School Years Grade 12 #2

     It was graduation week. The rest of the boarding students had gone home for summer vacation leaving only us seniors on campus. It gave the place an empty vacant feeling; the yard was empty, the rec hall was empty, the whole building was empty, the whole place--anywhere you went--it was empty. The true character of Mount Saint Charles had appeared. After all the years, the true character of the school was one of emptyness. We students languished for a while, taking our t

ime adjusting to the quietness of the place. There was no shouting, no hustle bustle, no crowding, no nothing but us soon-to-be graduates off the leash of regimen. The day students who were going to graduate were at home and would rejoin us for graduation ceremonies at the end of the week.

     To ready us boarding students for the realities of the world, we were allowed to go downtown. The six years when Woonsocket was a forbidden city had been changed overnight.

 

     Talk in the yard is subdued. It's strange not being forced to study hall or chapel. The horn is quiet. The whole place is quiet. I'm to see the last of it and inwardly I'm pleased. The back road beckons. The drabness of the building, the tall windows, the chapel abutment sticking out of the brick with its colored glass windows, the door to the rec hall: it's all passe. The feel of confinment is lifting, easing. I'm to be set free. A few more days. A few more days. I savor the thought.

     I'll miss the guys.

     The wall. My wall. It's waiting, silently. It is behind me as I stand in the yard. Only I know of its meaning between it and I. It is everlasting obiedient.

     I'm sitting on the curb with Pete Doliver. We're taking in the sun.

     "One more week to go," I tell Pete.

     "Yeah, one more week," he says in return.

     "The class picnic should be pretty good. Do you

think some of the day students will be there?"

     "No. Why would they go to a picnic for us

boarders?"

     "I guess you're right."

     "I'm always right."

     And we laugh.

     "Hey! We can go downtown! Let's go downtown this

afternoon."

     "Yeah. Let's see if anybody else wants to go." 

     Paul lines up to go with us. Pete has found out about a bar where we can be served. I'm skeptical. That afternoon, just after lunch, we go to town; me, Pete and Paul.

     Paul's a latecomer to Mount. He's smallish, quiet, of fair complexion and with blond hair. He is deceptive in the mildness of his manner, for he can be quite risque.

     One instance:

     Another student at Mount who lived near Paul's town knew of a girl who would give blow jobs. He gives Paul her telephone number. On the month end, Paul calls her up. They go out. Paul drives to the nearest park. "Come on," he prods. The girl is hesitant at first, then gives in saying, "Well . . . Okay."

     I couldn't believe it. "Just like that!" I question Paul.

     "Just like that," he tells me.

     "Was she good looking?"

     "Average looking."

     Disbelief.

      "Just like that?"

     "Yep."

     I conclude that, not only have I been going to the wrong school, I've been living in the wrong city.

     So we're on our way to town. Down the hill we walk, through a residential section of Woonsocket and across the bridge, heading toward downtown Woonsocket. The city has been off limits for so long it has an aura. (If you can imagine a city like Woonsocket developing an aura: Imagine Mount. *)

     Pete spies the bar. It's just on the other side of the bridge.

     I don't believe it. I've just turned eighteen a few weeks ago and we get served. Here I am having a beer in a bar and I'm not out of high school yet. Pete's unfazed and guzzles his beer. Paul is drinking like a pro. I expect police to enter and haul us all away to the local jail.

     Pete orders another beer. Paul and I pass. Pete chug‑a-lugs and we leave. Stepping from the dark of the bar into the bright afternoon sunshine makes me squint. It must be the beer and I look down at my shoes. I need to see where I am stepping and to gain a righting perspective, and not to appear drunk.

     We're walking back across the bridge.

     Coming our way is a girl our age. She has entered the bridge's walkway at the opposite end. The walkway is wide enough for about three or four people walking abreast. It has an iron railing on the dropoff side, and on the roadway side there is a small bump curb. Below is the Blackstone River, foaming a white yellowish froth of water, chemicals, and urine that splashes upon blackened rocks as it weaves its way downstream.

     Paul has picks up the pace and moves a couple of steps ahead of Pete and I. The oncoming girl adjusts her walk and moves a little sideways to get out of Paul's way. Paul counter's her move. She double counters. Paul makes a quick shuffle as he nears the girl. He is almost upon her. The girl stops. Paul continues foward and pretends to stumble. In his pretense of losing his step or stumbling, his hands go up. Chest high. Paul and the girl collide, and Paul steals a quick feel. The girl pushes him off and curses at him. Paul is unfazed. The girl, highly angered, takes a swing at Paul with her purse. The blow glances off Paul's shoulder as he had protected himself from the blow. The girl continues on her way. She's miffed.

     I can't believe it. I look at Paul. I look at the girl as she passes Pete and I. She walks past Pete and I not saying a word. Ten paces behind us, she turns and blurts out a long list of profanities.

     I quicken my steps, passing Paul, putting some distance between him and I. The way I look at it: First we're in a bar, underage drinking; Then I'm associated with someone who's molesting a girl on a public sidwalk. Sheesh!

     I take a look back. The girl is well behind us, she turns again and shouts more obscenities. I'm a good twenty-five yards from her now and still with lively step I continue walking, but I can't help from laughing.

     "You're going to get us arrested," I shout to Paul who is trailing behind me some nine yards.

     Paul's laughing.

     "He's nuts! He's going to get us arrested," I shout to Pete who has also put a little distance between himself and Paul. Pete's laughing.

     Is it the beer? It is the freedom? Is it the end of school? What is it that has turned everything upside down?

     Uh oh! Here comes another girl!

     Where the heck are they coming from? I brace myself and walk as straight a walk as can be. It is almost a stifflegged walk. Almost a march. It is not too rightousness because I have had drink.

     The next oncomming girl has entered the bridge's walkway, is thirty five feet away and is closing in fast. She's our age. I continue my quick walk, continuing to distance myself from Paul.

     The girl passes me first. I give her ample room. I must not be implicated. And, I try to warn her. But my words come out somewhat lighthearted, mirthful--is it the beer? "Watch out for him," I say, and point I to Paul.

     She smiles, passes me and says nothing.

     From behind me, I hear their footsteps shuffling. It's a repeat. I know it. It's a repeat. I turn and look. The girl is pushing Paul off. She doesn't curse or yell. She's silently determined and has pushed past Paul. I look at her and she manages a smile. Under very difficult circumstances, she manages a smile. She should have listened to my words. "Watch out for him!" But after it has been done, she smiled. Was it to say, we hardly know each other; or, you're so quick.

     The girl continues on her way. There is a building silence, then the three of us break into laughter. The girl, now behind us, turns and smiles, which brings on more laughter from us.

     That's fifty-fifty. If you ask one girl and then another, chances are fifty-fifty you get what is wanted. All that has to be done is to ask. Thinking that, we walk on our way laughing and pushing each other. Fifty-fifty, that's not bad odds. Of course the introduction would have to be modified.

 

                            Wendesday

 

     Pete and I are talking out in the yard. Brother Phillip comes our way to speak with us. But, what does he want? School is over. It's done. Grades are in. We're graduating. What is it that he wants?

     "How would you like to go on a retreat?" he asks me.

     "Where's the retreat?"

     "In Manville."

     "Where's that?"

     "Manville's in Massachusetts, just over the state line."

     And I'm thinking it must be on the other side of Woonsocket. Woonsocket. It would be a short ride or something.

     "How are we going to get there?"

     "I have a car."

     I look to the driveway but I don't see a car. There's no car around, but if he says he's got a car, he's got a car. From here to Manville should be good for an hours' drive. "Okay," I tell him.

     "Good, I'll see you tomorrow at nine o'clock." He says and tries to leave.

     Wait a minute! Wait one minute. I was believing this was going to be here and now. Not tomorrow.

     "Oh no I can't go tomorrow. That's the senior class picnic."

     "But you have to." he tells me.

     "No I can't." You didn't say it was for tomorrow. You tricked me into thinking it was for today. Not exactly a trick. You mislead me.

     Pete leaves. He wants no part of this. It's becoming a confrontation between Brother Philip and I. And I am not in a good position. I am still a student. I have not graduated. Yet.

     "The Brothers have chosen you from all the students," says Brother Philip.

     Me! The Brothers have chosen me! Why would they chose me. I'm the student who hasn't been to confession in years. The student who pays no attention when in chapel. Who makes the motions half asleep. The Brothers have chosen me! Which Brothers! I'm not on the best liked list. I'm the outcast. The untalked to. Backs are turned towards me. I'm the nigger. I'm the one held in their contempt. What Brothers? Who are they? They turn as I approach. The Brothers have chosen me! Tell me their names to justify the truth of your words. "No. I can't go." I tell Brother.

     "It's a privilege. You can't refuse." Brother Philip says it defiantly. He says it as a Brother to a nothing. He is adamant.

     A privilege! A privilege to go to a church to pray while others are going on a picnic? But there is no changing the persistence of Brother Philip. I agree just to get away from him. He leaves and goes back into the school. And I watch him walking, his heavy bulk encased in its black robe. He moves with the authority of the Church and the crucifixion. He moves with all the practiced persistence of repetition. Left, right, left, right. He marches back to where he came from and will disappear within the motar, brick, pews and prayer.

     Now I'm stuck going on a religious retreat while the rest of the class is going to the class picnic. The official retreat for seniors had come and gone; and I didn't go on that. Maybe this retreat won't take much time. Maybe I'll be able to get to the picnic or at least part of it.

 

     The next day I'm out in the yard with the rest of the guys idling about. Brother Philip drives up in a black four-door. We say a few words. I get in the car and we drive away.

     "We have two semimaries," he tells me.

     "Where's the othere one?"

     "The one we're going to is in Manville. The other's in Rhode Island."

     "Let's go to the one in Rhode Island," I tell him, thinking it's the closest one; that way, if things get dull, you can drive me to the picnic.

     "It's too far away," he says.

     The seminary in Rhode Island is too far away and the seminary in Massachusetts is closer? Just backwards of what one would think.

     Over an hour into the the ride, Brother Philip turns onto a private drive which leads to a building. There is no one there. It's deserted. We get out of the vehicle and walk to the back of the building. There's a plowed field, and to our left, a stable. In it is a cow. We walk there and Brother Philip tells me, "Wait here. I have something to do."  Then he adds, "You can feed the cow some hay as the time passes." And he goes back to the main building.

     He has left me in a stable with a cow. And I'm to feed the cow hay as the time passes; or, to pass the time. All this while others in the senior class are having a picnic. That bastard has left me isolated. I'm in the boondocks with a cow and I'm to feed it. And this is a retreat?

     I'm thinking Brother Philip will be gone for a few minutes; five, ten, no more. A half an hour passes. I feed the cow some hay. The animal is lying down and doesn't get up. It takes the hay and eats. It eats and looks at me with those big brown cow eyes. Munch, munch, munch, it chews. So I feed it some more hay. On and on it goes; me feeding the cow, the cow eating. It looks as if I'm supposed to hand feed it. No! I'm supposed to be on a class picnic with the rest of my senior class.

     An hour passes. I'm becoming impatient. Where's Brother Philip? I've fed the cow handfull after handfull of hay which it eats and eats. It could eat all day and not tire of munching, chewing and eating. I tire of feeding it. I'm supposed to be at the picnic. I supposed to be there and maybe do a little swimming, or playing around and joking. It's supposed to be the big day for the senior class; but no! I have a privilege. This is supposed to be special. Some privilege. I'm out in the boondocks, on a farm with no one about. There is one cow that eats and eats. There is a plowed field with nothing growing. And Brother Philip is somewhere inside the building--problably praying. That's what he's probably doing. Praying. He's probably praying for my soul. No. He's probably praying that I will enter the religious life and become a celebate.

     I step to the threshold of the stable. It is now late morning and the sunlight shines heavily upon the shed. I squint my eyes and look over the field. At the far end there is a cluster of trees. Behind the trees I can just about see the outline of a building. Are people living there? Is there anyone else other than me out here in this emply place? To my right and left is the emptyness of the country and the dry uncropped grass and clumped dirt. There is nothing here. It must be nearing lunch time.

     Eventually Brother Philip comes toward the stable with a tunafish sandwich for me to eat. Great! It's my special senior day picnic meal. It's a privilege meal: a tuna fish sandwich with mayonaise. Nothing to drink. (Like the man in hell, he looks up to Jesus and begs, "Water! Water!" But not one drop of water was to touch this man.)

     "Oh, I forgot to bring along a drink," says Brother Philip, "you don't mind do you? . . . I could go and get you a drink of water . . . there are some dixie cups in the kitchen. It would only take a minute or so."

     "No, that's okay," I tell him and think, I don't want you running off for another couple of hours just so I can get a swallow of water or two. I've seen enough of this plowed field and stable--and the cow that can eat from sunup to sundown. There is nothing around here. It is isolated.

     I've just about finished my sandwich when Brother Philip remembers something else he has to do. He quickly turns and walks out of the stable and I'm left stranded again. It is the same setting. The same senario. It is absurd. Here it is in the afternoon and I'm still in a stable with a cow and Brother Philip is off somewhere--I don't know where.

     Thirty minutes later I step out into the yard for a look around. No Brother Philip. No one about. Not a soul. I don't  wander far. A little to the left, to the right. This is no place. It's the boonies, this out stable, this out building.

     Perhaps my moving about has roused Brother Philip and he reappears. It's over four hours into the day of my senior class picnic. It's wasted. I'm ready to leave.

     I walk with Brother Philip to the building. Two seminarians, novitiates, or beginners, are inside. They are sitting near the window where they can be seen. As we near the building Brother Philip waves to them. They wave back and smile. I think it is so much window dressing.

     "Let's go inside," I say.

     "They're studying in there. We don't want to disturb them," replies Brother.

     "Disturb them? How could we disturb them? By entering the building? So I take it, the building is off limits. Is that what you're trying to say? I've come here on a retreat and I'm not to enter the building!? What kind of retreat is this? We don't want to disburb them in their studies? What am I doing here in the first place? Why did you bring me here?

     "Well let's go," I tell him. I've had enough of this retreat. This out building in this out place. I've had enough of it. You can take me back to the school or the picnic.

     "One minute, I have a phone call to make." And Brother reenters the building. A minute later he's back. We're ready to go. Now this is more like it. Now we're moving. And all I had to do was tell him, "Let's go."

     My senior class picnic traded for a sandwich, a stable, and a cow. The day is ruined. We get into the car but before Brother starts the ignition he asks, "How would you like to study here?"

     The absurdity of his question--it's unbelievable! He wants me to go from Mount Saint Charles to this place! A seminary! That's absurd. I haven't seen the outside of the wall in six years and he wants me to enter their religious life. He wants me to go into their seminary! Become a Jesuit Brother! That's absurd! It is a life of no women, no girls, no nothing. He wants me to wear all black and to walk around with my head bowed. He wants me to get on my knees and pray everyday. He wants me to live a life cloistered, within a building of brick and stone, with religious statues made of plaster of paris. He wants me to pray in a chapel, to hide behind stained glass windows, admist candles and frilly white linen. He wants to hang a crucifix about my neck.

     All the anger and resentment that had been building within me just this past four hours tries to come out. I stifle it. I haven't graduated yet. But I want to scream in his fat complacent face. My words come out louder than usual and somewhat shakey, "My father has no more money!"

     This is not the school gymnasium and it is not the school play where those words were said by the portly bartender, played by Delli Bovi. "It's all gone! There is no more money!"

     Yes, it brought a round of laughter from those watching the school play. And it was a parody of my father, the portly bartender. He said those words to this very person sitting in the drivers seat asking me to enter their religious life. It was this very same Brother Philip who had gone to the Drake bar and Grill in Fall River Massachusetts to get money from my father. My father said, "There's no more money!" And thus started a serious religious queer to my father's places of business. It was a curse upon his business. It was a religious curse by the catholic religionists who sent deadbeats and trouble makers to my father's places of business to make sure there would be no more money. And for the bastards to parody the situation in one of their school plays . . . and they put it in one of their yearbooks--was that for my father to see? To piss him off. So it was with controled anger that I almost shouted, "My father has no more money,"

     Does he remember? Does this bastard remember? He doesn't respond. His deadpan face looks straight ahead and he starts the car. We drive out onto the blacktop and head back the way we had come. Then Brother Philip says something equally astonishing, "I can get you a scholarship," says he.

     You can get me a scholarship! You've got to be kidding! A scholarship? Sure! With just about enought money to lock me up in another one of your institutions, and with no money in my pocket you will want to keep me in a seminary with a piece of bread, a glass of water and a book. He wants me to look like one of his yokels sitting in the window and smiling! All I have to do is enter. He wants me to lead a life with no girls, no social life, and the Society of Jesus will pay my tuition.

     Again I stiffle the urge to shout in his fat nonpulsed face that is intently watching the road ahead as he drives. Oh so smoothly does he drive.

     "I'm going in the Air Force," I say in a barely restrained voice.

     Brother Philip says nothing more. We ride in silence. For six years they have given me all the crap they could, right up to this very day. It's the last two days of the last week, and they haven't given up yet.

     In due course we pull up into the school grounds and I get out of the car. I take the moment, holding the door open, and I tell him rather sarcastically, "Thanks for the ride."

     He says nothing. He just sits there. They're trained to do that. They're trained to be expressionless, non feeling, non pulsed. They pray every day in that same non feeling manner. They teach school the same way, non feeling, monotonous, droning. They are the non living, the dead. I slam the door shut; on him, the school, their life, everything the Jesuits mean or don't mean. The whole religious bit, I slam the door. I am to be set free tomorrow. There is no denying that.

     The wall is waiting for me. My sweet wall. It is going to open for me tomorrow. The lock will be broken. All these years and now I'm to take my long awaited walk to freedom. One more day.

 

                            The Setup

 

     I don't remember exactly who first spoke of it, or what it was all about--only that there was to be a communion. It was sort of special because it would be the last communion that we as a graduating class would share together. That's sort of the way it was put. To me, one communion is like any other communion. You go to chapel and there is communion. But this communion was sort of different and it caught my interest. So special was this communion that all graduates were invited to attend: daystudents and boarders alike. And the difference between communion and breakfast communion was diminished. It was all blurred into one.

     I don't remember which one of the Brothers explained it as such--it could have been Brother Walter, Brother Elexsis, but it was impressed that we soon-to-be graduates should attend this one last chapel mass.

     I wanted to find out for myself. What was it that was so important about this one last mass? So, I was prompted to attend chapel one last time. What could thirty minutes more in the chapel mean to me. I had put in hours upon hours in the chapel. I would go to this one last mass. I would not receive communion, but I would attend the breakfast after.

     It was a setup, a preset. I was looking for something that was going to be special; and, the difference would be there for me to see.

     Brother Walter would take part in the religious services; he would place a curse on me: directing a curse at me. It would be a religious curse. Ecclesiastical.

 

                              Friday

 

     Graduation day was out of the ordinary to begin with. It was the culmination of years of study, school, day to day sports, filing upstairs to the study hall, back downstairs to recreation. It was years of chapel, breakfast and school. Years of it. Today would be the end and the beginning of something new.

     No one was tardy when the lights were switched on in the dormitory that morning. We dressed, washed and went down to chapel as always. There were no lines or assembly. We marched straight to chapel on our good time. This was our day. Our last day at Mount and everybody knew it. We had earned it. Even the slow students; the troublemakers, the jokers. All students. Every one of us had earned this day in their own right.

     In chapel, I sat in my seat relaxed, passing the time, waiting for the start of the last mass I would attend at Mount. I looked about. Not one day student was here. Pete was right. There would be no daystudents at communion. Probably not at breakfast either, so what was the big deal? What was so special?

     Then came a little something out of the ordinary. It would be a religious curse. This was the chapel and Brother Walter was of a religious order: the Society of Jesus.

     It happened before the start of mass; Brother Walter, who was one of the attendants to assist the priest for mass,  came out of the side door within the altar area. At first I thought he was going to light the candles for the mass, but he was carrying no implement to light candles.  He came round to the front of the altar, and at the altar rail he opened the door-gate dividing the sanctuary from the congregation portion of the chapel. He walked out of the altar area leaving the altar rail door-gate open.

     It was immediately obvious: Brother Walter had his mouth wide open!? Wide. Open. He didn't shut his mouth; nor, did he cover it, as would be proper. It was as if Brother Walter was going to accept something into his mouth that was so big that he had all he could do to keep that mouth of his wide, wide open. It was totally out of place; but, Brother Water was in his proper place: the chapel.

     So, with his wide open mouth and a half smile at the corners of his lips, he walked to the right side of the chapel, up the isle, past me and the other seniors and to the back of the chapel. As he walked he looked as if he was searching for someone. Yet, all the time he had his mouth wide open, and did not shut it for one second.

     He walked to the back of the chapel and shortly he returned via the main isle. Coming back to the front of the chapel he went to the altar rail, through the opened door-gate, locking it behind him and he exited the alta area from whence he came.

     It was an encirclement.

     What Brother Walter had done was strange. I didn't understand it at the time. It was out of the ordinary. It was a curse. A religious curse. And many years later I would understand it. I would understand where it came from. Who did it. I would know when the curse manafested itself, and when it did; I would curse back.

     I would curse Brother Walter. I would curse him and the other Brothers. They who prayed for me. They who wanted me to go on that last religious retreat. By myself. A retreat where I would be isolated, out in the boondocks with nothing to do but feed a cow some hay. But no. It was said it was a previlege. I couldn't refuse. Out of all the seniors, I had been chosen. Me. Deuce! So, I would curse them back.

     There are people who don't believe in curses. Maybe in the later years of their lives they may take another line of thinking upon the matter, because, usually, with many years of living and experience gaining knowledge; then,  with the approach of death the facade of false knowledge fades. All the years of denial and ignorance can no longer be held in check. Barriers quickly fall, psychological repression is removed and with the removal the bareness of truth prevails.

     Many years will pass; over twenty-five, nearly thirty years that the curses will operate against me. So, there are two curses associated with and against me; the first curse by priest Shaleau, the second by Brother Walter. Some similarities in common:

     Both curses against me were done by Catholic religionists: the first curse by a priest, the second by a Jesuit Brother.

     In both instances I had been alerted that there would be something special: the first curse that took place at a parish dance; it was said that the dance was to be bigger and better than any sponsored by the adjoining parish of Saint Michael's; in the second curse, word had it that the communion was to be special.

     Both curses against me were religious curses performed by the clergy.

     Both curses had a symbol of death present: the crucifixion of Jesus. Jesus dead upon the cross. In the first curse it was predominate upon the person of the priest; he wearing the crucifix. In the second curse the crucifixion of Jesus was predominate in the chapel as it is within any catholic chapel or church, and again, the Brother of Jesus was wearing the crucifix about his neck. (The clergy will say, no. The crucifixion is a symbol of life: the resurrection. I say, as the subconscious sees it: the crucifixion is a symbol of death. Also, in the first curse the crucifix was accompanied with the evil-eye. In the second curse Brother Walter had his mouth agape. Aghast.)

     So the similarities were there: both curses were performed by the clery, a religious curse; both curses had the symbol of death; both curses used a setup, a preset, a reference that something special was going to happen.

     The breakfast following was good. We went downstairs to the dining room where coffee and powered cake donuts were reading for our enjoyment. It was a good breakfast.

 

     Later that morning: We seniors are milling about in the yard. Graduation will take place at twelve noon. Pete wants to downtown. He says we have plenty of time. We head to the same place, a bar. I'm not up to a beer but it's Pete's choice and I go along. On the second beer, I can't finish it, and give the rest to Pete. He drinks it up and we head back to school.

     It's about eleven and the rest of the seniors are in the study hall readying for the ceremony, putting their black robes on. Quickly Pete and I rush up the stairs and into the study. There it is a scene of milling about seniors saying their last good-byes. Pete and I melt into the group.

     I slip on a robe and I get a mortar board cap. Cellophane packets are handed out. In it a red tassel for the cap.

     Even seniors who were standoffish are now loosening up this last day.

     "What's this?" questions a senior.

     "It's a tassel," says another.

     "What's it for?"

     "You put it on your cap."

     "It's a feather in your cap," another jokes.

     Time is getting near. We talk nervously. Everyone is glancing over to hat clock on the wall.

     Emmanuel Provachi, class president for us boarders, calls out from the front of the study, "Gentlemen. It's time."

     With those last words we file out of the study and head down the stairs, thru the recreation hall, down another flight of stairs and into the gynmnaisum. As we enter the gym, the parents and relatives seated stand and applaud. We seniors are seated. Everyone sits and the ceremonies begin.

     There are speeches and words of praises. Then one by one our names are called and student by student we get up, go to the center isle, and walk to the stage. Individually, to the speaker we go, receive our diploma, shake hands and exit the stage.

     I am seated. Waiting for my turn. Soon it will be over and I will be free from this school. I take a look about. I see the people sitting on folding chairs, men dressed in good suits, women in fine dresses. After six years. Finally.

     My turn. I enter the stage, receive my diploma and as I'm exiting I notice Brother Director--the bastard who had whipped me, the bastard who I had not said a word, who I now hate. He is saying something to a visiting cleric. They both look at me as I am exiting the stage. I curtly nod in their direction. It is out of spite, in spite of him, that bastard, that I have recieved this diploma. Bastard. Bastards.

     The last graduate receives his diploma. All the lights in the gym are turned on. Parents and graduates merge into one big unorganized group. In the crowd I find Dad. He's with my Aunt Cora; I was half expecting to see Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary put forward the the money for our last year's tuition. It was a loan. Gilbert joins us. Dad wants to leave. I want to say some goodbyes to the other guys.

     "They're leaving. Let's go outside," says Dad.

     Outside we head to the grotto and take some pictures. Aunt Cora snaps picture after picture using the grotto as a backdrop.

     "Let's go to the front of the building," Dad says.

     First he wants to get out of the building. Now he wants to dally about and take pictures. We walk to the front of the building, mill about and take more pictures.

     Dad seems preoccupied. He is repeatedly looking at the building. Then he paces back and forth. Back and forth. He stops, looks at the building and seems to be upset about something. He tries to act defiant, like he's angry.

     Perhaps he feels as if he has been ripped off. All his money is gone. "There is no more money." And this school: that's where the money has gone. They have it. The Brothers of of Jesus have Dad's money and Dad's broke. Dad's now selling used cars in a rinky-dink town in nowhere Rhode Island. Dad is pissed. Teed. He doesn't understand the Brothers of the Society of Jesus. So, me, David the Genius tries to explain.

     "Dad, they don't care," I try to tell himy. The Brothers of Jesus wouldn't care if we stay out here all day. We can walk around, stare at the building, pacing back and forth. They have your moneyd. They don't car. Look at the building. Lood defiant. Stare at it all day. They won't car.

     You are angry?

     They will pray. They will pray to Jesus, for Him to comfort you. They will pray to Jesus to have you leave their school grounds. They have Jesus on their side. They are right. They are always right. It is a papal imprematur like situation. That's the way the it is with these Brothers. You are upset: pray.

     So Dad's angry. He paid. But Gilbert and I paid too. I was whipped. Gilbert flunked a year. Dad paid with his hotel, a bar and the attached apartments. I've got a piece of paper (diploma) and a second rate high school education. Gilbert was tolerated to the last year and was then shit upon in the school yearbook as the class clown.

     But it should be remembered: the time when Dad bowed his head as some penitetant, asking Brother Gilbert, "Father could you show me where the Director's office is?" and then he went to Brother Director's office with a bottle of wine. A present. It was to make amends. Well the amending days are gone and I want to get out of here.

     Times have changed. Dad's money is gone. He's selling used cars. And he is not trim and dapper any more. His clothes have a shabby edge. They are not as neat and clean, not as pressed. It was years ago, Dad came down the stairs in the Drake. The stair case creaking beneath his weight. He was still in the last days of his prime; from his expensive grey hat with plum brim, to the bottom of his highly polished wing-tip shoes. He was wearing a neatly pressed business suit and had on a clean pressed and starched white shirt. Along with it a color coordinated tie. His carefully combed and slicked back dark hair was stylishly correct for that day. Dad presented the image of a sucessful business man.

     But time has passed. It is gone. Dad is a beaten man. He has been beaten by the Brothers of Jesus. The Brothers of Jesus and his good old buddy priest Shaleau.

     Pictures are taken in front of the building. I'm to say good-bye to Mount Saint Charles. Time is wasting. It's ironic. How can one waste time at Mount where everything had been scheduled whether you like it or not?

     Dad acquiesces, we're going to leave. Gilbert and I go back to the building, upstairs to the study hall, where we will leave our graduation robes and caps.

     I'm take one last look around. I'm ready to go.  This is the moment I've been waiting for. Six years I have worked toward this moment. It is my exit from prison. White nigger boy Dave is about to walk.

     I tell Gilbert, " You go ahead. I'm going to hitch‑hike home."

     "You can't hitch‑hike home," Gilbert says, "it's graduation day."

     What do you mean I can't hitch-hike home? I've hitch-hiked home for years? This will be my last hitch-hike home. It's the big one. My last to do at at this place.

     "Oh yes I can." I've waited six years for this day. Six years and you're going to tell me I can't hitch-hike home? I've looked at that wall for six long years.

     I'm irritated. Gilbert is telling me this is a special day. I can't hitch-hike. No! What I'm supposed to do is, take a last look around and savor the moment. Then I'm to casually walk out of this building and off the school grounds. I'm to walk upon the back road. It will be my last walk from here. I'm to breath fresh air; and, slowly, as I'm walking, I'm to look around and see how different it all is. I will be free. It is today. Now!

     "You tell Dad." Gilbert says to me.

     "Okay. I will."

     I'm to walk out on that blacktop for the last time. My walk to freedom is moments away. This interference from Gilbert, I don't like. They're supposed to go their own way, Gilbert and Dad, and I'll go mine. For six years Gilbert has gone his own way, so this last minute interference from him, I do not like.

     We walk back to the car where Dad and Aunt Cora are waiting. There is a new feel to my walk. I feel the freedom. I already feel the freedom. No longer do I have to answer to any of the Brothers of Mount Saint Charles. No longer do I have anything to say to any Brother of the Society of Jesus.

     Gilbert quietly walks alongside. He has nothing to say of my equality, and he had better not.

     We approach the car. I stop and say to Dad, "You go ahead. I'm going to hitch-hike home."

     Dad's face drops. He's hurt once more. I don't usually hurt Dad, not openly. I usually don't have the where-with-all to do so. But here, with Cora watching, Dad's put in a position that all is not well. She is watching and doesn't understand.

     "We're going to get a little something to eat, . . ." Dad says somewhat embarassed, "I don't have enough for dinner . . . some ice cream maybe, . . ."

     So, the feeling is, Dad doesn't want to let on to Aunt Cora what a hell hole of a place this has been to me. I feel sorry for him. He's been throught the mill, just as I have--but the wall. My wall. It's a stones throw from where we're standing, a mere fifty feet. I can see it out the corner of my eye. I can see the back road. There is the footpath alongside the road. The footpath that inclines, and will lead to the outer residential area of Woonsocket. I see the baseball back stop of the junior section.

     Dad's hurt and I go along with what he wants.

     I'm to give up my cherished walk for a dish of ice cream. I've waited six years, six Goddamn years in a bastard school. Six years for a dish of ice cream.

     Aunt Cora is wondering what this is all about. She looks at me holding up their onward progress. If we're to get on our way, I'm to go along. Dad and Gilbert are waiting for me too. Aunt Cora waits and doesn't have a clue. She doesn't know the shit I've been through. Dad's doesn't want any bad secrets to get out. Aunt Cora's husband is Dad's brother, my Uncle Manny. Manuel Faria. Protocol doesn't allow me to tell Aunt Cora, this is a shit school. I've waited six years for this walk. But that's not true; I don't have heart or the guts to tell Dad, You can have my ice cream. I'm going to walk and hitch-hike home.

     It's goodbye to my walk of freedom. Goodbye to my walk in the sunshine. Goodby leisurly walk upon the foot path. Goodbye to my listening to the sound of approaching cars. No side steping, walking backwards, holding my thumb out, hand held low, looking cool. Goodbye to turning and watching the vechicles as they pass by. Goodbye to the hitch-hike-shuffle. Goodbye overhead sun, green trees green, birds singing. There will be no fair wind, warm breeze caressing my face, . . . No! Keep your ice cream and tell Aunt Cora how I hate the school. I hate this bastard school. I always did; always will. Tell her. Let her tell Uncle Manny. Let him tell Uncle Joe. Uncle Dave. Tell everybody. I don't care. It doesn't matter any more--and I  quietly get in the back seat of the Olds.

     Okay. I've given up my prized walk. In return, nobody is to say anything. It is to be in silence. My last ride from Mount is to be just as it has always been: in silence. That year, at the start of my eighth grade when you yelled at me to shut up. Well, there was silence following that remark. So it should be on this one last ride. We will all shut up and ride in silence.

     With everybody in the car, Dad starts the Olds and eases it onto the drive. We head out toward the back roadway. Dad momentarily slows at the intersection of private dirve and the road. He gives a quick look for traffic, and with a smooth motion  gives the car some gas, at the same time turning the wheel. The Olds responds, the engine pulling the slight incline. I take a long look at the school thinking it's my last look at the bastard place. Slow down! We're going too fast. You're driving too fast! I waited six years for this day. Six years of my life I have worked and waited for this moment. I'm supposed to be out there walking on the footpath slowly taking my time. The least you could do is drive slow. I'm supposed to be walking in the sunshine, breathing fresh air and with the grass beneath my feet, every step taking me farther and farther away from the bastard place. You're driving too fast!

     Now half way on the back road, the portion of the road from which the school can be viewed, I look over the top of the bleachers that sit within the senior section; I look at the junior section. Fleeting seconds have passed; half of my six years at Mount gone in a matter of seconds. You're driving too fast! It's my day. This is my moment. I've worked for it. I'm being cheated. And quietly Dad drives the Olds. This whole Goddamn place is one big cheat. I've been cheated out of my education. Cheated out of my freedom, my social life. Goddamn it. And I lean forward in my seat craning my neck to take my last view of the school as it silently slides away. For six years I had envisioned myself walking away, viewing the school at my leisure as I had done many times on month ends, but this was supposed to be different. I was supposed to take my time. My one last time. A time when I would never have to return. For six years I had imagined myself walking away from the black robed Brother's of Jesus; walking away from the study hall, the chapel, the double file walking to the dining room. I was to look at the school and walk away from it all; away from the nightly treadmill up flights of stairs to the dormitory; away from the years of confinement; away and never to return. I want to shout at Dad, Stop the Car! I want to get out and walk! Stop! But it would be too upsetting to Dad; to Aunt Cora; to Dad's position within the family, of what little family there is left. For a little ice cream, I'm being cheated out of . . . too late. The school has quickly passed out of sight and I sag into the seat. Cheated.

     No one has said a word. Thank God for that. Six years of my life in a few seconds and onward we ride. The rule of silence that had been imposed years before is still in effect. It is only Aunt Cora who unknowingly transgresses the rule from time to time, but soon, she too settles into the silence of the ride. This charade will be over when we reach our destination and I get my ice cream reward.

     And I think of the ice cream I'll have; it will be a Strawberry Sundae. That's what I'll have. And I hope it won't be served in one of those stainless steel goblets. I want it served in one of them fancy glass type of goblets. I want to see the ice cream. I want it to appear more than it is. And I want big scoops of vanilla and strawberry. On the top I want strawberry syrup, topped off with lots of whipped cream and sprinkled with chopped nuts. And at the very top: a marisknino cherry. Yes, that's what I'll have: a Strawberry Sundae.

     Forty-five minutes later: We're on the road that connects Fall River to Providence. Dad slows the Olds and turns into a parking lot just off the two-lane. The tires crunch on the gravel within the lot. We park in thre front of a small creamery. Through the front window of the business I can see some of the people inside who are siting at tables.

     Dad shuts off the ignition and sets the brake. Aunt Cora opens the passenger door and steps halfway out, her feet just touching the ground.

     In that moment I think, It's over. It's finally over. And I let out a sigh of relief, then venting my long held silence saying, "Six years in that place."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I said it with relief, an exaustive all consuming expense of my years of life. A pent up prison life. I am a prisoner on longer. Six years. Six years of my life.

     My words freeze Dad. He hasn't let go of the steering wheel. He says, "Let's not go in."

     Aunt Cora turns and looks at him questioningly.

     "I don't feel like having anything." Dad says and he restarts the engine.

     Not saying anything, Cora pulls her feet back and shuts the door. Dad backs the car away from the building, swings the Olds in a semi-circle, puts it in forward, gives it gas and away we go.

     What about my Strawberry Sunday? First I give up my walk for an ice cream. Now I'm not going to get even that. Six years in that place and I don't even get an ice cream. Not even a thirty-five cent ice cream. No whipped cream. No nuts. No strawberries. No nothing.

     The Olds rolls over the gravel of the parking lot and onto the blacktop we go, continuing to ride in silence. It's the same silence of six years driving to and from school. It's my silence. That's all I have left, and that too will end when we get home. This is the last ride to or from that school. Good.(1)

 

 

 

     (1)Many years later my view of those six year will be much harsher.

     * My remark about the city of Woonsocket should be considered in the time frame. Later I will visit cities as Paris, London, New Deli, San Francisco, New York; much larger cities than Woonsocket. So, the remark is out of place, but it should give the reader some feel of the narrowness of my life and the confines that I endured in those earlier days.