A Young Man in Search of the Big Picture
Watch out, Russia, here comes William Watson!
Sponsored by the YMCA’s New Perspectives program, Watson has just left for a month in the Soviet Union, where he’ll meander some, stay with a Russian family and actually take part in Communist Youth Organization activities. All of which may not be so unusual in these days of neo-detente. What’s rare is the young traveler himself.
Watson, a preternaturally articulate 17-year-old from South-Central Los Angeles, is aiming high and makes no bones about it. Unburdened by false modesty, he said before leaving: “I plan to pursue a leadership position in one or another field--business, politics, wherever--and it’s always important to get the big picture, from around the country or even around the world; to know how we fit in, what our share of the pie is, how our country is perceived by others.”
More specifically, Watson wants to see for himself “what I’ve only read or heard: that only the government is Communist, not the people themselves--who are not required to subscribe to Communism, only to keep their mouths shut and ‘Do what we say.’ I want their opinions. If they had a choice, what kind of government would they like, and why. . . .”
Pretty heavy stuff, really, but well within the grasp of this particular teen-ager, who just finished a term as Youth Governor of California. The state Ys (Watson’s branch: Ketchum-Downtown) annually elect a full slate of “state officers” at their own convention. The officers submit bills, send them through assembly and senate, “go into committee just like the big guys do.” They eventually go in person to Sacramento to “sit in their chairs, their offices, run our own ‘state legislature.’ Part of my platform was to make youth concerns and views a real government resource, a viable voice. . . .”
Nor is young Watson unidimensional; among other pursuits, he was all-league offensive guard at Loyola High last fall: “You need a variety of experiences. Cheerios alone are good, but it’s the milk, toast, juice that make a balanced diet.”
His advice to future American leaders? “Get a degree, in business, science, engineering: a money-making base. From there, you can go anywhere.”
Remember the name:
William Watson.
MacLeods Give a Hearty Hail to Chief
You’ve heard of The Real McCoy? (Actually, his name was Norman Selby, but let it pass. . . .) Now meet The Real MacLeod. Or one of them, anyway.
Torquil Roderick MacLeod, he’s called. Lost a leg in World War II but never missed a beat. Made his fortune in wool Down Under, to which his great-great grandfather had emigrated. Retired to trace his genealogy, among other hobbies. Wondered if he might be directly related to the first MacLeod of Lewes, circa 13th Century, whose name also was Torquil. Wondered, indeed, if he might be a chieftain--eldest son of eldest son and all that. Turned out he was.
On July 15, Torquil, 70, was guest of honor at the annual dinner of the Clan MacLeod Society of Southern California, in Long Beach.
“You know the expression ‘a feather in your cap’?” asks Neil McLeod, West L.A. dentist who founded the Southland society some years back. “The term derives from Scottish heraldic insignia. One feather means an important person; two, a VIP. Torquil is a genuine three-feather chief, authenticated last year by the Lord Lyon, king at arms--appointed by the British monarch to preside over petitions for armorial bearings.”
There are two MacLeod chieftains, explains Neil, who’s just warming up. In the 1200s, King Olaf the Black of Norway, it seems, had a son called Leod (pronounced Loud ). Leod had two sons ( Mac or Mc mean “son of”). First-born Tormad inherited the Isle of Skye (where descendant John still presides in Dunvegan Castle). Torquil I got the area known as Lewes.
Seven hundred years later, Torquil the--what? 35th or so?--is visiting his American lieges, who’ve multiplied almost beyond reason. “There are at least 3,000 MacLeods in Southern California alone,” says Neil. “Torquil’s been to San Diego, then off to preside at the Highland Games in South Carolina, then on to Michigan. . . . “
Torquil, incidentally, doesn’t sport a kilt: “The leg, you know,” says Neil. “He wears tartan ‘trews.’
“He’s a brave old duffer, though, determined to get around. He’s amazing. Then again, he is the chieftain.”