hearings in the spring of 1974. On July 24 the United States Supreme Court sealed Nixon’s doom. By an 8-0 vote, with one justice in the hospital, the court ruled that he was required to turn over the tapes investigators wanted. When they were released Congress had all the evidence it needed. The tape of June 23, 1972 was labeled “the smoking pistol.” Like a smoking gun in a criminal’s hand, it showed Nixon had been involved in an illegal cover-up from the start.

The House quickly voted to impeach. As required by law, the Senate prepared to hold the trial and perhaps remove the President from office under the process set forth in the U.S. Constitution. With no hope left, Nixon resigned on August 9, 1974.

Soon after, a beaten ex-president headed home to California in disgrace.

Sadly, on one of his last mornings in office, Nixon questioned two staff members. “Well, I screwed it up good, real good, didn’t I?” he asked. Neither man had the heart to answer.

Your work:

1. What did the burglars expect to gain by breaking into the Watergate building?

2. Why did Nixon feel that the United States could not afford to lose the Vietnam War?

3. In what ways did Segretti and other Nixon supporters disrupt Democratic election plans in 1972?

4. What illegal activities were used against news reporters, anti-war groups and Daniel Ellsberg?

5. What was Nixon’s “fatal decision” on June 23, 1972 and how did it change the Watergate affair?

6. How did Nixon suggest aides should testify in court?

7. By March 1973 why was the White House having trouble keeping the story from spreading?

8. After the President refused to give Congress any more transcripts or tapes, how was the legal battle settled?

9. Identify or explain the importance of:

A.   Woodward and Bernstein
C.   Daniel Ellsberg
D.    “deep-six”
E.    Judge Sirica
F.    Alexander Butterfield
G.   The 18 ½ minute gap
H.   The Saturday Night Massacre
I.      “the smoking pistol”

[1] President Andrew Johnson was impeached in 1867 and barely survived the Senate vote. President Bill Clinton was impeached in 1999 but never came close to losing his position.
[2] This is illegal—because it might rightly be called an attempt to buy “favors” from the government.
[3] The identity of this man, whom Woodward and Bernstein called “Deep Throat,” remained secret till 2005. His name was Mark Felt, in those days, a top man with the F.B.I.
[4] Under the 5th Amendment no defendant can be forced to give information that might lead to his or her own conviction for a crime.