School Years Grade 9 #1

                         Four More Years

 

     It's Sunday afternoon, my first day back, starting my third year at Mount Saint Charles. I'm standing in the study hall looking for a place to put some of my books. I can claim any desk that doesn't already have books in it. I find one, slip my books in, and take a moment to look around.

     I've tried everything to get out of this school. I've been thrown out of class. I've been whipped. I've pleaded to Eliza, asked Mrs. Manning. Nothing worked. Here I am, standing in the study hall, ready to start my first year of high school.

     The study is empty. Quiet. Not a soul is about, except for me. A thought comes. It's a foreboding thought. It comes, stays, and won't go away. Nothing I can do shakes it: I'm going to be at this all boys Catholic boarding school all my high school years. No girls. No going downtown. No dating. No nothing for four years. For four more years.

     It's a terrible thought. I stand transfixed staring at the doors leading to the classrooms. I look around at the empty study hall; see its polished hardwood floors, its support pillars, the overseers desk. It's empty. Vacant. The door to the library is closed. The supervisor's desk, elevated upon its platform, is vacant. It's a sterile vacuum. And the thought will not go away: I have four more years to go. Not a sound do I hear, only the thought: I have four more years to go. I look at the door leading to the stairwell: Four more years. I am a prisoner.

     In all my life. In all of my fifteeen years, I had never felt more burdened and alone. Four years to go. I can't do it. I can't do four years. It's impossible, but I have to.

     Slowly I walk to the stairway. I won't think about it. That's what I'll do. I won't think about it. And step by step I walk, looking down at my shoes: I have four years to go. Four more years.

     I'll go outside to the yard. I'll think of something else. Yes, that's it! In one month I can leave this place. Yes, in one month I'll be able to leave this godforsaken place. I'll walk that back road free to the world, and reaching the bottom of the stairwell, I enter the recreation hall. Someone waves to me. He motions for me to come and converse with him and another boy, a new student. I wave back and point toward the yard. I'm in no mood to talk. I have to be alone, to think this out. I'm going out to the yard and will look at the distant wall. There I will try to think through the reality of my sentence: Four more years. Imprisonment within an all boys boarding school. No social life. Chapel in the morning. Breakfast, school, lunch, school, recreation, study hall, dinner. Recreation, study, dormitory and sleep. It is an endless cycle, a treadmill. Four more years.

     I stop at the curb. With hands in my pockets, one foot upon the curb, I stand and look blankly at the wall that is one hundred yards away. The road to freedom is atop it, leading away from this school, this place, this prison. The stone wall is the perimeter, the prison line. At the end of the month it will be the door to freedom. I live for that moment.

     I will cherish every step, every move, every breath I will take. From the slightest breeze to the coldest snow. Every blade of grass. Every tree. Every car that passes. Every house that I will walk by. It will fade the memory of the school. The coming day at the end of the month will fade the harshness of Mount Saint Charles; and, as I will walk I will look back at the school, this bastard place, all the time knowing that one day in the far future, I will be free to walk away and never to return. That is what I live for. That final day. My final day at Mount Saint Charles Academy. The big day when I will be free to walk away and never to return. Four more years and my day will come.

 

                           Two Bad Boys

 

     That evening on the first day of adjusting to the routine, two new boys fight in the yard. They are tall, and swing angry, wide, looping shots. Their legs move like stilts awarkwardly trying to gain a position, but the fight is quickly broken up. Boys move in between them. Words, threats are spoken. It's not over yet.

     Students move the two farther apart. One group moves toward the chapel side of the building where one of the fighters lights a cigarette. In the other group, his opponent lights up also. Both are cool. They're no one to mess with and angry glances are exchanged. They'll settle it later.

     Brother Elexsis appears. How quickly he has gotten wind of something happening, and he moves to one group of students. They hush up. He moves again, encountering more silence. He knows. He senses it. There's been a fight. But does he know who?

     It's a couple of weeks later, Sunday morning in the study hall, eleven o'clock, just before dinner. Brother Director gives his report.

     "Richard Wargo." Brother Director calls out, letting the name sink in and adds, "D. For Conduct!" Brother Director points to where Wargo is to stand. Right there. That's right Mr. Wargo, come right up here and stand right over there, with your face to the wall. Right next to where I'm sitting. 

     Holy Shit! Who's Richard Wargo? He's in for it. Heads turn, searching for Mr. Wargo. From the back of the study there is a shuffling of feet as Richard Wargo gets up from his desk and ambles toward the front of the study. Wargo is six foot tall, lanky and cool. He's from Connecticut or somewhere close to New York, and anyone from New York is cool. Nearby counts. Wargo walks with a slow deliberate gait, and it is audibily apparent that he wears iron upon the bottom of his shoes. Clank, clank, clank! His shoe taps strike the polished oaken floor with each step. A horse couldn't do better. Clank, clank, clank! Right up to the front of the study. Wargo slows to a stop. Clank, clomp, clomp. And he hits a relaxed parade rest, canting his hips forward, folding his hands behind him. His face is inches from the study hall wall. Richard Wargo is cool.

     Brother Director, who is not cool, waits a moment. He wants total silence. Absolute silence. This is serious shit. Wargo is cool. Brother Director is serious, and it's all about who is going to be boss. Brother Director calls out another name. It's Wargo's opponent.

     Does the Director know what he's doing! They'll fight. It's not over. Words have been spoken. They may fight here in the study. The other combatant makes his way to the front of the study and stands within arms reach of Wargo. They don't fight and Brother Director wins. He's the boss. Again he wants absolute silence.

     Wargo and his opponent, losing this skirmish, find a common enemy: Brother Director and the rules of the school. They will make a game of it. Week after week they will come to the front of the study and face the wall. They will have bad conduct week after week. It will be a game, a contest as to who is the coolest, who has the baddest conduct and still remains cool. It will be a testing of the system. They will go to the edge, testing the patience of the Brothers, and toy at being expelled from school.

 

                        A Course of Study

 

     At the beginning of the school year, freshmen are called into the Prefect of Studies office where they can choose a course of study.

     I'm prepared. I've seen some of the texts. I've borrowed books from George Justice, an upper classman who takes the classics course. I've read some of the excerpts out of his books. Exerpts on snakes, eggs, earth, tunnels; animals and reptiles, where they rest and hide in their underground cubbies. It intrigues me, and I want to read more; and, if I take the science course, perhaps I will find out, and I will have something to do in the late hours of study hall. That last hour when students tire and become sleepy. The last forty minutes when the study quiets appropriately with the darkness outside its tall windows. It is a time when homework is done, when questions can be searched, pages turned and perused at one's ease. Science is the course I want.

     Alphabetically, students enter the Prefect of Studies office to get their assigned courses. The time comes when I enter his office along with two other boys. There are three chairs facing the Prefect's desk. We sit and exchange polite greetings. Brother Oscar swivels in his chair, opens a ledger book, and glances in. "Have you decided on a course of study?" he asks the student to my left. The student shrugs and doesn't answer. Brother Prefect assigns him a course and writes his name in the ledger in small neat script.    He looks at me, "And you?"

     I don't answer. He's supposed to know my name. He has it right there in front of him, in one of his little ledgers.

     "Ahhh . . . David . . . Faria?"

     He got it. I had to give him a little time, but he got my name right. He didn't play the--are you Gilbert or David? You're brothers aren't you?--I've been here too long for that. My course of study? "I'd like to take the science course," I answer.

     He doesn't acknowledge my request, but looks down at the open log before him. With serious intent, he moves his pen over row after row of neat little multicolored lines, up and down, back and forth, searching and searching. He stops, looks at me and says, "The classes are full."

     He's lying. The classes can't be full, we're in alphabetical order, and my name starts with an F. He hasn't gotten past the first twenty-five percent of the Freshman class.

     You wanted to know what course of study I want. You asked me. I want the science course. They can't be full. If they are, make room. I'm only one student. Surely room can be made for one student. It's done all the time here at this school.

     But he said it with the all suddeness, abruptness I've heard before in this bastard school. I am the stupid student. The disruptive student. I am the troublmaking student. The student who started the disruption in the class of Brother Charles. I am to be assigned the stupid course. The basic low down idiot course with no science, no higher math, no classics. I am to be assigned the Commercial Course which is even lower than the General Course. What could be more stupid? The Commercial Course is a sterile course of low math; addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. All that I had learned in the fifth grade of elementary school, and all that I will ever learn within the six years I am to attend Mount Saint Charles Academy. I am not being prepared to enter college. I am being prepared to be a know-nothing-nigger.

     So, the Brothers of Jesus believe me to be too stupid to be a science student. They wish me to sit, smile, and say nothing. That is what they want me to do. They want me to be their little obiedient idiot puppet. Yes, the Brothers of Jesus will ignore me. They will ignore my questions and my presence; and, when I will pass Brother Oscar, Prefect of Studies, in the hallway--he will turn his back to me! It will be like a shunning. And didn't Brother Walter--a closet homosexual--say to me when I wanted to enter his music class, "There is no room in the class. The class is full." I am their little Jesus: there is no room. So, it is the same answer as I sit here before the Prefect of Studies: the science class is full. There is no room.

     If I had wanted to enter the camera club, the debating society, the library to check out a book--any extra cirricular activity--the answer would be the same: there is no room.

     Make room in your classes! You queers. You bastards. Make room. Let me enter the library, you bastards of Jesus. Let me check out any book I wish. I wish to learn. Bastard perverts of Jesus, I have many days and months here at your prison. Make room for me bastard Brothers. You sick, peverted, cursed queers and bastards; but no, I am the nigger. The whipping boy. Their little bastard Jesus. I am to take the stupid course.

     All the time this interchange takes place, there is no smiling. These sick perverts of Jesus are as stone faced as any poker player with a hand of four aces. So here I am sitting before the Prefect of Studies; I have four more years to go. I say to the Prefect,  "My name starts with an F. How could all the classes be full?"

     "Some students are already assigned to the class." the good Brother tells me.

     I look at him, and perhaps my face reflects my dislike of him and his order, this school, his assigning the courses of study. He tries to placated me. "Science is a difficult course of study. Your father is a businessman. The commercial course would be more useful to you." he says moderately.

     "No. I want the science course." I abruptly reply.

     "The classes are full," he counters just as abruptly. Then he adds, "If there is a vacancy, maybe at another time we will reconsider your request."

     Bastard. You will reconsider my request. Sure. You're talking shit. All he will care about is his little asshole office where he will pull the shade over the door and sleep during some of the afternoons--the white faced, motely skinned, bastard. Fuck you and your little system of checks and balances. Fuck you and your classes and courses. Fuck you and your religious order. Pompous asshole. Fuck you; but I do not think this. I may feel hatred for the Brothers of Jesus, and hatred for the school. Years later I will feel that, and think that. Fuck you. Fuck your order. You bunch of queers, homos. Yes, years later I will think that, but at this time; . . . no.

     It is another obstacle, a block. It will limit my education. Here is the Prefect of Studies, hampering my interest in learning. Some great academy: Mount Saint Charles.

 

                      Breault and Martinueau

                  Brother John-Gilbert and Wargo

 

     As he had stated previously, Richard Breault is now a day student. He drives to school from Providence and then back again. He being a daystudent, places an invisible barrier between us.

     Breault had grown some over the summer months. He has thinned out, lost some baby fat and is more lanky, more mature. And being good at sports, with his more mature physical strength, he seems all the better for it.

     Early in the school year, upon leaving one of the classrooms, I ask him:

     "Is your car outside?"

     "Yeah," he answers.

     "I want to take a look at it after school, okay?"

     "Sure. It's parked in the middle, away from the backstops."

     "I'll see you after school."

     "Okay."

     This was cool. There were about ten cars being driven to school. Most of them belonging to students from the senior section. And most of the vechicles being driven part time. They were family cars. But Breault had a car of his own. It was totally unheard of. Breault, a freshman, has a car of his own. How lucky can one be.

     At three‑thirty when the last class of the day ends and the bell rings, I go outside and walk to where the parked cars are. I don't waste any time, but cut across the dirt infield, my shoes kicking up wisps of reddish dust in the moderate afternoon breeze. Forty feet away, the sun reflects highlights of parked cars. It reflects off polished chrome, off high gloss black fenders. The cars sparkle and glitter like black diamond coaches. They wait to be started and driven, waiting quietly with iron powered strength.

     Breault has a black sedan. A two door, mid thirties. Its headlights attached to the cowl near the grill, an emblemized radiatior cap of a sailing ship in full sail sits atop the hood in front. It's a Plymouth, a black humpbacked two-door sedan. At first glance it appears to be a middle aged couple's automobile. A family sedan. A car that wouldn't turn many heads as it cruised along a road. Not the first choice of hot rodders.

     "It's a nice car," I say to Breault.

     "Thank you," he says politely, and as if sensing my indifference he adds, "I like it." Then he unlocks the passenger door, bends the seat forward and a daystudent gets in the back. Other daystudents want a ride.

     "Open the other door Breault," calls a daystudent from the other side of the car.

     "No, that car's blocking me. Get in from this side," he says. Breault, not wanting his prize to be dinged or scratched by vechicles next to his, holds the door open. He holds the door open before me, with the silent knowledge between both of us that I could have had a ride in his vechicle; but, I am a boarding student and cannot leave the school campus.

     The student who wanted Breault to open the other door comes round the black sedan and gets in. And after all the fellow students are in his car, with keys in hand, Breault walks around the front of his vechicle. He walks around the shiny crome grill, the polished front bumper, past the flare fenders. He walks to the drivers door, opens it, and using his hand as a cushion upon the door edge, protects it from the other vechicle next to his. He slides in and shuts the door. Taking his time, Breault rolls down the window, adjusts his seat, puts the key in the ignition, twists it to the on position, and steps on the starter. The engine immediately starts. Breault pulls on the choke, and just as quickly, the engine dies.

     As if in some previously given set of directions on how to properly start a car, Breault takes his foot off the accelerator, slides the choke back in, and waits a few seconds. He restarts his car, gives it more throttle, less choke, and again the engine quickly starts. This time it smooths out to a purr. It is not loud. No dual exhausts. No straight pipes. It is a smooth quiet exhaust, telling those that hear; it is a well tuned engine. It is a well taken care of vechicle that has a smooth in tune engine, and it will give good service. A quiet well mannered engine. It fits Breault.

     Breault eases his prize, his baby, his shiny black sedan into gear and slowly moves out of the parking space onto the drive. Past me they effortlessly glide. The polished black lacquer, the gleeming chrome, clean clear glass, the moving black cushioned steel and rubber wheeled vechicle quietly moves. Students within transform to semi adults, in their ride they sit upright. The exhaust resonates to the hum of a straight inline engine as Breault gives the vechicle some throttle. The increase in power moves the vechilce more speedily toward the back road. Slowing at the stone wall he makes a smooth right turn putting clutch in then out. A gear change, more power and throttle, up and onto the road. By the foot path they ride.

     They leave the school behind. They leave their cares, their worries, their schoolwork. They ride into the residential section of Woonsocket, to the highway, to Providence, to freedom. Breault's car is the coolest, smoothest black sedan I had ever seen. With envy I had watched as they smoothly rode out of sight. They rode out into the afternoon, into the broad daylight, amidst the trees, past the water tower, up on and along the rising road.

     I am standing alone. Most of the other vechicles have now gone. I turn and walk back toward the recreation hall. There is no hurry. I have no where to go. So I amble along the drive. There is no need to cut across the playing field. I am to be here a long time. With hands in my pockets, downcast, looking at the black tar upon the private drive I walk step by step. I see the white and grey grained gravel pebbles packed smooth into the roadtop. Alone. I am the most miserable, depressed, boarding student, nigger, in the whole junior section. No! In the whole Goddamn school! The whole Goddamn mother‑fucking school, I alone, am the most miserable.

     Again, I didn't think that. In the fifties mother-fucker was not in the vocabulary; but that is how I felt, and today that is what I say.

     So Breault had changed. From boarding student to daystudent. From prisoner to free. From pedestrian to automoblile driver. Breault's main responsibility is to maintain passing grades.

 

 

                         You don't know!

                       Why don't you know!

 

     In class, Brother John-Gilbert, also known as the Beak, starts to grill Breault. Breault is seated in the back of the room, in the isle nearest the door. Martineau, who now rides in Breault's car as they commute from and to Providence every day, also sits in the isle next to the door. They are together in this as they are together when they come to and leave school.

     Within weeks from the start of the school year, Brother John-Gilbert asks Breault a question. It's not a test. It's not anything important, just a little quiz. An impromptu give and take between the teacher and the class; but, the teacher can manipulate the situation to his own ends. He can ask any student, any question, at any time.

     Breault doesn't know the answer to one of the questions that Brother has asked. "I don't know," says Breault. He says it quietly, almost meekly.

     "You don't know!" Brother John-Gilbert counters. He seems upset, then demands, "Why don't you know!?"

     "I don't know," Breault repeats, again saying it very quietly, almost inaudible.

     Breault doesn't know, because he doesn't know. This could go on and on. Every question can be answered in the same way. The Beak has his boy, his student to play with. It is Breault.

     The next day the Beak zeroes in on Breault with another one of his suprise questions. Breault is flustered. He doesn't answer. Can't answer. Wouldn't know what to say if he did know the answer. It's like he can't hear what the Beak is saying.

     The Beak is smiling.

     In answer to the question: after pondering for a long moment, Breault gives his answer, "I don't know."

     Just what the Beak wants to hear, and he jumps on it.

     "You don't know! . . . Why don't you know!" the Beak says loudly. He appears to be astounded, incredulous; as if, how could this student miss this ever so simple question! And not letting go, the Beak grills Breault once again. "Why don't you know? . . . Breault?"

     It rhymed. The words rhymed! Breault and know. It just about sounds the same. Come on Breault, . . . come on, . . . saaay it, . . . saaay it, . . .

     "I don't know," says Breault.

     He says those words ever so quietly. So quietly, that the whole class has to strain to hear.

     It's as if Brother John-Gilbert is joyous. Breault said it again! He said it again. The exact same words. Brother John-Gilbert has his boy. Yes he does. And is Brother John-Gilbert going to revel in it. He'll stretch this little game out from day to day, to weeks on end. Over and over Brother John-Gilbert will wait for the same response from Breault: He don't know! Breault don't know.

     Yes, Brother John-Gilbert has his boy; but, the good Brother is a religious person. A Brother of Jesus, is he not? A man of the cloth. Should he take joy in a students inability to correctly answer his questions?

     But the game has started. And slowly it will build. It will be a little game between Brother John-Gilbert and Breault. And after the initial contact being made, the groundwork and the rules being set, the little question and answer game becomes a daily addition to the classroom fare. Brother John-Gilbert asks Breault a question. Breault does not know the answer. It is be that simple.

     The little question and answer game starts to put pressure on Breault, and one day he breaks the pattern. Yes, Breault says something different than his pat I-don't-know, answer. "You're picking on me!" says Breault.

     It is a cry foul. Students who were half asleep, awake. They whisper, "Who? Who's being picked on?" Some students turn in their seats and look toward the back of the class where the words had originated. Almost immediately Breault knows he made a mistake. He has shifted the attention of the class to himself. Now the game is out in the open, and Brother has to change his tactics. He cannot single out Breault every day and repeatedly give him question after question.

     I turn in my seat and see not the Breault that I had once knew, but an angry, embarassed, caught student. He is trapped. He is brought down by Brother John-Gilbert, and the Beak plays a mean game. Not to appear that he after Breault, that he is picking on him, the Beak introduces the question and answer game to the whole class. It is all done ligit now. It is all out in the open, but it quickly becomes apparent that the main target of the question and answer session is Breault. Plus, no one knows the when Brother will start his little question and answer game. More importantly, Breault doesn't know. It is completely under the control of Brother John Gilbert.

     Breault starts to sweat.

     Perhaps Brother is thinking, let him sweat, it's part of the game.

     One day, we're twenty minutes into the class and no question and answer session so far. More sweat from Breault. The class doesn't sweat. The teacher is not after them. He's after Breault. The main question is; when will Breault be called upon?

     So, this one day, Brother John Gilbert finally gets into the question and answer session. He's picking students at random, this student, that student, an easy question here, a question there. A student answers correctly, another student does not. Brother John Gilbert lets them off easy. He glides over them. He gives the answer, explains it, and moves on.

     Brother is about to choose another student to question. Hmmmm, who shall he choose? As Brother is pondering this important maneuver, he looks over the class, scanning it from right to left, letting the tension build. He doesn't look at Breault; but, he knows, and more importantly: everybody in the class knows, Breault's turn will come. That is what the whole scenario is about. Brother John-Gilbert scans the class, quickly passing over the section where Breault sits. Brother thinks for a while. Has he missed something? Is there something he forgot? Someone he missed?

     The class waits. The tension builds.

     Ah! Brother John-Gilbert remembers! Yes, that's it! He almost forgot. Almost missed him--It is such a facade. Such a false little game, a charade--and looking to where Breault sits, Brother smiles and calls out loudly, "Breault!"

     The class immediately erupts into laughter. It is nervous laughter, a release of tension that had been building the past five ten minutes; and, just as abruptly, the laughter immediately stops. Silence palls over the classroom. All at the expense of Breualt.         Brother now masks his smile. He waits, then gives Breault a question.

     There will be no help here. No gliding over. No explaination. No moving on to the next student. The question doesn't matter. Breault is under such pressure that he couldn't answer any question. So, question given, and;

     "I don't know," very quietly answers Breault.

     If thinking politness, quietness, meekness will work here; Breault is sadly mistaken. Yes, the good Brothers should revel in meekness. They should welcome it. Blessed are the meek. But not here.

     "You don't know!" again Brother is astounded.

     Again it is, how could this student not know the answer to his question?    It is the same play of the day before, and the day before. And it is answered with the same answer of the day before, and the day before! He don't know. Breault does not know.

     "You don't know! . . . Why don't you know? . . . Breault!" Brother John Gilbert has upped the ante. He is now badgering Breault. He demands an answer; and, not getting a response from Breault, Brother almost has shouted his name.    

     It rhymed! It was phonetically rhythmic! So much so, that the Brother repeats some of what he has just said, adding a little variation in tonal quality. "Why don't you know? . . . Breault!"

     It's a sing song. A play on phonetics and it rhymes when said in cadence which Brother John-Gilbert has done. It is a new twist to an old game.

     Breault says nothing. He sits as if dumbstruck. Before the whole class he is made to look like a fool, an idiot. And it's all done under the control of the bastard Brother John-Gilbert.  Breault can't wait to get out of class. He's waiting for that bell. That Goddamn school bell that signals the end of this Goddamn class.

     Finally it rings.

     Breault springs from his seat and jets out of the classroom. He slams the door behind him. Martineau is a step behind Breault. He flings the door open and slams it against the corridor wall.

     Brother John-Gilbert springs to his feet and takes a step from his elevated platform to get at the door slamming students.

     Students have blocked the way, and other students are now trying to make their way out of class. Brother will have to wait for another day.

     The next week, a couple of days have passed. Order has briefly returned to the classroom, but the fragile truce cannot last.

     "Breault!" Brother calls out.

     Silence.

     The class waits.

     Brother John-Gilbert waits.

     There is no response from Breault. Nothing. Ziltch. Zero.

     Students turn in their seats, I included. We look at Breault. There he sits, fuming. Breault is doing a slow hot burn. He can take it no more. He says something, but we cannot hear the words, but a lip-reader can. "Fuck You!" he silently mouths to Brother John-Gilbert.

     I'm no lip-reader, but I know what Breault has said. So does Brother John-Gilbert, and he jumps up from his desk, leaps off his platform and run-walks over to where Breault is seated.

     Breault jumps up from where he is sitting and backs into the far corner. Now Martineau jumps up from where he is sitting and grabs Brother from behind, pinning his arms. Martineau has Brother John-Gilbert in a bear hug.

     Brother tries to break free. He can't. He shifts his body right, bends forward, then left and up, trying to break the grip of Martineau.

     Martineau holds on. He follows the movments of Brother John-Gilbert; bends forward, left, up; all the time keeping Brother's arms pinned to his side.

     Wargo joins the fray.

     From the center of the class Wargo gets up from his desk and hustles to where the action is. Wargo grabs Martineau from behind and pins his arms.

     The three of them; Brother John-Gilbert in front, Martineau in the middle, and Wargo on the end. It's like they form a tighly squeezed conga line. Brother struggles to the left. Martineau holds on and also is forced left. Likewise, Wargo who is holding on to Martineau, has to follow the movement of Martineau, and he too is forced left. The three of them do a little snake dance. They shift left, then right. They bend down, then up again. A shift to the right, and to the left again. It is a line dance front to rear. All the time Brother John-Gilbert is trying to break free from the grip of Martineau. But now Martineau is caught too. Wargo is holding on to Martineau. Thus the three of them do a sort of swaying dance in the isle. Sometimes they are on the verge of tipping over, of falling to the floor in one big heap. They bump into the desks. They grazing the blackboard. They struggle in that small confined area of the isle.

     Breault stays in the corner, as if wanting to stay out of it.

     Martineau's grip is slipping, or he is tiring. He shouts to Breault, "Hit him! Hit him!"

     Breault is tenative and cautiously moves toward the three.

     "Hit him!" Martineau shouts agian.

     Breault takes a milktoast swing. It makes contact, grazes, Brother John-Gilbert on the jaw. It looked like Breault pulled his punch. Did'n''t want to his the good bastard Brother of Jesus.

     Does Martineau call out again? Hit him! Hit him! . . . I don't remember, but Breault sort of hesitates, then swings again, hitting his antagonizer. It is done.

     He has struck a Brother of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Breault in his anger, tenative as it may be, as light as his first tippy tap was, has done it. He struck one of the bastards, one of the Brothers, and the fight slows to a stop.

     Brother John-Gilbert breaks free of Martineau's hold. Wargo lets go of Martineau. It is over.

     Brother John-Gilbert orders Breault and Martineau out into the hallway where they are to wait. He fetches Brother Claver. Brother Claver, the face fucking pervert bastard in Christ Jesus, director of Mount Saint Charles Academy. He will listen to the various viewpoints out in the hallway. They will talk; the Beak, Martineau, Breault, and Brother Director.

     Wargo, who had retaken his seat is called out into the hall by Brother John-Gilbert.

     More talk.

     Wargo returns. Instead of going straight to his seat, Wargo stops in front of the class. He is center stage, and holds both his arms outstretched, his head falls to his shoulder. He presents the image of Christ upon the Cross, the Persecuted One: above him, upon the wall is the Crucifix, Christ bleeding. And here is Wargo, in the flesh, holding the same pose, arms outstretched as if he is nailed to an imaginary cross, and has dropped his head to his right shoulder. It is a mimic of Christ.

     Brother John-Giblert re-enters the class and sees Wargo mimicking the Beloved, the Savior. He shakes his head disapprovingly and Wago goes to his seat.

     Breault and Martineau are expelled from school.

     Wargo has also made a turning point. He once was against the system, catching D after D in conduct, but now, after going to the aid of Brother John-Gilbert, Wargo has accepted part of the authority of Mount Saint Charles. In four years he will graduate. Wargo is now semi-cool.

 

                    Hell! He Shall Go to Hell!

 

     Back in the eighth grade, when Brother Stanislaus had become my new teacher, classes were reshuffled. I was tolerated. My grades were not good, passing, that's all. I mistrusted Brother Stanislaus. Now, in my freshman year, for the first class of the day Brother Stanislaus is my teacher. Religion: it is usually the first class to start the day.

     Getting used to his new class, Brother Stanislaus starts to field simple questions. From the class, easy questions come. Brother Stanislaus answers this, he answers that. He is now an experienced Brother and knows the routine of Mount Saint Charles.

     I have a question for Brother Stanislaus, and I raise my hand.

     A nod of the head from Brother for me to proceed.

     "Brother. If a person from another faith leaves his religion. Joins the catholic religion. Leads a good life. Dies. He goes to heaven. Right?"

     "Yes. He goes to heaven." Brother Stanislaus quickly agrees.

     I continue, "If a catholic leaves his faith. Joins another religion. Leads a good life. Dies. . . ."

     "Hell! He shall go to Hell!" Brother Stanislaus shouts at me.

     "But Brother; If he leads a good life . . ."

     "Hell! He shall go to Hell!" Brother sputters the words out. He stops, sputters and his face reddens. Brother Stanislaus is beyond thinking. He cannot say the words fast enough. Hell! Hell! And he is barely able to speak. In front of the whole class I have made him look like the unthinking, unbending, authoritorian idiot that most of these Brothers are. I win a small skirmish. 

     The next day: Brother Stanislaus is going to reanswer my question. He didn't do it right yesterday. No. But today he is going to answer without any of the shouting, yelling, sputtering or getting red in the face. None of that. And he is going to answer the question with logic. He is going to answer a question of religious faith with logic. No miracles. No blind faith. No mystery. He's going to do it with plain old every day logic. He starts; "Why would anyone want to leave the Catholic religion? There can be no reason. Maybe the the person is ill. Perhaps he is not thinking correctly. He may be sick. If the person is sick and not thinking correctly, would Jesus judge him harshly?"

     Satisfied in the way he has answered my question, Brother Stanislaus prompts me for a response. Not wanting to start a back and forth argument this morning, and an argument that only the teacher will have the last word, I don't follow up.

 

     At the end of the month, Abe comes to school to take Giblert and me home. He says to me, "Your father's teed at you."

     "Me! What did I do? Why's he mad at me?"

     Abe doesn't answer and I believe he doesn't know why my father's teed at me. We drive to Fall River. At the Drake, the three of us enter the bar. There we wait for Dad. He's supposed to come into the bar and give me hell because he's teed. And for what, I don't know. I press Abe once more. "What did I do wrong! I want to know what I did wrong!"

     I'm put out about this matter becuause I think I've been a good boy. I don't relate this matter back to my trick question I had posed to Brother Stanislaus.

     Gilbert loves it when I'm in a jam. He's taking this with a smile. He chimes in saying to me, "Dad's peed."

     Abe turns on Gilbert. "Adults don't get peed. They get teed. Your father's teed! He's teed at both you boys." Abe is trying to drag Gilbert into this bad news situation, but I see through that. It's about me, and not to be sidetracked, and needing to know what this is all about I press Abe again. This time I include Gilbert, "What did we do?" First it's me. Now it's me and Gilbert. I'm in trouble. Gilbert and I are in trouble. Peed. Teed. What is this all about?

     About that time Dad enters the barroom. He makes a beeline to the bar, and passing us standing in the middle of the barroom, gives scant attention to us. Salutations are mumbled. Nothing is said of anything wrong. Nothing. No peed, teed, or whatever. Gilbert and I leave and have the weekend to ourselves.

     Could it be Dad was having second thoughts? First, his boy David was whipped like a bastard. Kneeling on his knees before one of those perverts of Jesus. Now some other Brother of Jesus says his boy David is not behaving properly at school. Maybe he remembered way back when the bitch principal of Westall Elementary School whished to whip his boy David. Maybe all the telephone calls were getting to this drunkard. Perhaps he's thinking that half these calls are bullshit stories, and he hasn't really talked to his boy David in years. Wouldn't know how to talk to him if he could. And that's a big part of the problem. No communication between father and son. Sensing that, the bastards of Jesus have their way. The bitch principal of Westall Elementary School had her way. All done without me being able to give my side of the story. Jesus Goddamn Christ.

 

                            Port Wine

 

     And this latest little incident is not over. Because of my little trick question that I put forward to Brother Stanislaus, Dad now wants to smooth things over at Mount Saint Charles. On one of the return trips to school, he takes along a bottle of Port wine. With present in hand, he enters the junior section recreation hall. Dad is playing the penitent. His head is bowed and he is of humble appearance. He approaches Brother Gilbert who is now acting supervisor of the junior section. Dad asks, "Father, could you show me where the Director's office is?"

     Gilbert junior corrects him, "Dad, they're Brothers not priests."

     Dad will hear none of it. He is playing to the Brothers. He is penitent. It is for the Brothers to see. If David, the disobedient, the troublemaker, does not like the Brothers of Jesus, he, Gilbert Anthony Faria senior will temporarily play the part of the penitent.

     Dad continues on his way to the director's office. Yes, the Director of Mount Saint Charles Academy. The same bastard pervert Brother of the Sacred Heart of Jesus who frenetically whipped me, while at the same time, trying to dry face fuck me.

     The whole scene irked me. It is Dad groveling at their feet. Groveling before these pervert bastards. But perhaps Dad needs to grovel. Wasn't it he, the husband of the young woman who committed suicide? He is now groveling, but no matter, he will do an about face in three years. By that time, he too, will have been duped used and abused. His business will be ruined by bastards of Jesus. Trouble makers. Deadbeats. All sorts of pervert bastards will enter Dad's place of business and will queer the atmosphere. They will queer his business and Dad's livelihood will be ruined. The Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus will want money from Dad. They will want back tuition. Past tuituion. Not getting their money, the harassment of Dad's places of business will increase. The regular clientel will be driven away by bastards, perverts and troublemakers. Deadbeats will enter Dad's places of business. Dad will sell his businesses at a loss. He will lose. I will lose. Gilbert will lose.

     The Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus will curse Dad's business and he will die destitute. He will not receive the same services that Mom got. That is what he is bargaining for. Dad wants absolution from the bastard priest Shaleau. In return, the bastard priest wants to pevert my life. He wants me to become one of the cursed. He wants me to enter the monastic way of life.

     The bottle of wine? Dad gives it to Frere Claver, the same bastard pervert who whipped me with a leather strap. Dad gives it as a peace offering.

 

     The following week, downstairs in the smoke-utility room, some ten or so of us students are gathered. We hear laughter coming from the Brother's dinning area.

     "What's going on in there?" a student asks.

     "They're having a party."

     "They are!"

     "They're drinking in there," says another.

     "No!" says one boy in amazement.

     "Yes they are," says another.

      More laughter comes from the hallway leading to the Brother's dinning area. Five, ten minutes later, out comes Brother Stanislaus into the utility room at a half run. A loping gait. He tries to slow, but perhaps it is the intoxicant. He doesn't or can't slow. He is elated. Onward and outward he floats. He hops once. Then he skips. It is a hop and a skip. He slows to a half skip. Then almost in a jump like motion Brother Stanislaus is at the side door entrance leading to the outside drive. He has passed us students with nary an indication that we are present. He is in another world. Another place. He is in heaven. Yes, he must be in heaven. He is oblivious to us all. In that elated, euphoric moment, with smile upon his face, in the blink of an eye, and he is gone. Out the door.

     Through the window we students can see him bounding across the drive, heading toward the grotto.

     We are in silent amazement. A boy breaks the spell.

     "He's drunk," the boy says.

     Yeah. I'm thinking; they're probably drunk on that bottle of Port wine my father bought to them. What a mistake, bringing bastards like that, wine. Damn.

 

                            Milk Fight

 

     Robert White and Nathan Small could have easily been placed in the senior section, but an extra place or two was made in the junior section.

     White and Small were almost always together. In the junior section they were the two biggest, the two strongest, usually laughing, joking, and playing together. Their play quickly turned into bouts of who is the best. Number one. They were friends. They were rivals. Each would vie to out do the other. Each would try to out perform the other. Nate Small was colored; Robert White was white.

     Because they were rivals and friends, they sat at the head of the table, right next to Brothers table. Almost in the center of the dining room. They were that close to the power. It was part of the the prestige of being the biggest and the best. Because it was a continuing of who is number one: thee best--a fight broke out. And with it, racism was uncovered.

     Upon the table where they sat, were two bottles of milk, a quart and a pint. Small and White would share that pint bottle of milk three times a day. It was part of being cool. The pint bottle was more exclusive than the common quart bottle from which the four other students at the table shared.

     It so happened that one of the students from that table went home for funeral services. A death in the family.

     With one student missing from the table, that pint bottle of milk became more exclusive. It would belong to number one! The biggest. The best. The strongest. That would be whoever grabbed that pint bottle of milk first, could have it all to himself. The remaining students at the table would have to take their drink, pouring from the more common quart bottle.

     To add to the situation at that time, there was only one Brother supervisor presiding--Brother Elexsis.

     The situation went down to: . . . Brother would say Grace. We students would answer Amen. Then protocal had it that we wait for Brother to sit; then we students would sit. We would wait for Brother to start eating; then we students would start to eat. Brother Elexsis would have to make a move for one of his eating utinsils--a knife, a fork, or perhaps to take a drink from his glass.

     So it was during the sitting down, when one hundred students taking would be taking their seats, that Robert White and Nathan Small would reach for that lone pint bottle of milk. The quickest would sit-reach-grab-and-slide that exclusive bottle and place it in front of his place setting; all done it one smooth fluid motion.

     Propriety called for not reaching for food or drink while one is standing. So the contest consisted of; not only who was the strongest, but also the quickest.

     It was not much new to either of the two--Small or White. It was just another contest. (They had had contests before. They wrestled each other in the gym. They grunted and groaned, cried out in mock pain. They half joked as they grabbed and twisted, throwing each other around. Slamming each other on the floor mat laid out on the gymnasium floor. It was colored against white. But they were friends, and allowances were made. Brother Elexsis would sometimes warn the two, trying to modify the roughhousing.)

     This contest was about who could quickly be seated and grab that bottle of milk first. It happened three times a day; breakfast, lunch and dinner. The contest had no starting bell or whistle. The line up was opposite sides of the table. The two contestants faced each other and the contest started within the silence that followed the prayer of Grace. The last words such as, " . . . through Christ our Lord. Amen."

     Quickly the two students would sit. Two hands would grab for that pint bottle of milk. One hand colored. One hand white. One hand would go for the lower portion of the bottle. At the same time the opponents hand would grab the neck of the bottle. There would be a brief tug-of-war. One hand would pull and twist; the opponent would counter with his grasp. It was all done silently and had to have been done quickly, because Brother has not given the mandatory signal to begin eating and talking. That was the glitch. That was the hold-up. And was during those days that sometimes Brother Elexsis would give a downward glance of disproval from his elevated position, at his elevated table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     This contest between Nate Small and Robert White took place right under the nose of Brother Elexsis. Right next to his table, and Brother Elexsis would be ready to quietly consume his meal and at the same time overlook a roomful of one hundred students.

     But nevermind that. This is a contest of who is the best. The most exclusive. For the white boy it is a contest of wresting his opponents dark hand away from the white bottle of milk. For the colored student it is a contest of respectability, equality, fraternity, all within this white boy school of religiosity.

     For a few days it had been a quick slight of hand, but the longer the student who was away on temporary leave, the more the contest between Robert White and Nate Small became more than a game. Their fragile friendship was being tested to the limit. I noticed when Small had won the prize, he offered some to his opponent. White refused the offering. An affront to Small.

     The grabbing that bottle of milk became a serious contest. The two students would almost throw their chairs back, slam down into their seat and grab for that bottle. One day it came to a head: The colored boy wins. He wrests the prize from the grip of the white boy. He is equal to the white boy; but,     Robert White breaks the rules. He strikes at his rival from across the table. With closed fist, he hits Nate Small flush on the face. It is a solid blow. It was thrown as Mr. White was half seated. The contest has turned from rival, fellow student, to a striking affront before the assembled junior section of one hundred boys.

     Not all saw the blow struck. I did. I was waiting, watching. I had seen the secnario brewing for the past few days. The contest had seesawed one way and then the other. There were various glances of warning from Brother Elexsis. It was building to this. This strike, this blow. This was the start of the cafeteria fight. The milk fight.

     From across the table Robert White threw the first blow; a right hand, hitting Nate Small flush on the side of his face.

     Deliberately, Nate Small sets aside his newly won bottle of milk. He stands up and walks around the table to where Mr. White is seated. He does this casually, nonchalant, as if he is on a Sunday stroll. His arms are loose, his facial expression is non descript; but, he is quite serious.

     Robert White just about stands up as Nate Small approaches. He is almost in that half standing, half seated position; that same position that he took that swing and hit Nate Small with.

     Nate Small explodes throwing a powerful round house punch and it hits White flush on face.

     White is stunned for a moment, a split second; then, chairs are pushed aside. White comes out swinging. He lets loose with a straight right followed with a left.

     Nate Small takes that and answers with a hook, and another hook.

     White takes those punches and answers with more of his own.

     It is fast furious and powerful. The fight of fights for the championship of the junior section. It is for number one.

     White unleashes a right, a left, and a right.

     Small takes that and hits back with a hook, a hook, and a hook.

     They move to center floor. White is a stand up fighter. He is throwing straight rights and lefts.

     Small fights out of a semi crouch. He's a hooker. Left hook, right hook. He is throwing powerful hooks, one right after the other. Both fighters are equal in their determination. Both are strong, giving and taking. The dining tables to the left and right mark out of bounds.

     Small moves in throwing powerful shots: hook, hook.

     White takes them and answers with powerful shots of his own; straight right, straight left, straight right.

     It is hard fought. Both throwing heavy punches. Punches that land. It is for who is the biggest and the best. For who is number one. 

     They are toe to toe, swinging it out.

     Brother Elexsis has jumped up from his seat. He runs to where the fighters are and trys to get between them. He can't. He grabs and pulls on one then the other trying to stop the fight. At at long last he manages to maneauver between the two and the fight stops.

     Then White throws a punch over the shoulder of Brother Elexsis. First White threw a punch over the table, using the table as a barrier, now he has thrown a punch over the shoulder of Brother Elexsis, using Brother as a shield. This blow over the shoulder of Brother hits Small in the face and Small resumes fighting. He powers past Brother Elexsis pushing him aside. It looks like Brother Elexsis gets an elbow in his face.

     Brother grabs Nate Small and is tries to stop him. He can't, so he starts to kick at Nate. Brother Elexsis has Nate Small by the shirt collar and kicks at him. He kicks the leg of Nate Small. Kicks at the leg of that colored boy. Brother Elexsis kicks, kicks, and kicks. Brother Elexsis, the white religious Brother of the Sacred Heart of Jesus is kicking at the colored boy.

     It doesn't stop Nate Small. It is another affront within this white boy school, this white man's world. Hook, hook, he swings at Robert White and scores.

     White gives ground and answers with punches of his own. Right hand. Left hand.

     The fight stops. They've wound down. The slugfest has stopped of its own accord.

     Draw! Draw! I surmise, or could give Small the split decision

     There is still and air of tension.

     "You both have D's." Brother Elexsis angrily tells them.

     It's after the fact. Anticlimatic. They have D's for bad conduct: fighting. It ends the friendly rivalry relationship between White and Small. There is no more friendship.

     In the rec hall a few days later: I question Robert White. Nate Small is standing nearby, within hearing distance. I say to White, "I thought you were friends."

     "That nigger?" He says to me, and he lets his voice carry to the ears of Nate Small.

     Small winces. It is a finality. Small, it had appeared could have been open to reparations. It was like he was ready to carry on. To forgive and forget. White wanted none of it. He said the word, nigger. That was it. No more wrestling, no more games. It was over. Whatever friendship there was, ended.

     Nate Small left school. As I saw it, he didn't want any more racist white boys and those white Brother's of the Sacred Heart of Jesus kicking at him. And his father backed him up. Yes, his father, a colored man, backed his son up in his decision to leave the bastard school of Mount Saint Charles Academy. I had seen the two, father and son. His father had come to school a weekend or so later and conversed with his son. I saw them talking. It was decision time. Could it have been: Fuck this bastard white boy school, or some other such unspoken words.

     Goddamn! My bastard father wouldn't think of such a thing. Backing me up. Goddamn! So who's the nigger now white boy? Why it's me! David Emmanuel Faria, that's who. Goddamn.

 

                      Hanover Massachusetts

 

     An opportunity presented itself: Brother Stanislaus wanted to get together a baseball team to play another school. A school away from Woonsocket. There would be a bus to take the assembled team to the opposing school which was located in another state. That meant a long bus ride. A bus ride to take in some scenery.

     I'll go. I'll play. If it means getting off campus for some time, sure I'll go. I didn't much care for the idea of Brother Stanislaus coaching the team, but the main point was to get off campus. Brother Stanislaus had control of the picking team players, which position they would play, what line up in the batting order they would be. No matter; the big plus was time off campus. We most likely would pass through a major city or two, and there should be people on the sidewalks, walking, real citizens, free people. Boys and girls. Living people. Living in vibrant places. Yes, I wanted to go.

     A group of us boys were chosen. We boarded the bus and left Mount Saint Charles by a back road. From there on it was back country road to back country road. The dirver must have bypassed a countless number of towns and cities. We rode for over two hours, a lot of it on small two lane country roads. I saw trees, grass, blacktop, center dividing line and an occasional car that whizzed by.

     The bus was a diesel. Its engine droned on and on. The foul smell of burnt deisel fuel seeped into the back of the vechicle. We didn't pass through a city, not even near one. Not one girl did I see that day. I would have to wait for the month end.

     We got off at another all boys Catholic boarding school, and arriving late, we started the game with little fanfare and sparse introductions.

     Their team had a good pitcher. He would throw fast balls, tight curve balls, all hot stuff. We were getting shut out. Our lineup went to the plate and struck out. Some just stood there and were called out. We were looking like incompetents.

     Brother Stanislaus started to fume. He couldn't say much. He had picked us and put us on the bus. He did all the set up work, lined us up, placed us in the batting order.

     Because I was on Stanislaus' shit list, I got to bat last. So we were being shut out, a no hitter. I'm at bat. The pitcher throws me a hard fast ball. It comes right down the line, a little outside, and starts to break in over the plate. I take a hard cut. The ball curves in, I adjust and make contact hitting a fast line drive directly to the shortstop. The ball curves slightly once more.

     The shortstop is caught flatfooted. He moves his glove down and the ball hits the heel of his glove, pops out, hits his foot, then quickly rolls into the infield between the pitcher and the second baseman.

     I toss the bat aside, take one step and fall over home plate. Oh shit! I'm supine on the fist base line. I glance over to look at what the shortstop is doing. He's running after the ball rolling in the infield. I scramble up and out and hustle down the line running at full speed.

     Five steps to first base.

     Four steps to first base. The ball comes into sight.

     Three steps to first base. The ball is a couple of feet from the first baseman's outstretched glove.

     Two steps to first base. The ball is inches, almost into the glove.

     One step from first bast.

     You're Out!

     The shut out continues and the opposing team wins, the pitcher having a no hitter.

     I didn't lose everything in my effort. I understand that Brother Stanislaus let out a coarse word when I failed, so all was not in vain.

     The game is over and it's too late to get back to Mount in time for dinner. We are to eat at our opponents school. That's okay with me. I'd like to size up their all boys Catholic boarding school and compare it to ours.

     From the field to the main building, into their recreation hall. The students queque up just as we do at Mount. It's a duplicate. A Goddamn copy. How many more of these bastard places are there?

     Their rec hall is bigger than ours, but we have two rec halls. This school is intermediate. They have grades seven through nine, and there are a lot of young boys here. A lot of good little young boys, just the way some of the pervert Brothers of Jesus like them. The would like to play with them. Like to grab at them. Yes this is a beautiful place if you're a pervert pedophile bastard Brother of Jesus. Beautiful.

     They head to the dining room, double line, just as we do at Mount. We visitors follow. They have some extra places set and I try to hold out for a table with more settings than students so there will be extra helpings of food, but it is not to be, and I'm placed at a table with some boys from Hanover--that's where the school is: Hanover Massachusetts.

     Grace is said, we are seated, and we start to eat, and talk.

     Near the end of the meal I question the boy seated opposite me, "How do you like it here."

     He is suspicious, wary. He can get into trouble, onto a shit list if he is overheard speaking against the school. The other boys at the talbe also quiet up and eye me suspiciously.

     "It's okay," the boy says quietly, and turns the question back onto me, "Why? How do you like your school?"

     "I don't like it," I tell him flat out. I've got no bones about it. I'm on a shit list. I'm a nigger. One of their bastard boys. A whipper. A little bastard Jesus. These boys are miles from Mount Saint Charles. If they want to know how I think Mount is a shitty hell hole, I'll tell them.

     "Is there a town near here?" I ask.

     "It's a few miles down the road."

     "Are you allowed to go to town?"

     "No." The boys shake their heads.

      Do they want to go downtown, but aren't allowed to do so? There is no need to ask. It's a bastard duplicate system. This school and Mount Saint Charles; they're duplicates. This school is on the outskirts of a town or city; just like Mount. The boys aren't allowed into town; just like Mount. Whoever figured up this bastard system? It's all the same. The black robed bastards of Jesus, the Crucifix, Chapel, the strap: it's all the same. Perverts quietly grabbing at young boys. Sado masochistic whippings of young boys in private quarters. How many more of these Catholic all boys boarding schools are in the wide area of Massachusetts and Rhode Island? How many are there in the area of New England? A hundred, two hundred? I can't make a good guess.

     The boy on the other side of the table seems to take some comraderie towards me, yet words cannot be freely spoken against his school. He cannot freely say to me, yes, this is a bastard place. Yes, it is a perversion of life. A vile place, a lockup. He says,

     "You're the one who got the hit aren't you?"

     "No. I was thrown out at first." I say, correcting him.

     They're all reluctant to talk against the school, their school. Sure it's a bastard place, but some of us here may have no parents or parents who wish we weren't, bastard parents, but we cannot say that. It would be impolite. It's all oh so impolite. How many more of these pervert Catholic segreagated schools are there? There must be hundreds of them scattered throughout the quiet little outbacks, hidden in the woods, on the outskirts of cities and towns all over this bastard countryside. How many?     I silently look at each boy as they eat and talk. How they are taught to miss out, miss out and not to take notice. They miss out in this sterile little place of darkened chapel, hallways, Catholic classrooms learning of sin and Jesus. Mortal sin and hell, damnations, purgatory and flames. A hundred little ways and stories of religious hardship, martyrisms, all for the cause of Christ and the church. For that, they miss out of going downtown, society, walking upon lighted streets in the evening, dances, parties, places and girls of family. Life and living. They miss out month after month, quietly being bent to the life of instutions Catholic.

     We're one and the same, these boys and I. But I am slightly different. They do not know I am a whipping boy, a little bastard Jeusus for the pervert Brothers of Christ.

     On the ride back to Mount it turns dark and I use the time to think of both schools. The sameness of it, the duplication.

 

                           School--Home

 

     I lived in two worlds, school and home. At school it appeared that I was just another student and I got along with my peers quite well. But, to the facualty I was the nigger, Deuce.

     When I left Mount on the month ends, Fall River was my home; as was the Drake Hotel, Barnaby Street and Alan's house. Pleasant Street would become part of my home, as would Island Park.

     But my world at home was changing. It was a change which I didn't want to see, I didn't want to recognize. I was being followed. Tabs were being kept on me. Whether it was on the streets of Fall River, in Island Park, or in transit from here to there--I was being stalked. It was part of the curse that had been placed upon me by priest Shaleau. The people who were following me were subtle. They were not violent, or so I thought, and they blended into the background.

     Sometimes I didn't feel as if I was being followed, but at other times, I knew. I tried to dismiss it as a coincidence, but deep down I knew it was not so. People were following me.

     There were no stalking laws in Massachusetts or Rhode Island during those years. And the stalkers were friendly for the most part which gave me a false feeling that there wasn't much to worry about. The people who followed me sometimes were older men, in their fifties. Middle aged older men, they'd smile, say hello, sometimes approaching me for a little chitchat. They would get various bits of information of where I was going, what I was doing. It was as if they were friendly passers by, friendly fellow citizens, nothing to be worried about.

     Other times, younger men would follow me. Young men in their mid twenties. Both had similar methods of operation. They'd drive by in a car, or I'd be on my way home and they'd pick me up as I would hitch-hike. They'd question me. Where had I been? Where was I going? Where did I go to school? And in that subtle everyday subterfuge of give and take, information was gleaned from me.

     Years later I would reflect back and correctly realize the situation: it was mainly homosexuals who were following me. It was religious clergy. Religious homosexual clerics. Priests. Novitiates. Oblates or whatever from the Church, or whatever from the bastard priest Shaleau who cursed me. From the Church were the people who followed me. And beneath all the subtly and smiles was an undercurrent of homosexuality which they projected, and which would become more noticeable as time progressed.

     So it was at a young age that their involvement against me started. Slowly the stalking started, about the time of the formally ritualized curse that priest Shaleau had placed upon me that evening when I went to the dance at Saint Joseph's. Part of the curse was to isolate me. It was the start of the process of me being isolated from society. Island Park was part of the isolation. Mount Saint Charles was part of the isolation (I was not allowed in any extracurricular activies that took place off school grounds). The stalking was part of the isolation. My social life was to be broken up and interrupted. That is what the stalking was primarily about. Where I went and what I did--I was being followed and my social rendezvous and contacts that I would make would be disruppted. Those religious homosexuals would interrupt and try to place discord into my social contacts.

     At times, when they were sucessful I would become angered; then despondent and depressed. There was another effect: I was becoming somewhat accustomed to being followed. Erroneously I would shrug it off. The bastards of priest Shaleau seemingly imposed no great danger to me. But behind the scenes, they kept causing trouble. Eventually, they would cause my father trouble. The trouble those bastards of Jesus would cause would enmesh my family and my life in trouble. It would be total troulbe.