The Principal Who Changed a Generation

I didn’t mean to change a generation. Honest.

When I first rolled into Woodward, Oklahoma, I was just a skinny young man with a box of neckties, a borrowed car, and a dream of keeping teenagers from burning down the school. Simple as that.

 

Folks called me Mr. Shives. Not “Coach,” not “Buddy,” and certainly not “Shivie.” I was the new high school principal, hired back in 1968 the same year folks were arguing about moon landings, long hair, and whether Elvis had lost his touch. I walked into Woodward High with my shoes shined, my back straight, and my eyeballs scanning for trouble.

 

And let me tell you trouble found me quick.

 

First day on the job, I caught Jimmy Gaskins shooting spitballs through a Bic pen and hollering something about how math class was “unconstitutional.” Right then, I knew I wasn’t in some big city school where kids were scared of principals. Nope this was Oklahoma. These kids had grit. And I was gonna need boots.

 

My job wasn’t just to keep kids from punching lockers or sneaking off to Sonic. No sir. I saw something bigger: kids who didn’t believe in themselves. Bright-eyed girls who thought they weren’t smart. Boys who could build a tractor engine blindfolded but didn’t know what “valedictorian” meant.

 

The school was outdated. The curriculum? Dustier than a cowboy boot in July. I decided then and there: Woodward High was gonna change. I was gonna drag it kicking and screaming if needed into the future.

 

Of course, not everyone thought change was a great idea.

 

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“You can’t teach Shakespeare to cattle kids,” one parent told me.

Another said, “Mr. Shives, computers are a fad.”

 

Even the janitor whispered, “Best not poke the bear, Principal.”

Well, I didn’t poke the bear. I hugged it, kissed it, and handed it a stack of textbooks.

 

I’ll never forget old Superintendent Homberger retired by then, but sharp as a box of tacks.

 

“Shives,” he said one day over black coffee so strong it could jumpstart a Ford, “you don’t build schools with walls—you build them with people.”

 

He was right. So I stopped chasing grades and started chasing greatness. I listened to teachers. I visited families. I coached, counseled, and sometimes cleaned up cafeteria fights with a mop and a lecture.

 

Then came the tornado scare of ’74. The sky turned green. Sirens wailed. We packed the whole school 400 kids into the gym. I stood at the door all night, holding it shut while the wind howled like a preacher with a megaphone.

 

We got lucky. The twister missed us. But the next day, those kids walked into school a little taller. And I knew they were watching me. Waiting to see how to act. So I acted brave. Even when I wasn’t.

 

I pushed for arts programs. Got laughed at.

I pushed for vocational training. Got stonewalled.

I pushed for girls’ sports teams. You’d think I’d asked for Martians.

 

But I kept going. I had allies: Mrs. Franklin in English, Coach Denton who taught me how to throw a curveball and navigate school board meetings.

 

I had enemies too budget cuts, old attitudes, and that one PE teacher who thought dodgeball counted as physics.

 

The hardest day of my life? When we lost a student a sweet kid named Danny who never missed a class and always held the door for others. Car accident. The whole town went quiet.

That day I didn’t give a speech. I just sat in the hallway with a bunch of kids who needed to cry. And I cried too. That’s when I learned: a principal isn’t the boss of the school. He’s its heart.

 

By 1987, the dropout rate had dropped. College admissions were up. Kids were winning scholarships, awards, and even national science fairs.

 

Someone painted my name on the gym wall. Someone else tried to name the salad bar after me. I suggested the science lab instead.

 

But the real reward? Years later, when I ran into Jimmy Gaskins yes, the spitball kid he was wearing a suit and handing out business cards. Said, “Mr. Shives, you’re the reason I got my act together.”

That meant more than any plaque.

 

I retired that summer. Quietly. Slipped out with a box of trophies, a jar of jellybeans, and a lifetime of memories. But I still walk by the school sometimes. I hear the band. I see the lights. I know it’s still in good hands.

 

A generation later, students who once feared the principal’s office now send their own kids there. They say, “You’d have liked Mr. Shives. He was tough but he cared.”

 

That’s all I ever wanted. To care. Out loud.

Because sometimes, changing the world starts with learning every kid’s name and showing up on the worst day of their life.

 

You don’t have to be famous to change a generation. You just have to show up, do the work, and love ‘em like they’re your own.

 

Proverb:

“A good principal sees tomorrow in a teenager and never looks away.”

 

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📜 Editor’s Note

 

About “The Principal Who Changed a Generation”

 

This story is a creative retelling inspired by the real-life leadership of Mr. Shives, who served as principal of Woodward High School from 1968 to 1987. During his nearly two-decade tenure, Mr. Shives became a cornerstone of our school community known for his high standards, his compassion, and his unwavering belief in every student’s potential.

 

Elements of this story are fictionalized for narrative style, but the heart of it his influence, integrity, and lasting impact comes straight from the memory of those who knew him.

 

We’ve also drawn inspiration from the broader educational legacy of Woodward, Oklahoma, including the work of former Superintendent E.H. Homberger and the many teachers and administrators honored by the Woodward Hall of Fame.

 

Together, these leaders helped shape not just schools, but generations of learners.

 

We dedicate this piece to all educators past, present, and future who wake up each day with a mission to change lives, one student at a time.

 

Based on true events. Grounded in community memory. Written with heart.