School Years Grade 7 #3

                            Henceforth

 

     In the second quarter of the school year Brother Claude made a rare appearance in the recreation hall one evening. A group of seventh graders gathered around him. I moseyed on over.

     "You're going to have to start handing in homework or you won't pass the school year," Brother said to me matter-of-factly.

     "For not doing homework!"

     "Yes."

     "I've never had homework before."

     "Well, you've got homework now," said Brother.

     There was a momentary break in our conversation as Brother briefly talked to some of the other students. Then he turned back to me and asked, "What time is it?"

     I looked across the recreation hall to the clock upon the wall. "It's seven twenty-five," I said.

     "From this point on, 'Henceforth!' you will have homework to do."

     It was a bad joke. A trick. The clock on the wall. His fiddling with his wristwatch. He had even stooped so low as to get back at me for being a classroom clock watcher. What I thought would be a nice little chitchat with my seventh grade teacher turned into a distressing talk about my future work load. Henceforth, I would have homework to do. Or else I couldn't expect a passing grade at the end of the year. I was caught. The clock on the wall. Me giving him the time. He reminding me of my homework. There was no way out. There was no way to say I wasn't warned. Initially I had liked Brother Claude. He was a pleasant Brother. Young, easygoing. But he was being tutored by the other Brothers.

     I took my leave and went outside to the yard. To that one acre of dirt, dust, and tramplled grass. All encircled by a curbstone, a private drive, and the stone wall as a back perimeter. It's a prison. A prison. You are viewing a prison. And if a car would roll by, without hesitation, without slowing down, not even giving a look, a second glance. It was as if we didn't exist. It's a prison! A Goddamn prison!

     After my little chat with Brother Claude, my study periods changed radically. I had few precious moments to read library books. Homework was exercise after page turning exercise. I started to scribble just to get finished with my homework, so I could get back to reading library books. The library was all I had at Mount, and that was soon to be taken from me.

     Henceforth, from that time on, my study habits would be scrutinized and interrupted by Brother Elexsis. It was the start of a little game. A game that would be expanded upon and played most every evening in the study. It was the overseeing Brother as antoganizer; me as the victim. The fool. The nigger.

     Catch the nigger reading a library book when he is supposed to be studying. Or, interrupt the nigger while he is engrossed in reading a library book. Startle the nigger! Make the nigger jump. The nigger is trying to learn. He is reading! Stop him! Startle him. Interrupt him. Stop the nigger.

     The game went like this: First, I would be spied upon from the overseer's desk. If I would be engrossed in reading a book, Brother Elexsis would ease up from his seat, quietly step off the platform, and walk around to the far end of the study hall. This was no easy feat. His chair squeaked when he got up and the oaken floor would squeek in certain areas. What Brother would do would be to lean in his seat in a particular way and wait for me to be well along in my reading. Then he would ease out of his chair from the canted position. It didn't squeek. It took a lot of doing, but I guess all those hours spent in chapel murmuring to God and all, and those timely minutes with head bowed in prayer would pay off in patience for the pounce--and once out of his seat, he would quietly walk along the far side of the hall, avoiding any telltale squeaks in the floor and head toward the back end of the study. Almost on tip toes he would circle the study hall and down the side isle he would come, sneaking up on me from behind. The roundabout scenario sometime would take ten minutes or more for him to traverse. Sneaking up behind me, he would position himself a few feet in back of me. There he would stop and wait, choosing his moment carefully.     Usually I would be reading blissfully on.

     "Is your homework complete?" he would quietly inquire.

     What!? Did someone speak? Startled from my reading, I would look to the front, immediately viewing the front desk. It would be empty. Oh, oh. I would then glance to my right and left, turning my head slightly, and downwards out of the corner of my eye I would see part of a black robe and the polished back shoes of Brother Elexsis. He would be standing just slightly behind me and off to the right a little. Damn! Caught!

     "No Brother," I would answer--my homework would not be done. And marking my place in my library book I would close it and place it inside my desk.

     Other times, Brother wouldn't say anything. He would stand behind me waiting for that moment when I'd be so engrossed in reading, that I'd be in another world. Or, he would inch up alongside of me, and from out of the corner of my eye I would see the black cloth of his robe-dress. He would vary the tonal quality of his words; falsely polite, as if, excuse me Mr. Faria. But, all the time searching for the most severe reaction from me. He, looking for the highest jump out of my seat. For the most startled expression upon my face. The most hushed curse faintly whispered from my lips.

     "Is your homework comeplete?" and with those falsely polite words, Brother Elexsis would win yet another exercise in disturbing the student from his reading. From his learning. Putting the student down. Making him jump. Catch the nigger. It was one of the little chores for the Brothers to do and they seemed to enjoy doing it.

     After a few weeks I became conditioned. Sometimes the game turned into a contest. Yet another little game between adult Brother of Jesus and young student boy. Whenever Brother Elexsis was too tired to spend the ten minutes of his time walking the room, sneaking about, he would wait for the right moment, and from his seat he would squeak his chair and make a false movement as if he was going to get up! But no, he's adjusting his seating position. Or is he?

     Alerted from the squeek of his chair, I would look up from my reading. From across the study, Brother Elexsis would smirk at me. He had won yet another little game. He has startled the nigger without getting up from his chair. Nigger, I can disturb you from where I sit, without even getting up. Ha ha.

     I would look at him, then turn back to my work. Within me, a feeling of contempt for their whole bastard system started eating away at me. Is that the way they work? A sadistic smile? Sarcasm and smirks. A whistle sounded behind boys backs. To startle? To sneak about. Sneaking up behind boys in the study hall, disturbing their reading, their studies, their learning habits?--In the name of the Father, and of the Son . . .

     When the study hall game of 'Catch the Nigger' first started, I became more watchful. Would Brother Elexsis catch the errant student before he could hide the forbidden library book in his desk, and exchange it for a school text book?    

     Sometimes I won.

     A tip-off, the study would become unconnonly quiet. I would glance up to the overseer's desk. He's not there. I would shift my eyes left to right. No Brother Elexsis. He has to be in back of the study or is coming down the isle behind me. Quietly, and with the least amount of bodily movement I would slowly lift the desktop lid, just inches. Then I would slide in my hand, slipping the library book in and exchange it for paper, pencil, and school text book. I would win! Game won: Faria. But, I would lose.

     My study habits were being peverted. My reading habits were being perverted. It was the starting point of my life being peverted by the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Yes, when I look back on the whole system of Catholic upbringing, of Catholic instutions, churches, chapels and school: this would be part of it. A big part of it. It would be a pervision of my life. A blocking. A thwarting of my learning. A blocking of my potential. It is one of Jesuit over young boy. Religious cleric over lay person. Of priviledged catholic clergy feeding upon the lay people, the congregation. (Beneath the obvious, subtly, I was cursed, being cursed. I was the nigger.)

 

                          School Library

 

     The entrance to the school library was through a door in the junior section study hall. It was a small library with tables and chairs for reading, stacks of books along the walls. It had a religious section, history, science, and some magazines. No magazines or newspapers were permitted on campus. Within those magazines and newspapers could be pictures of women. And pictures of women were not to be seen on school grounds.

      Nevertheless, the school library would be open for us students for thiry minutes on Fridays. Students interested in getting a library book would have enough time to enter, choose a book and exit. Thirty minutes was allotted.

     The school librarian at that early date was Brother Cyril. And I had a little confrontation with him over a book. I had been perusing the stacks, and happened upon a book of scientific interest. An anatomical book. It was a small black book that I happened to slide out from amongst the others. With idle interest opened it and started to page. My eyes widened, for within the little black book were anatomically correct pictures. And pictures that would answer questions that I had carried with me for a couple of years . . .

 

It had been a few years before--it was in the afternoon and I was sitting at the kitchen table. My mother was at the stove cooking.

     "Momma, where did I come from?" I questioned.

     Mom turned, faced me, patted her stomach with her hand and smiled. "Right here. Right from my tummy."

     Momma was always teasing me. "Oh Momma, I'm too big to fit in there," I said in exasperation. Obviously she was lying, I couldn't fit in someplace as small as that.

     She looked at me and realizing I didn't believe her, she added, "Yes, you're too big now, but remember last year? You were a little smaller than you are now?" And she held out her hand in measurement from the kitchen floor.

     "Yes?" and I waited for her to continue.

     "Well, when you were a baby you were real small. You know how small babies are, don't you?"

     "Yes . . . "

     "Well, you fit right in my tummy," and again she placed her hand on her stomach, held it there and smiled. She smiled that way when she was carrying Camille.

     Immediately I thought, well then, How did I get out? But I didn't say anything for immediately I knew the answer, just as surely as I had fell to the floor upon my first attempt at standing, and my mother was at the same place--at the stove cooking.

     So, the question answered brought forth other questions. Such as, exactly where and how did the baby fit inside the tummy? And if it was inside the tummy, how could it breath?

 

     So now at Mount Saint Charles Academey the question would be answere, or so I thought. The book I held in my hand had the answers in black and white. It was an adult mystery that would be explained. How the adults lord it over young children, even their young children. How they talked and would not say much of anything. How they would explain and not answer. But here in my hand, in this little book, it had the answers. I was elated.

     Now was the time some clarification would be put forth. If I could not understand the printed word, which seemed to be the case as I turned the pages, the pictures would explain. I would be able to learn. It was a good find. and I quickly flipped page after glossy page. First! There was a picture of a naked man; his stomach was cut open and folded back, his innards were revealed, markers and lines designated what this was or what that was, organs. Finely printed black lines pointing to each organ with worded identification. I fingered through more pages. One. Two. Three.  Five. Ten. Sure enough, there it was! A picture of a woman! Just like the man, she stood pictured: naked! Her stomach sliced open. Her innards revealed! Triumph! It was somewhere in there she held the baby! Somewhere admist all those lines and drawings. I would find out.

     But, it was a hot book. No doubt about it. A man and woman pictured with no clothes on. And curiously, both had hair upon their private areas. What for? I thought. But, no matter, this book, in answering questions, was also going to produce more questions. Again, that didn't matter. The first question and most important for the day; where in the tummy of the momma hid the baby? Just by initially glancing at the pictures, lines, the worded identification, that question could be answered. All other questions; hair, differences between the man and the woman would be added learning. But my immediate problem was getting this litle book out of the library for me to quietly read at some later time. This little black book had a lot of important information well mapped out for study.

     In this religious school, would they let me check this book out? I don't think so. My only chance would be to as nonchalantly as I can, as if it's just another book, another nondescript book--and I'll try to check it out. I looked to the checkout desk to see how the situation was. Three boys were there checking out books. This would have to be the time.

     To the desk I went. Brother Cyril looks at me. I step forward, hand him the book, saying, "I'd like to check out this book."

     He opens it, looks inside. closes it and places it to one side. He says nothing to me. He turns to another boy and checks out his book. The boy takes his book and leaves.

     Brother Cyril looks at me again. He waits a moment before speaking. "This is a science book. Are you taking a science course?" he asks of me.

     "Do I have to have the science course to check out this book?" I answer him.

     "It's a reference book. You can't take it out of the library."

     I don't believe him.

     "Then I'll put it back where I found it," I say, and I reach for the book. I want to memorize it's number and where it is placed even though I don't know the system for book placements. But I know I need to memorize its markings for future attempts at getting it to read.

     "No, leave it on the desk," says Brother Cyril. He takes the book and moves it farther from me, out of my reach. "I'll take care of it," he says.

     So he blocks me. He blocks my learning, my growth, my knowledge. On other occasions I tried to regain that book, but whenever I would walk toward the science section, Brother Cyril would get up from his desk to stop and question me. "What book is it that you're looking for? Maybe I can help you find it."

     Ha, ha, ha, you want that dirty little book with those pictures of naked people in it, don't you? Well you're not going to get it. Ha, ha, ha, harumph, . . . In the Name of the Father . . . And of the Son . . . And of the . . .

     I never did get my hands on that book again. At Mount Saint Charles I was to be blocked, thwarted, peverted in my learning. The bastard Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus wouldn't allow a young boy learn about the human body. It really didn't matter. My days in the library were being numbered. That too would be taken from me.

 

                            Final Test

 

     It's the last few weeks of the school year and the final test is nearing. Students are getting edgy. We ask questions in class; On the test, how many questions will there be? What will the test be on? Any true and false? How many points will each question be worth?

     Brother Claude answers some of the questions, but his comments are filtered. It is a few words that he says here and there that cause me to worry. He said, it was how some students who start school late find it difficult to catch up. That comment and others like, Mount Saint Charles is such a good school--a much better school than those public schools--when students transfer to Mount they sometimes find it difficult. Especially those students who start late in the school year.

     Was he directing his remarks at me? Yes, I started the school year late. Does he mean that I am finding the school work difficult. So difficult that I would not be able to catch up? Is he trying to say that I am I one of those students? So I stayed after school for some clarification on the matter. I waited for the class to empty, then I questioned Brother Claude.

     "I missed part of the school year--the first quarter," I questioned. "Are there going to be any questions on the test from the first quarter?"

     "The test will be on all we covered the whole year," he told me. He said it flat out, direct.

     It was similar to our meeting in the rec hall when he told me, "Henceforth. From this time on, you will have homework to do." And it was true, I did have homework to do. A lot of homework. Homework upon homework. And with that in mind, I didn't want something similar to happen on the final test. Something I would not be prepared for. Questions that I had not heard of from the first quarter of the school year.

     "It's not my fault I wasn't in school the first quarter," I told him.

     "No. It's not," he replied.

     "Any questions that I missed when I wasn't here, shouldn't count against me," I told him.

     "That's right," He agreed with me. Then he reached into his desk and pulled out his English book. He opened it and flipped through some pages. Then he jotted down some page numbers on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. "Read those chapters," he told me.

     The assignment was more that enough, but I had to find out if there was more. Were there going to be any questions coming at me from the side. So I further questioned, "Is that all?"

     "The test will be on all the material we covered," he said

     No, that's not good enough. That's too vague an answer. I want to pin him down on the matter of the first quarter. What about, religion, arithmetic, history; any of that from the first quarter--will it be on the test? So I asked him,     "When I wasn't in school in the beginning of the year, will there be any other questions besides in here?" and I indicated to my newly assiged work.

     "No," he told me.

     Good. That's what I wanted to hear. So I left the classroom looking at the piece of paper in my hand, figuring what work I would have to do. And during the following days I had caught up.    But another twist developed which added to my concern.

     Some brilliant student wanted to know how much the test was worth compared to the grades of the previous three quarters. Brother Claude put the student at ease and infered that the questioning student would get a passing grade barring no major catastrophies. I thought contemptously, so much for borderline students; but, it was something Brother Claude said to the student while answering his question. Something about homework. Homework was going to be included in the final grade! It didn't seem right. A final test is a final test. What does homework have to do with it? It caused me to worry because half the school year I hadn't handed in homework.

    

     On test day there was the usual tension in the air. In class it was a quietness. All was ready, and the test was handed out. It was forty questions. Forty questions total. Within those first few chapters I had demanded from Brother Claude was twenty-five percent of the test. I was shocked. Had I not been questioned him, I could have easily failed this test. Is that what he had in mind? His little indirect remarks, his little inunendoes--they were directed at me. I was set up to fail, but I had evaded the pitfall. Shaking off the chill, I continued on with the test. At the end of the period our papers were gathered up and we went to lunch. It would be a few days before our tests would be graded.

     I had aced the test, and having done so well I thought it was a foregone conclusion that somewhere in the nineties would be my final grade. I had missed one question flat out. One question out of forty. Another question or two could be construed one way or the other. But, the test--it was easy. Mid ninety or low ninety at the least I should get.

     In those few days before grades were posted in the recreation hall, we students badgered Brother Claude for some indication of the grade we were to receive. And as for me thinking I would rank a ninety or something like that; well, the good Brother Claude put an end to that kind of thinking.

     I didn't understand? There were only forty questions on the test! What is it that I am missing? A test is a test. An eighty then? No, not even that would I get, so he indicated. But I had done so good on the test. I was dumbfounded. What is it that I had missed?

     Yes, Brother Claude admitted, I had done well on the test, but my homework was remiss.

     Ohhh! It's the old, if you can't flunk them one way, we'll flunk you another. And homework. Homework counts toward the final grade? But how much could homework be worth? Think nigger!! How much could homework be worth!

     "Past homework counts as forty points on the final grade. The test is worth sixty points," said Frere Claude.

     There, you have it. Forty points and sixty points equals one hundred.

     "Forty points! A student could get a hundred on the test and still fail," I cried out. It was true. The student would have sixty as a final grade; thus failing the school year. I was scared. I felt I was being cheated. Shortchanged. Having escaped outright failure, I was now being downgraded. My ninety, an A grade score--my extra reading, my preparing for the test, the whole thing--it was all for nothing. It was almost worthless. This school is worthless. It's a sham. A lying, deciteful, double dealing bunch of crap. My work, my good grade, was being negated by some new rule thrown in at the last minute. Homework. No one had said anything about homework a good half to two thirds of the school year. If it was to be worth so much in the figuring of the final grade, I should have been alerted much earlier. Forty points for homework! My homework had been scribble.

     Brother Claude explained, "A student could get a hundred on the test, and still fail. Yes. But a student could also fail the test, and still make a passing grade."

     Oh! It was a little backward play on words. It was a little thorn thrown in at the few final days of the school year. I hated it. But the class loved it. Ass kissers! Half the class. Ass kissers! Great! So now Brother Claude is the hero of the moment.

     Any student wishing to pass the seventh grade of the school year at Mount Saint Charles Academy--all the student would have to do would be to grovel, knee, bow, make the Sign of the Cross, and kiss the ass of the venerated Brother at the head of the class and a passing grade would be given the brown nosed ass-kiss-sucking student. Thus, another good Catholic student who can obey the rules of the school would step to the next higher grade.

     I scoffed at the absurdity of this Catholic school. This better than others, better than thou. How can you fail a student who passes the final test with a hundred? How can you fail a student who knows the subjects taught? Their grading is absurd. This school is absurd. The Brothers are absurd.

     I tried to calculate my grade but couldn't come up with a figure, not knowing how my homework was scored.

     Within the next day or so our test scores are posted on the bulletin board in the middle of the rec hall. We are seated in class waiting for the bell to ring, and are passing the time making small talk and joking. Questions about the test are asked and the answers given. Yelps and groans are heard throughout the room. The bell rings and it's a mad rush to the recreation hall.

     The hallways and stairway is jammed. In the recreation hall, students are three and four deep around the posted grades. Some students are up on tip‑toes. Others lean in pushing, trying to make their way nearer to have a look. The upper grades, with their seniority had gotten there first. Brother Elexsis is nearby trying to keep order.

     I work my way into the crowd and scan down the list.

 

FARIA, DAVID E   ‑‑‑‑‑‑----------------------‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ 76

 

     I'm dumbfounded. I had never gotten such a low score after having done so well on a test. "Its got to be a mistake! There's an error there." I say pointing with my finger and touching the glass partition.

     Some students take notice.

     "No, those are the correct grades," says Brother Elexsis.

     It's ironic, Brother Elexsis who had sent me to queer Brother Peter's office. It was he who had questioned me, "Are your records in order?" Now here I am at the end of the school year and it's a variation. Here I am saying there's an error in my posted grade. There's an error in my records and Brother Elexsis says no it isn't.

     "No, that's an error," I say definitely.

     "There is no error in the posted grades," Brother says just as firmly.

     Oh, it's my school records that had the error. An error so I could be sent to the queer's office to be groped at, to be squeezed and assaulted. Now, the wording is different. 'There is no error in the posted grades.' But how could he know?  He's not a teacher. He has nothing to do with the posted grades. But what he said and the way he said it, like he knew something that I didn't.

     I couldn't wait till class resumed so I could see how my test was scored and why I was given so low a final grade. I am so occupied by my grade, I take no notice of the others. Gilbert failed the school year. That is what the Brothers of Jesus had in store for me. For both us Faria's. Had I not put up such a fight for an equitable grade, that would have been my end. I would have flunked the school year.

     Lunch and recreation is over and we're back in class. Brother Claude is passing out the test which we are to go over. He drops my test on the desktop and continues on his way, walking down the isle handing out the rest of the scored tests. I look at the paper before me. Scribbled over it is eighty-two. Seven out of my forty answers are crossed incorrect. First, my confidence is shattered, but I recover. I don't believe how it was scored and slowly I look at the test. Question after question comes under my scrutiny. And in due time we review the test and go over the possible answers. Students plead their case. One after the other they present their answers to Brother Claude who says yes to this, maybe to that and perhaps that could be considered a correct answer. Yes, and that too, maybe. So the student's overall score would be changed accordingly.

     That's the way it went. Brother Claude going along with some of the students and not with others. He became defensive. He would see what could be done. The answer lay with the other Brothers. The Brothers of Jesus with the seniority. They were calling the shots. It seemed they helped the new Brother and would tell him how to score his/their test. So there seemed to be an overall consensus of opinion from one Brother of Jesus to another. There must have been some big pow-wow, some to-do where all the Brothers had gathered and discussed student after student. Dressing down one and passing over another.

     I complained long and loud about the grading on my paper, but Brother Claude couldn't or wouldn't do anything. He was a new Brother at Mount and would not cause ire within the class or with the other Brothers. No grades were to be changed from then on or some point on--perhaps henceforth. He said if he was to change one, he would have to change them all. Furthermore, he said to me, 'I could have failed, and would have to had to of done the school year over'.

     It's absurd, but what he said was true: I was setup to have failed. David Faria and Gilbert Faria were to have failed their first year at Mount Saint Charles Academy. It was a forgone conclusion. The reason: Mount Saint Charles Academy is such a good school, far greater than that of other schools. The curriculum is way above that of other schools, so much so, that some students find it difficult--Gilbert Faria, troublemaker. David Faria, poor Catholic and cursed little bastard, nigger--so difficult that some students cannot catch up. So they fail.

     In the smoke room I saw Gilbert. His eyes were bloodshot.

     "How did you do?" I asked.

     "I failed, "Gilbert said, subdued.

     "You failed!" I said in disbelief.

     And tears flooded Gilbert's eyes. He nodded his head in affirmation and wiped at his tears with the back of his hand. My older brother failed the eighth grade. I was so ashamed. But Mount Saint Charles is a school so far advanced in curriculum some students transferring from other schools have difficulty in adjusting, catching up. I too was to have failed along with Gilbert and I resented the bastard Brothers of Jesus. I started to resent this bastard school.

     "You're going to have to do the school year over," I told him.

     "I know," he said.

     Now Gilbert was angry. And after a short silence he looked at me sizing me up, calculating, watching me closely.

     "Dad's thinking of sending us to a different school next year," he said.

     "Good. I don't like this school," I told him.

     "Me neither," said Gilbert.

     Good! Gilbert doesn't like this school. I don't like this school. Indications are favorable. There's a very good possibility that this will be our last few days here and I was relieved. Then  Gilbert smiled one of his trouble making grins.

     "If we go to another school, you can say you skipped a grade."

     Oh that's it. I'm the genius once again. Now I'm not dumb. It's not, David is dumb, he doesn't know where Providence is. Now David is smart. He's a genius. He's so smart he skipped a grade. So any student at a new school couldn't question our age difference. Gilbert is a year older than David. How come they're in the same grade? Oh, David's a genius. He skipped a grade. The genius did it!

     It irked me. It was another of Gilbert's lies. Another of his manipulations. He trying to drag me into one of his little schemes.

     "You're still going to have to do the eighth grade over," I told him, not indicating if I'll go along with his plan.

     "I know," he said, angered.

     But the thought elated me. I won't have to come back to this place, this lock-up school. Morton Junior High is not a likely candidate. It's out of the area where we now live. But that doesn't matter. Any public school will do. Any public day school, when the bell rings and at the end of the day students grab their books, papers, pencils and leave. They go off campus. They walk. And I imagined myself, some self-styled daystudent, books under my arm, walking upon the sidewalks of Fall River. It didn't matter, anywhere in Fall River will do, and my 76 final grade at Mount Saint Charles diminished in importance.

 

     So elated I am by the news, I want to announce my good fortune to others. As luck would have it, a group of students are gathered around Brother Blaise. It's a scene is made to order. It's a duplicate, the same place but a different time. And this is the same Brother Blaise who has all the answers. He who knows everything, at this all everything school. Why, we have everything right here! Right here on this all encompassing campus. It's so wonderful. So I ambled over to the group and waited for a lapse in the conversation to make my cleverly disguised farewell announcement.

     "Well, I'll be seeing you guys," I announced.

     "You comming back next year?" I am asked by one of the students.

     "Nope. My father's going to send me and my brother to a school in Fall River."

     I could read the envy on some of their faces.

     But it's Brother's turn once again. He doesn't say it directly to me. The Brothers of Jesus are not confrontational. They speak indirectly with side remarks and innuendo. They use back shots; and, their ultimate weapon: Silence! But this didn't call for silence.

     "Some students will always have a place here at the Mount," says Brother Blaise flat out.

     What! At first I'm taken aback, but I gather myself and think almost out loud; I'm glad you think so, but my father is going to send me and my brother to another school. But inwardly I fume. He's trying to tell me that I will always have a place here at this school. At Mount Saint Charles. I'm glad he thinks so, but I can't shake the terrible thought and quietly his words churn inside of me. Perhaps he knows something I don't. Perhaps there is something Gilbert doesn't know. And overall my dislike of returning to this school for another year disturbs me. Could it be that Dad made a deal to send me back to this school and had not told Gilbert?

     I left the room.

     There were dealings that I didn't know of, that I didn't realize. Dealings that would hold me at Mount for over five and a half years, almost six years. Years that would be lost, crossed out of my life, hammered upon till I would repress the thoughts in the deepest corner of my being. Thoughts that would be tamped down again and again with layer over layer of dark resentful blankets of dislike.

     It seems the bastard priest Shaleau wanted me at Mount. He wanted me to be always at Mount. He wanted me to join the religious life. He wanted me to become a celebate. To pray and do pennance. He wanted to pervert the very essence of my life. Thus it was the words of Brother Blaise, 'Some students will always have a place here at the Mount'. I was one of those students. And it would have been, except for one thing: I would graduate.

     It would then be my right to leave the school. I would scoff at their privilege of the Brotherhood of Jesus. A privilege they say it is. It would be one of their privileges that they would offer to me and inwardly I would contemptously sneer at their offer, all the while I would be trying to restrain my anger. Anger that will have had built up over those years as a Mount Saint Charles student.

     So it was the bastard priest Shaleau. He had plans for me. He was making plans that I would not like. My father, guilt ridden over the suicide of his young wife, would be impressed into the service of the bastard priest. Priest Shaleau would then tell my father what to do, and Dad would obey. He had to, or else his status would be in jeopardy. He could be labled as a bad husband; a bad father, a wife beater, a drunkard. As priest Shaleau pressured my father, Dad turned around and pressured me. The whole situation would turn into a revolving threesome driving me further and further away from what little family that was left in my narrowing life. Priest Shaleau would cause trouble within my family unit; first using my father against me, then manipulation of my sister against me. And as if I didn't have trouble enough, the bastard priest would cause more trouble. He would curse me. And more of his bastards, bastards of the Church would join in and cause me trouble. It is the way of the curse and of the cursed.

 

                         Summer Vacation

 

     I had barely gotten back to Fall River and was planning how to spend my summer vacation. It would be swimming, bicycling, going over to Alan's house, hiking in the woods of Somerset and Freetown, fishing the Watuppa Pond and the Old Bridge.

     No sooner had I taken a breath of fresh air, than Dad had made or had gotten another deal. We boys, Gilbert and I, would be going to summer camp. A good Catholic all boys summer camp. It was most likely secured by a deal from priest Shaleau. It was inconceivable Dad would spend the kind of money that Cathedral Camp demanded. The camp's accomodations are first class and expensive. It has boats and canoes, swimming, a private portion of a lake, horses, arts and crafts, and of course there is Jesus, Mary, and Joseph with all the accompanying prayers. It's all supervised by various priests, novitiates, oblates or whatever kind of religious people that happen to be in the area.

     We campers would kneel on the grass and pray to Mary in the evenings, as if I hadn't prayed enough at Mount.

     So it's off to summer camp. I'm thinking it's going to be a one week deal, then I'll be back in Fall River free to persue my own interests.

     I had visited Cathedral Camp two years before. The Boy's Club of Fall River had provided the transportation. We were to play baseball--our camp baseball team against theirs. We got skunked. Their team put forth a good, fast ball pitcher. I don't think we got one hit. But I got a quick look at the camp. It had everything; almost. Even free ice cream and soda for those balmy summer evenings.

     After the ball game, we Boy's Cluber's were handed little plastic colored chits for the goodies. 

     "We lost. We didn't win," I said to the boy handing out the stubs.

     "That's okay, everybody gets ice-cream. We get ice-cream and soda every evening," he tells me.

     "Wow! You get free ice-cream and soda every day! What a neat camp," I tell him.

     A couple of boys standing nearby, exchanged knowing looks; like, who is this guy?

     "It is a nice camp? Isn't it?" I questioned them.

     One of the boys shook his head to the negative and his friend gave me a similar response. But I couldn't see what it was they didn't like, and then they clammed up.

     I made my way to another group of boys and eased in. Again I presented the same question, and again I got the same response. The camp wasn't great, not according to the boys. But they wouldn't tell me what it was they didn't like. There seemed to be an undercurrent of discontent, and it was sort of secretive. The boys didn't want to be overheard. It could be they could get in trouble. At that date it was difficult to understand. I hadn't been in a catholic institution at that time. It would all become clear. It was another catholic institution, another catholic prison.

 

     So now it's two years later and I'm at at that neat camp. Wow! I'll be getting free ice cream and soda every day. What good luck! Hah.

     I'm settling in, learning the routine, within the first week or so I've seen the crafts building, ridden on one of their horses. I've walked to the back of the camp and viewed the lake. I will have a ride in one of their outboard motorboats. And at day's end I'm to kneel on the grass and recite Hail Mary's along with everybody else in the camp. I'm to eat in the dining room and play ball in the gym, paddle one of their canoes, sleep in the bunkroom.

 

     It's similar to Mount Saint Charles, but with no school during the day. It's one continuous weekend regimen, and just like Mount they have everything right here on campus. There is no need to go downtown. And rarely does anyone. It's another catholic lock-up.

     Okay, so I'm thinking I got one week of summer camp. I bide my time and wait to go home. One week passes then another. Okay, it's going to be one month of summer camp, then I'll go home. The month end comes and goes, and I'm still at Cathedral camp. Now I'm on edge. I quit the little kneeling and praying sessions on the grass those summer evenings. It's no more praying to the Blessed Virgin. I want out of this camp. I'm tired of religion. I'm tired of this religious camp, these half priests and novitiates or whatever they call themselves. I want to go home, back to the Drake, to the back room, facing a back street, sharing half the room with Gilbert who is trouble for me. Anything. It'll be better than this, this limbo summer of a Catholic all boys camp with the guardians of the Church. I want to throw stones into the Taunton river. I want to fish and swim. I want to bicyle where I want and not where somebody tells me. I'll do it on an empty stomach. This three meals a day is keeping me going, but the going is dull. The ice cream is coating my stomach and the soda is tasting flatter every day. It's the confines. That's what makes the soda taste like it really isn't. Bland ice cream and flat soda. Catholic camp makes it flat tasteless and bland. That's difficult to do to soda and ice cream.

 

     Gilbert was as unpopular with the counselors as I was, even more so is what I thought.   

     We were gathered in the gym, about fifty of us boys, sitting cross-legged on the gym floor. Basketball had been the order of the day but it didn't charge the interest of the group. The counselor had different activities in mind. He got some boxing gloves out of one of the lockers.

     "Who will be first?" he asks.

     One boy stands up.

     "I'll fight him," and he points to Gilbert.

     "Okay, Mr. Faria. Put these on," said the camp counselor. The counselor demanded it of Gilbert. He demanded that Gilbert was to fight. There was no way out, and he tossed a pair of gloves on the gym floor which fell at the feet of Gilbert. Gilbert's face turned red.

     The challenger was Gilbert's rival, whom Gilbert had a penchant for badgering. The challenger, a fair-haired boy was a just a little bit bigger than Gilbert and was a favorite to most of the novitiate-counselors at the camp. Gilbert was the odds on bad boy, the trouble maker.

     It was under these conditions of dislike that Gilbert had to fight. The counselor wanted their favorite to give Gilbert a beating. But Gilbert is no slouch when it comes to fighting. He has to be pressed, but he can hold his own. Gilbert's a lefty and can pack a good punch. He doesn't want to go straightforward into a fight. He likes to sucker punch.

     The match began. At first the favorite boy got the better of Gilbert, scoring. But later into the round, Gilbert equalled the match. Both fighters flailed away. Toe to toe they went, exhausting their power with roundhouse punches. Quickly they fought each other off and tired in doing so. This was probably why Gilbert didn't want to fight in the first place; he didn't want to expend all the energy required. And the day wore on to be long and hot, which was why we were seated in the gym in the first place.

     The supervisor blew his whistle signaling the end of the round. Round two and the challenger came out fresh with another flurry. Gilbert took it and gamely fought him off. Both fighters tired once again. The counselor wanted none of that and egged them on. Tired, they continued fighting. It was a good fight, but slow. It looked like it was going to be a draw.

     At that time another camp conselor entered the gym and saw the fight in progress. This other camp counselor also didn't like Gilbert, and from ten yards away he balled his fist and waved it menacingly. Then he exhorted on the favorite boy. "Give him a good one for me!"  he shouted, meaning hit Gilbert a solid one.

     Upon hearing the words of the newly arrived counselor both fighters stopped fighting. The favorite stopped as if to listen; Gilbert did likewise. Gilbert dropped his hands to his side and then the other boy dropped his hands.

     The fight was stopped. No bell had rung. No whistle blown. The words of encouragement, 'Give him a good one for me!' had no sooner been been said--and they ired Gilbert, which prompted him and gave him momentum. Gilbert sprang into action and swung a powerful roundhouse punch. It arched up and flashed wham, right onto the side of the face of his opponent. The blow was heavy and the fair-haired boy dropped to the floor in a heap. Knockout! Gilbert dropped him with that one blow and the boy was now prostrate on the gym floor.

     Because no timeout had been given, Gilbert was in the right. It was Gilbert's favorite: a sucker punch. And it had caught the favorite boy with a whop to the head. Gilbert now had a smug look of contentment upon his face. It was almost one of his trademark smirks, and there was nothing the camp counselors could do against him.

     The counselor who had shouted those words and interrupped the fight was now guilt ridden. Enraged, he vaulted a low wooden handrail that separated a walkway from the gymnasium floor proper, and he rushed to the side of the prostrate boy to render comfort and aid. He knelt beside the fallen boy as would a priest on a battlefield.

     Angry too was the other camp counselor, the one who started the match. He sent Gilbert to sit at the far end of the gym where he was to sit alone, an outcast.

     The counselor having given aid, leaves. The fallen boy, having gotten up, takes his place once again amongst us campers. The camp counselor in charge of the boxing matches stymied at the turn of events, shouts angrily at me, "You're next!"

     What! I'm next? What for? What did I do? Who am I going to fight? I intently watched as the counselor talked to someone in the middle of a group of boys. At first the boy didn't want to get up, but being pressured by the counselor and not wanting to be seen as 'chicken' in front of his peers, he arose to his feet.

     It was Poncho! Uh oh. Not good for me.

     Poncho stood and expanded his chest. He posed and flexed his muscles. Poncho had the physique of a wrestler. A bodybuilder. Viens prominently stood out on his biceps. He had the physique of a young man. He had the makings of a beard and mustach and had to shave. I was a boy, just out of seventh grade. I could manage peach fuzz. Poncho looked to be eighteen, but I think he was sixteen. He was big. Bigger than me. I stood about four foot ten and weighed in at one hundred pounds even. Poncho stood about five five and weighed in about one hundred and thirty or forty. I was in total trouble.

     I had been haranguing Poncho. He was the only hispanic at camp, and he was big and clumsy. (Which would turn out to be a plus in my favor). It was the way he spoke . . . that accent of his. So I called him Poncho. Perhaps I had seen too much TV and the Cisco Kid was one of the programs I liked to watch--Cisco had his sidekick Poncho. I would irritate Poncho with something like this;

     "Poncho, how's it going?" I would say.

     "Don't call me that," he'd say in heavily accented English.

     "Call you what? . . . Poncho?"

     "I don't like that name," he'd say angrily.

     It's what I liked about him; the way he'd get angry, the way he didn't know how to handle the situation, the way he'd be angered and want to fight, but not want to fight. And he'd hold himself back. He'd fume in his Spanish-Mexican heritage, proud and proper.

     "What's your name?" I'd ask him. It was to tease him a little more.

     "My name is Oscar Michael Manuel De La . . . ." it must have been a ten word name, and he said it as neatly as one word all rolled togther with the Spanish accents fluently tied one on top of the other. All of which I didn't understand, and that made it all the more fun.

     "I'll call you Poncho and you can call me Cisco. Okay?"

     "No!" he'd say angrily. Then he'd say his name again. It was almost robotic. It was almost a given, "My name is Oscar Michael Manuel De La . . . ." and he'd say his name all over again. All those Spanish word names that I could not understand because they were said so quickly, one right after the other, all tied in with his perfect Spanish, undecipherable to an Anglo-Saxon trained ear. (I had listened to Portuguese at my relatives house most Sundays.) But I was not listening to Poncho.

     Here was the only boy in camp that could speak Spanish. Spoke English with an accent. Came from Mexico or some place out West and he wouldn't go along with my fantasy. I could have been the Cisco Kid. He could have been my partner, Poncho. I thought it a fair exchange. But no! He didn't like it. And the inevitable would follow, "My name is Oscar Michael Manuel De La . . ." again in his fluent Spanish, he would repeat his total name to me.

     So Poncho didn't take to me. He didn't take to me calling him other than his original family given name. And. No! He would not call me Cisco. He would not stoop so low. He'd say 'No!' in such a heavily accented and emphatic English it bordered on hilarity; which was probably why I called him Poncho in the first place.

     So much for TV and the Cisco Kid. So much for me being a TV star. So much for the SouthWest with its cowboys, Indians and horses. So much for wearing sidearms and riding off into the sunset with a friend at your side. So much for wearing a sombrero and spreading truth and fairness far and wide. It was in these confines of Cathedral Camp where truth and fairness was sorely needed.

     The harsh reality was: Poncho stood about a foot taller than I. He was a couple of years my senior. Fully developed. Matured. And could probably jerk lift my body weight.

     Me, . . . now I wish I had taken time to learn Spanish. At least enough Spanish to pronounce Poncho's real name.

     "He'll kill me!" I yelled at the camp counselor.

     "You will fight him or you will sit over there with your brother!" the counselor said back at me. And he indicated to where Giblert was sitting and watching the proceedings from the other end of the gym.

     I put on the gloves. Snugly I worked them into my hands. I would need them for protection, to block the heavy blows surely to come from so strong an opponent. I gripped them tight in my clasp, puffed and packed them one into the other, making sure the fit was just right. Making sure they could cushion the blows. I moved to a neutral area.

     Poncho nodded okay. The counselor blew his whistle and I edged to center of the makeshift ring with both gloves held up high, protecting my face. I moved in a crouch, hiding my face behind the two padded gloves. I would part them a little to take a peek at Poncho. I was saved from destruction. Poncho had two left feet!

     Here's how he fought; first, he wound up, swiviling his torso to the right and at the same time cocked his right hand back, telegraphing the punch that was to come. Along with that move, he did a few steps off balance. Then he started to throw his right hand. It was powerful, but too slow. The blow was coming, coming, coming, . . . and I ducked under it. Over my head went Poncho's right hand, going, going, and around. Gone. Then Poncho did a few more steps off balance. He had turned around one hundred and eighty degrees and ended up showing his back toward me. He didn't know where I was so he did a few more steps to turn around and face me, dropping his gloves as he did the last movement.

     Just as Poncho turned full circle, but before he wound up again, I sprang out of my crouch and hit him smack in the face. It didn't hurt him--physically that is. He was built like a horse. But his pride was totally shattered. His properness. His heritage. Spain. Mexico. The Incas. He being in front of fifty campers sitting cross-legged on the gymnasium floor watching him get hit in the face by a smaller boy. He was completely humiliated.

     On and on it went; a repeat of the off step maneuvers, me springing out of a crouch and hitting Poncho, again and again. Humiliation upon humiliation. The smaller boy hitting the bigger boy with impunity. Poncho missing. His strong forearm going slowly over my head. Me crouching, ducking lower, waiting till he comes clumsily around. Me, the smaller boy, hitting him on his face. The soft padded gloves giving little physical punishment as his heart blead down to his very soul.

     I gave no inch. Yes, he was off balance, didn't know how to fight, box, throw a punch, but he was solid as an ox. Plodding and powerful, not yet put to the yoke. He was devastated more as the round went on. All a repeat. Over and over, his uncordinated mis-steps, his powerful but slow right hand going full circle and missing its mark, ending with me retaliating, hitting him flush on the face. The whole round went that way.

     The counselor blew his whistle signaling for us to stop. By that time Poncho was defeated and he shook his head from side to side as he walked to his corner. It was as if to say, there was nothing else he could do, and he held out his gloves. He offered his gloved hands, holding them before him, asking, almost pleading for the counselor to take them off. Please take these gloves off. but he said no words, as if he could not think of any to say.

     The counselor, angry at not having the fight go the way he wanted, took Poncho into an adjoining room for a little talk. To give him advice. A little one on one session.

     I waited in the gym with the rest of the boys. One minute went by then another. Curious to find out if the fight would continue, I left the gym and entered the adjoining room where the counselor was talking to Poncho.

     Poncho saw me and turned his back. The counselor, sensing an intruder, turned, and in anger, yelled at me, "You get out of here!" 

     I did, but not before I saw the hurt in Poncho's eyes. I turned and went back into the gym. The fight was over. The only strike Poncho landed was that look of hurt. It was as if he didn't understand the meaness I held for him. Me hitting him as I had. His dark eyes looking at me from across the room cut. It was something no feign or gloved hand could block.

     I thought the counselor was beaten, done; but not quite. As they reentered the gym, Poncho took his seat. The counselor asked the other boys, "Would anyone else like to fight."

     I still had my gloves on, and I realized the counselor had the intention for me to fight yet another boy. He was directing his words to a boy I had a falling out with. A boy I said I was going to punch in the face. Now this counselor was trying to get this boy to fight me.

     The riff had started during a crafts session. The craft building had a hornet nest above the door. I was very afraid of hornets, for I had been stung inside the ear when I was very young. So this boy noticed my fear of hornets and had taunted me. "Hornet!" he would yell and I would duck and look about in fear. The boy made a game of it. "Hornet!" he would cry out, again and again. And I would jump or duck, and he would laugh at my fear. It was such that I wouldn't enter the crafts building for the remainder of the summer.

     The boy wouldn't stop. It was in the bunk room. We boys were getting ready for the night and the trouble maker wanted to continue the game.

     "Hornet!" he cried out.

     I ducked low, then looked up and around, and the boy had a good laugh. It was a joke. There was no hornet in the sleeping area, so I turned to the boy and told him, "The next time you say that, and there is no hornet in this room, I'm going to go over there and punch you in the mouth." And I stood there looking at him.

     "Oh yeah," he said to me.

     "Yeah," I answered back.

     So we stood in a stare down, separated by two or three bunks. One more word 'hornet' from him and I was going to go over there and fight him. At that time, a counselor butted in. He tried to ease the situation and said, "There was a hornet in here, but it flew out the window."

     "The windows are shut!" I said, not looking at the counselor but maintaining my stare down with the boy. (The windows were screened.)

     So, now we were in the gymnasium. There's no hornets, and I'm standing with boxing gloves on. The counselor wants to match me with that boy, but he doesn't want to fight. He doesn't stand. Perhaps it was because he had seen that I could hold my own in the ring. So the sport of boxing was finished for the day.

     It wasn't the boy, or the boys. We could have settled our differences within the group or let them slide. It was the counselors. They wanted to see a good fight. Yes, Giblert was a trouble maker, but it was the fairy bastards of Christ, they were in charge. They made us boys fight. It was so they could be amused. It was they who lined up the mismatches.

 

                            The Fairy

 

     Even during the first week of camp I had started out on the wrong foot. We were going on a Mystery Ride. I think a counselor had some business to do in town. In any event, some of us campers were loaded into a bus and trucked along highway and byway. We chattered as would a bunch of boys with not much else but time on our hands. The counselor was in the front part of the bus conversing with the driver. I was a couple of seats from the back. A fellow camper asked me my name.

     "Faria," I answered.

     "No, your first name," he asked.

     "David, David Faria. That's my name."

     "Fairy-ah?" the boy next to him pronounced questioningly.

     "No, Faria," I said.

     "He's a fairy," said a boy jokingly.

     "No I'm not! You're a fairy!" I shot back.

     "He's a fairy," a boy said laughingly, and the two got into a pushing match on the same seat. I laughed with them and a game started. It was who could yell 'fairy' the loudest.

     "He's a fairy!" someone would yell and point at a fellow camper.

     "No I'm not! You're a fairy!" they'd respond.

     And a group of us boys would laugh and the bus would roll on. We would look out the windows. The scenery would change and the bus would quiet down and the sound of the engine could be heard shifting through its gears.

     Breaking the silence, a camper would point at another boy and shout, "He's a fairy!" and we would laugh and giggle. Sometimes there would be a push or one hand slapping another. From seat to seat it would go. We'd quite down, settle back and listen to the hum of the engine and the sound of the tires upon the road.

     "You're a fairy!" a boy would jump up and shout, pointing at some other camper.

     "No I'm not!" the accused would shout back.

     And the game would spark up once again for lack of not much of anything better to do. And the movement of the bus; stopping at interscetions, starting, turning, going around curves, the countryside passing by, scenery changing, and the drone of the bus, lurching, shifting gears, picking up speed, then slowing down again.

     The game of calling each other 'fairy' moved from seat to seat within the bus. First one boy, then another. Each trying to out-do the other, to get a bigger laugh. Boys would shout louder, jump up in their seat and point across across the isle. Back and forth it went. All accusations of being a fairy, whatever that meant, were denied.

     Then I said it one more time. "He's a fairy!" I shouted, and the boys laughed.

     "You shut up!" the camp counselor yelled loudly from the front of the bus. And an uneasy quiet settled upon us.

     "Why?" I questioned.

     "It's a bad word," and he would not say much more about it.

     But we were having such fun pointing and yelling, bouncing up and down in our seats. Now, the word 'fairy' was not good a good word, not a proper word. So I questioned the counselor. If I didn't know what the word fairy meant; then, to me, it wasn't a bad word. And I was not wrong in saying it, or so I reasoned. But the counselor would have none of my reasoning.

     Dampened by the counselor, we boys quietly sat in our seats the remainder of the mystery tour. No more loud laughter. No more jumping up in our seats. No more pointing, laughing and shouting. Boys murmered to each other. They now whispered. I was silent. We were obedient, quiet, good little Catholic boys.

     So the camp counselor was a fairy. He was a queer; he must have been.

 

     The camp had sailboats too. And teams were chosen to race. Five to ten sailboats would slowly work a corner of the lake, their sails billowing or just barely full and they would move along, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Small waves would splash at the sides of the boats and a wake would barely be visible.

     I had never sailed and it intrigued me. There was comotion in the boats as the sails were trimmed and adjusted. Boys would move, shifting position and pull at the ropes. Usually two boys to a boat, one would steer with a tiller and the other would tend the lines, duck under the boom and do what was needed to try and make the boat go faster. They would look at the set of the sail. They would turn in their seats and guage where the others were and were going. They avoided collisions and tried to cut each other off. They talked of the right of way, and although the boats moved slow in the water, I thought there be something more to it. It was just the way the boys worked, how they talked and awaited the next race to be held. Who would be their shipmate? Who would be the helmsman? Who would be the navagaitor?

     So I wanted to learn how to sail. I wanted to go out on one of the boats; but, I was the nigger. David 'the fairy' Faria--Nigger First Class. So, from the pier I would watch the boats slogging into the wind, inching their way towards the next marker, turning and creaking as the boys worked the rigging and hauled the lines taught and slack, the sails flapping in the wind and then billowing out, and the boats would turn. I wanted to join in on the fun. When the boys came back to the small wooden peir I would question some of them.

     "How can the boats said into the wind?" and, "If the boats tilted as they did, why didn't they tip over?" I asked those qustions and various answers were given. "There's a board in the bottom of the boat that swings down," it was said and one of the campers pointed to some aperture in the middle of the boat.

     "Can I ride along?" I asked.

     "Sure, you can ride in my boat," said one of the boys.

     But the fairy bastard counselor, upon hearing that, stepped over to where we boys were talking and intervened.

     "They are two man crews," he told me sternly. "You can't go out on the boat." That's what the counselor bastard said.

     "I was just going to ride along," I answered almost apologetically.

     "He can ride in my boat," chimed in one of the boys.

     "No he can't," the counselor told him, turning on the boy.

     There were silent looks of question and it seemed a boy or two corectly assessed the situation and backed off. They had sensed that something was amiss between the counselor and I. But it was the counselor against me.

     The counselor, not wanting to look bad and be found out, toned down his ire, then added in way of explaination, "You'd have an advantage," he told the boys. "He would be like ballast."

     Oh! Now I'm ballast. That's why I can't ride in the boat. With the added weight, that individual boat would have an unfair advantage. It didn't hide the truth from me: I was the nigger. I was being blocked. Boating was simply another activity that I was being barred from. The queer camp counselor didn't want me in his group.

     Later on, I caught the counselor in his lie. I made mention of the fact that some of the boats had a crew of three.

     "Oh, but they aren't racing. It's practice," said the queer.

     He explained it as if it was all a misunderstanding. That it was I who misunderstood him. But after catching him in his game, I was allowed in one of the boats as a passenger. Just one time! And the counselor made snide remarks of me being ballast. That's what I represented to him, nothing but ballast. He was a dirty little bastard.

     I wouldn't let up. I wanted to learn how to sail, and I continued to go to the small wooden pier to see the boats off; waiting for the time when new crews were to be chosen. But the following week the boats were in dry-dock. They were put up for the summer.

     Did I get the message? Did nigger Dave get the message? Over a month and a half in summer camp and I had ten minutes in one of their sailboats. What a nice camp! They have boating, canoeing, horseback riding, swimming. They have soda and ice cream every day! Wow! What a neat camp!

 

     It was most likely priest Shaleau who introduced my father to the existence of Cathedral Camp. My father wouldn't know Cathedral Camp from Timbuktu. And it could be assumed that my father was impressed by what he saw. It was similar to the front put on by Mount Saint Charles Academy with its neatly manicured grounds, its prestigious building, its hush hush demeanor, all entwined in a religious overlay. A quiet wrap of religiosity. It was similar. Cathedral Camp with its neatly manicured grounds, its boats and canoes. It had horses and my father was a horseman. What a neat camp! Wow.

     The ice cream and soda that was available every day? Every evening? By the end of summer camp, that sweet ice cream mildly bloated my stomach and the soda seemed indescribably flat. It was bland. That's what the lockup did. Not that the soda and ice cream were in any way different. And on some particularily harsh days, I would dislike the evening routine of the different colored chits being handed out--could I not be away from this place? Will this summer camp ever end? When will it end? So I can go back to Fall River, to the back room, on the back street, on the second floor of the Drake Hotel, sharing a small room with my brother Gilbert.

     Yet, I would go to the window and exchange my colored chits for an ice cream and soda. It was like a prisoner going through the chow hall; he mindlessly takes a tray, moves through the line accepting this and that, not really caring, not really paying attention.

     Some evenings my ice cram was bland and tastless. It was like a depressing ritual just to accept and eat it. To do that to ice cream and soda takes a lot of doing.

 

 

                           Parents Day

 

     Finally! Finally the day has come! It's the last day of camp and everything is hunky-dory. It's parents day. It's Shangri-la. The Garden of Eden. ElDorado. Eureaka. All rolled up into one. Everyone is so happy and we are having a picnic. The counselors are preparing the food; hot dogs, hamburgers, soda, ice cream, condiments and fixin's for the meal. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining. It's warm. Parents and campers are wandering about. Races are held. Adults watch and listen to the loudspeaker. David Blain's name is called again and again. He's a repeat winner of swimming events. It's such a wonderful day. There are smiles on everyone's faces. It is pleasanatries all around. It makes one want to frolic through the grass. Float inches off the ground. Levitate from field to field, to diamond, to front lawn, floating over wooden fences, with arms extended, one in front, one in back. Floating. Floating. Floating. And all the time, with a wonderful beatific smile upon the face. Frozen on. A mask humane. The levitating done barefoot of course. Something religious, like Jesus, and not saying a word. No, how are you's. No, good days. Nice weather, isn't it? None of that. Just a few good frolicing steps followed by a bounce or jump, and then, a floating about. All done mere inches off the neatly manicured grasses of good ole summer camp Cathedral.

     It's the finale of the summer. Parents day. Designated for festivities, mildly competitive sports, a cook-out, all of it rolled into one big joyous day of happiness, togetherness, with boy campers reunited with their parents and family. One big happy day of sunshine, bullhorn announcements, barrel races, swimming events, picnicking, and walking about lounging and talking. It is the end of summer camp. Thank God! Praise Jesus! Blessed be the Holy Virgin Mary.

     Dad, after having driven from Fall River to spend the day with us boys, surveys the camp. He looks at its neatly trimmed green lawns, pleasant accoutrements and layout. He sees the people milling about. He sees the happy smiling boy campers with their parents. At first glance it does look nice. As if it happens every day. As if Christmas or Easter falls on Sunday every week of the year.

     "How would you boys like to come back here next

summer?" Dad asks us.

      A worried look comes over Gilbert's face, and he shakes his head to the negative.

     "You don't have to if you don't want to," Dad tells Gilbert, sensing there is something wrong. Something is not quite right. Dad reads Gilbert good.

     "I don't want to," Gilbert tells Dad.

     Dad doesn't understand why Gilbert wouldn't like such a nice place. He turns to me.

     "How about you David? Do you want to come back here next year?"

     "No."

     "Okay. You boys don't have to come back here next year," and he shrugs, not fully understanding the reasons why.

     Dad does not see behind the manicured lawns, the boats, canoes and the horses. He doesn't see behind the private acreage with its private beach. He doesn't see the invisible the wall. It is another Catholic institution. A prison. He doesn't hear the sarcasm of the fairy counselors. He doesn't have to put boxing gloves on and fight a bigger opponent. He doesn't have to kneel in the grass and pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary for thirty minutes every evening. He doesn't encounter the ire of religious zelots who may be having a bad day, or many bad days.

     So we don't have to return. Gilbert leads the way. Little brother Davy follows. Gilbert doesn't want to return to Cathedral Camp. Little brother Davy doesn't have to return to Cathedral camp. I'm still thinking Gilbert doesn't want to return to Mount Saint Charles. And Dad doesn't want to pay the increased tuituion. For a short period of time things seem to be going my way. Things are looking rosy, but later on I will use that information incorrectly. I will think I can get out of Mount Saint Charles. And back at school I will be whipped with a leather strap. So much for my naive way of thinking. So much for, "What about you David? Do you want to come back h