School Years Grade 7 #2

                              Friday

 

     Friday afternoon: classes are over for the week. Day students leave campus and us boarding students will not see them till Monday morning three days from now.

     In the study hall, Brother Blaise taps a wooden mallet upon a gavel and announces, "The library will be open for thirty minutes, . . ." he looks at me and adds, " . . . for those of you who have little or nothing to do over the weekend."

     See! Mr. Faria. We have everything right here on campus. We even have a library. There is no need to go downtown. But I forgo the privilege of the library, which turns out to be a mistake. There is not much to do locked up on one acre of land. And the library will be a welcome relief. Future weekends, I will use it till it is taken away from me as a form of punishment.

     But back to the weekend--weekends at Mount Saint Charles. We might as well be Saints, us boarders at Mount.

     Saturdays are divided between organized sports and study hall. We boys are to be kept busy at baseball, football, hockey, basketball, and the games in the rec hall. Teams play against each other. And there will be some free time.

     Sundays, we students dress in jacket and tie. The first order of the day is chapel, a communion service. After communion, breakfast. Breakfast finished, it is upstairs to the recreation hall for free time of approximately forty-five minutes. Then it's back to chapel for Mass. A High Mass that takes forty-five minutes to one hour. After Mass it's more free time. At eleven o'clock we file upstairs to the study hall. There we will work on our homework till Brother Claver, the director of Mount Saint Charles, enters the study to give us boys our weekly conduct report. It is made out to be a big to-do.

     One of the Brothers-in-Charge greets Brother Director. They exchange a few words. The In-Charge offers the Director his desk. Brother Claver ascends the platform, eases himself into the chair, and slowly looks over the hall.

     Slowly he eyes us while letting the atmosphere build. He wants complete silence. And when that is obtained, he, Brother Director will begin. He starts something like this;

     "Bellerose!" Loudly calling out the student's name. Frere Director uses all the authority vested in him. The authority of the Jesuits. The authority of the Church. The authority of the Crucifix which he proudly wears. He is like God admonishing sinners, and the name Bellerose reverberates throughout the study hall.

     Frere Director pauses once again for total silence. The spell of quietness had been broken and needs to be re-established. The study hall erupted into a movement of students squirming in their chairs, twisting and turning, necks craning. Who is Bellerose? What has he done?

     "Conduct!" Frere Director almost shouts. He is angry, disappointed. The good Brothers have failed; a student has erred.

     Another momentary wait for silence.

     "D."

     Frere Director has spoken three words; the boy's name, the word 'conduct' and the letter 'D'. It is like; Jesus, Mary and Joseph; In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost; The Three Crosses of Calvary. It is the big Christian Three. It comes down to these three words; Bellerose! Conduct! D! And it is all timed perfectly, as if the cadence has been taken from some sort of prayer chant. Same thing as Brother Elexsis' footsteps upon the hardwood floor in the morning. The same Father, Son, Holy Ghost. It is all the same, perfectly timed.

     Students are thinking, what did he do? What did Bellerose do? Did he swear? Did he not answer a Brother? Was he fighting with another student? What is it that he did?

     A pained look may appear upon Frere Director's face. He's hurt, as if he personally was wronged. He too has failed.

     We must pray. Jesus forgive us. We must pray. How could Bellerose have done whatever it was that he did? We must pray for him. And, Bellerose, being a nice upstanding student, about to enter the senior section this coming year--yes, we must pray for Bellerose.

     The rest of the student names are called out one by one. Those that have had poor conduct during the past week. They too have erred. They too must be prayed for. And, as each student's name is called, they must walk to the front of the study and stand face to the wall. They will stand with other students of the same character while Frere Director reminds us nice students quietly sitting in our seats, "They are not to be looked up to in any way." We are told to obey the Brothers, obey the rules of the school and become good students. There is a whole litany of words, admonishments, praises all mixed into one long speech. While, from time to time, from his elevated position upon the overseer's desk, Frere Director will look down upon the offending students, sometimes glaring at them, his words sometimes scathingly used. As if, how could they? How could these students of Mount Saint Charles Academy conduct themselves so poorly?

     After the conduct report, the time being almost noon, it's downstairs to dinner.

     Sunday dinner is different from weekday fare. There is soda pop, sometimes a slice of ice cream and on special Saint's feast days, perhaps an extra fancy dessert.

     In the afternoon there is a movie; and, Sunday is a day for visiting. Parents visit, take their student boy off campus for a few hours, return and leave him for another week or two. It is a day when women and girls are allowed on campus, relatives of some student; a sister, an aunt or cousin. The womanly presence brings out that extra something that usually is missing in a Catholic all boys boarding school.

     Finally, there is one more chapel service on Sundays: Benediction. It is three times to chapel on Sundays. I soon learn the difference between Benediction service and Mass, Mass and Communion.

 

                       The School Treasurer

                             Is Queer

 

     It is my second or third week of school. I know the routine. What my student guide said to me on the first day is true. I know where everything is; the rec hall, the study, chapel, classrooms, the yard outside, the dining room and the dorm. They have most everything right here on this little campus.

     There are Brothers who don't teach class. Administrators like Brother Claver the director of Mount Saint Charles. Brother Oscar the Prefect of Studies. Brother Peter the school treasurer. Oh yes, Brother Peter, school treasurer of Mount Saint Charles Academy . . . is a queer.

     Early in the morning as we file into chapel, two columns enter through the chapel doors and part. One column of boys goes to the side isle, the other column walks down the main isle. The Brothers of Jesus may already be in chapel where they have reserved seating in the back that is assigned for them. It is there they can view us young boys on parade. Mostly it is the little young boys that some of the Brother of Jesus are attracted to. And it is most likely in the chapel that Brother Peter first saw me, for I had never seen him before.

     It was during free time Saturday morning that Brother Elexsis stopped me in the recreation hall and said;

     "Brother Peter would like to see you in his office."

     "Brother Peter?" I questioned.

     "He's the school treasurer," said Brother Elexsis.

     "What does he want to see me for?" and immediately I'm thinking it might have something to do with my first few days here, such as running down the stairs. Or, perhaps it was how I confronted Brother Blaise, asking those questions about going downtown. So, I was a bit worried.

     "I don't know. Go and find out," said Brother Elexsis. And seeing worry upon my face he smiled at me reassuringly.

     "Where is he?" I asked.

     "He's in the first office as you come in the front door."

     "Where's that?"

     "You go through the main hallway till you come to the front entrance way. It's the first door on your left. It's right next to the front door."

     "Right through those doors?" I questioned and pointed to the doors leading to the main hallway.

     "Yes, go right through there."

     "Yes Brother."

     I took my leave wondering what the school treasurer wanted to see me for, and I concluded, whatever it is, it must be important! I entered the main hallway and quietly walked the darkened corridor. Nearing the chapel, I went a few steps further. I looked to the right, and there was an open area. It was the front entrance. And yes, there was a door. I walked there, stopped and took a quick peek through the glass window pane of the office door.

     Inside was a desk with some paperwork upon it. And a swivel chair was pushed away from its desk. Scanning the rest of the room I saw a large set of file holders, and at one end of the room two people were conversing. A young boy of my age, and an older Brother Jesuit. I could not hear them as they talked, but I saw their lips move. They had not seen me at the door.

     The Jesuit was big, old and greying. He was overweight and wore iron rim spectacles. His hair was thin and wispy.

     I knocked on the door. They stopped their conversation and both looked at me the same time. The student came to the door and opened it.

     "The Brother sent me," I told him.

     "What Brother?" he asked in alarm. It was as if he had been caught or found out.

     "The Brother from over there," and I pointed in the direction of the junior section rec hall which was also the same direction as Brother Director's office. And the boy's face turned to fear.

     "What!" he said to me.

     "It's okay. I sent for him." The old Jesuit said to the boy. Then he dismissed him saying, "You may go."

     The boy's face of fear quickly evaporated and turned into one of question. Then he left.

     "Come in, come in," Frere Peter welcomed me warmly.

     And I stepped inside his office which was spacious and airy. The morning sunlight was coming through a partially opened casement window. Outside you could see some of the evergreen trees.

     "You wanted to see me, Brother?" I asked tentatively. (I was not used to calling people Brother who were not my brother.)

     "Yes, I want to go over your records." He told me.

     "My records? I don't anything about my records." I innocently claimed.

     "Oh, that's all right." Then he questioned, "You're David or Gilbert?"

     It was newly derived from first introductions: They're brothers aren't they? David and Gilbert? Gilbert and David?

     I answered Brother Peter, "David." 

     "I can't hear you from across the room," he said. "Come over here." And he motioned for me to come over to where he was standing.

     I went and stood next to him as he worked the files, sliding records in and out, searching indecisively first for this and then for that. He was like a busy Brother halfway absentmindedly for he talked in a murmur, as if speaking softly to himself. He murmured, "It must be over there," and he shuffled behind me to get at the records on other side. Then he stopped in back of me, as if he forgot something. And he murmured again, "No, maybe it's on that side," and again he moved indecisively, hovering behind me. He was like an undecided record keeper. The absent minded. The befuddled. An ageing, fat balding man, who didn't have a clear understanding of where all his records were kept.

     It was a facade! As many things at Mount Saint Charles will turn out to be.

     From behind me, he grabbed my shoulder and squeezed!

     I pulled back, breaking his grip. Then I turned, took a step back and faced him. Standing scant feet from him, I stared at him in disbelief. He's queer! He’s a religious man and he’s queer!

     Brother Peter returned my look and said nothing. He was searching my face. Searching! Looking at me closely! Trying to find out more than my initial reaction of startled young boy. Was he looking for a compliant boy!? A boy that he could squeeze at his whim and fancy. A boy that would do as he asked? It was totally incomprehensible.

     Then he tried to restart a conversation. And acting as if nothing has happened! As if he didn't grab me at all!

     Not knowing what he would try next, I moved another step farther away from him. And I said nothing at his attempt to restart a conversation.

     "You may go," he said, dismissing me.

     I left his office shocked. I couldn't believe it: He's queer! And he's religious? Then I remembered the other boy--his look of fear. Was it because he had been found out? And his turning to queer Brother Peter for assistance? And after a reassuring word from Brother Peter, the boy showed a face of relief.

     I went back to the recreation hall to find out more. But nobody said anything. It was all hush, hush. Just as there is no talk of going downtown. These boys are indoctrinated to silence. It's to the advantage of the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. There is silence. Just as we are trained to walk in silence. It pervades the very essence of the school.

     If Brother Peter is having his way with the boys; the boys aren't saying. I tried to make a joke of it. I tried to implicate the boy that was conversing with Frere Peter; but, I could not draw him out. Perhaps through my talk I had stirred Frere Peter, for again, the following week I was called to his office for an encore.

     Again, it was Saturday morning. Brother Elexsis stopped me.

     "Brother Peter would like to see you in his office."

     "What for?" Does he want another feel? A squeeze? I don't want to go to that queer's office. This is Saturday. This is my free time. That queer wants to interrupt my free time for some of his absurdities?

     "There seems to be an error in your file," Brother Elexsis told me.

     Bullshit an error. Brother Elexsis, don't you know Brother Peter is queer. So I stood before Frere Elexsis and said nothing. He questioned me further.

     "Are you records in order?"

     "I don't know," I told him.

     "Go ahead, he's waiting for you. Don't keep him waiting."

     He's queer. Don't you know the school treasurer is queer? Don't keep the queer Brother waiting?

     "Yes Brother," I said reluctantly. And slowly I entered the main corridor and I traversed the darkened hallway to the middle, where the chapel and front door are. Where Brother Peter's office is near the entrance way. I stood next to his office door and looked in.

     Brother Peter was at his desk going over some papers. His fat overstuffed body, his motley white hands, his wispy grey-white un-kept hair--he was working, engrossed in his work. Peering down at the papers on his desk, looking through his wire rim glasses--he was working. But he had sent for me. He doesn't know I am standing at his door? I don't believe any of his act.

     Slowly I raised my hand and; Tap. Tap. Tap. So lightly on the door my hand did knock. The varnished oak wood, polished, and the upper half glass of the door rattled within its frame, sounding my arrival as loudly as any drum. He looked up and waved me into his office. He pushed his fat, aging body up from his chair to greet me. I stopped in mid room as he approached me. I was keeping an escape path clear to the door.

     He came closer to me and I moved away, speaking as I stepped backwards, "You sent for me Brother?" He is no more a Brother to me than the man-in-the-moon.

     "Yes, I want to verify your school records."

     "I don't know anything about my records."

     "Just a few questions."

     He went over to the record file and pulled out a record card that was canted up.

     "You're David aren't you?"

     "Yes."

     It's the old Gilbert and David routine; we're brothers, yes we are.

     "And you live at Three‑Twenty‑Five South Main Street?

     "I don't know my new address. After my mother died, my father moved me and my brother to his hotel.

     "Aha! I'll look at his records and compare them."

     He slipped out another record and exclaimed, "This seems to be it. Look right here."

     I stepped in his direction but kept the files between us. He can't vault the files and cop a squeeze. He's too old for that.

     "You can't see from over there," he said, "come around to this side."

     I did as he said, going around the file and stood at arm’s length. Then I pretended to look at the records he held for me to see. As I peered at the out held record card, he moved a step closer to me. I moved a step back. He moved another step toward me. I backed away another step. We started to edge around the file. I was keeping just outside of his arms reach. If he's going to rush me, I'll run out the door. It was just ten feet away and open. But there was no need. Brother Peter made no further advances and said, "You may go."

     I left his office and thought, interrupting my free time just so he can get a squeeze. Then I brightened up. Hey! This is Saturday! And there's still about one hour of free time before study hall. So, with a bounce in my step, I headed out toward the yard.

     Brother Elexsis never again mentioned an error in my records. Ironically, at the end of the school year I will question my school records. I will question my school grade, and I will voice my complaint directly to Brother Elexsis.

 

                         End of the Month

 

     At the end of the month, Dad drives to the school, picks up Gilbert and me and we drive back to Fall River. From the Drake, I go back to Barnaby Street. On the sidewalk, in front of my old house, I look up at the front window. The house is empty and quiet. I stand and look. For a long time I stand there looking, waiting, wanting to go back, wanting things to be as they once were. I miss my mother. I am alone, and standing on the sidewalk of my once past world, I converse with the memories of the dead, of what I am to do.

     Alan Bradford, from across the street, invites me over to his house. It will be my home away from home. On month ends I will go over to Alan's house.

 

                          Brother Elisee

                          He's Queer Too

 

     The brief weekend over, I returned to school.

     Brother Elisee was the Brother in charge of the senior section. From time to time, he would come over to the junior section and mix among us younger boys. He had a favorite, John O'Connor, a feisty young boy from the Providence area. John was a small boy with pale white skin. Big fat Brother Elisee and his little favorite would play Ping-Pong against each other in a friendly, competitive kind of way.

     One time their playfulness and friendship ended in a tussle, and it was not at Ping-Pong. John poked big Brother Elisee in his huge, fat belly, and that started the game.

     Brother Elisee, who weighed close to three hundred pounds had a huge fat belly. That's what O'Connor poked his finger into. The big fat gluttonous stomach of a Brother of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. And not any Brother at that, for Frere Elisee was the head Brother of the senior section. One student said he was the lead Brother-in-charge of all the school, junior section and senior section. It didn't matter, he was poked in the belly. Brother didn’t like it. His favorite taking liberties with him, poking him, center point in the stomach.

     John boy moved back, shifting on quick small feet, smiling, laughing. He did it in a taunting manner.

     Brother Elisee warned him not to do it again and put out his fat hand, warning little John boy. It went unheeded. John boy thought it so funny, poking Brother in that big fat stomach of his that he was going to do it again. He was going poke him in that big mid-section again, and he was going to do it with his index finger. Pointing at him. Pointing at that oversized belly and laughing.

     It was so funny that little John boy couldn't stop laughing, all the time pointing his tiny pokey finger at that big belly of Brother Elisee. It was like a target wanting to be hit. Yes, he was going to poke him again, and he laughed, and laughed, and moved on quick feet. Then he moved in.

     Brother Elisee held his arm out. He was going to catch his young friend, and he would grab that little accusing finger and bend it, twist it. He was going to cause pain to young John boy, that's what he was going to do. He'll grab hold of that finger and inflict pain upon it. He had warned him not to poke him again.

     But John boy was too quick. He was small and fast. He moved in and out, feigning, side stepping, pointing with his little index finger, all the time laughing. He was going to get another poke in. He was going to stick his little finger into that big fat stomach of Brother Elisee one more time.

     In the rec hall, games came to a stop. Look at this! It's another contest between John O'Connor and Brother Elisee. It's another one of their playful games. And smiles along with smirks, young student boys stood by to witness this new game between boy favorite and Brother.

     Brother Elisee was in an embarrassing situation. This was his favorite, like his own, and the boy pointing his finger at the overextended stomach, as if saying, Look! Look at the gluttonous Jesuit! and all the time the boy was laughing. It was a joke. It was playful fun. The boy, pointing and moving closer, backing away, his feet quick light with agile movement. He was difficult to catch.

     Little John boy moved in and big fat Brother Elisee grabbed at him with his huge arm. Grabbing what he could and caught part of John boy's cotton shirt. It ripped! From top to bottom--ripppp--collar to bottom seam the shirt ripped. Brother Elisee let go.

     Brother Elisee wins! Game over.

     No! No! O'Connor is going to continue. One little rip of his shirt isn't going to stop young John boy. And he moved in again. He's not going to let Brother Elisee get away with ripping his shirt. He's going to poke him once more in that big fat belly of his.

     So O'Connor moved in. Brother Elisee grabbed again and missed. He grabbed again and caught his shirt once more. Oh! It will rip again. John boy, caught, tries to break the grip but Elisee has him by his shirt and it tears once more . . . Rippp! . . . And we students see that young boy John isn't wearing an undershirt. How uncultured. Beneath the thin plaid cotton shirt is revealed pale white skin of young John O'Connor. His skin is very white. A pale ivory white. It would make a teacher blush. A Jesuit want. It's a young boy's creamy white skin. No undershirt!

     Young O'Connor takes a swipe at Brother Elisee with a sweeping horizontal movement of his arm. His index finger slashing at that big belly. It missed by inches. Brother Elisee held him at bay with outstretched arm, holding O'Connor by the back portion of his shirt, behind his neck. Little John boy is bent down, almost in a bow. He moves against the grip of Brother, down and to the left, his head arching down and back up. His shirt rips once more in the tightly held hand of Brother Elisee. As the shirt rips, Brother Elisee lets go. John boy is free and moves in again. Once more Brother tries to stop him, with the open palm of his hand he stops O'Connor's on his forehead as if it were a basketball. O'Connor leans forward trying to push and power in. Brother is too strong, but Brother's grip slips. John boy moves quick. He's going to stab Brother with his little index finger pointing right at that big fat belly. Brother Elisee lets go momentarily to get a better grip. Grabs and rip! Again the shirt tears, from top to bottom it rips. Again and again, four, five times.

     It's a game. It's another game between little John O'Connor and big Brother Elisee the head supervisor from the senior section. They're friends. Brother and his favorite boy.

     Now the game is winding down. John boy's shirt is in tatters, half hiding his pale white torso. The shirt, somehow attached about the collar, holds together, but the rest of it is in strips.

     Silence comes upon the rec hall. Students stand silently, looking at the young boy with his pale white skin revealed and his shirt in tatters. We look at the big fat man, the Jesuit, the religious Brother, wearing the black cloth, white collar and Crucifix. He ripped the shirt of the young boy.

     John boy O'Connor stops and looks about. He sees that he is the center of attention and then he looks down at his shirt. There is a small patch that is not ripped. John boy takes it in his hands and tears at it. Rippp. There. It is complete.

     The moment verges on embarrassment, but O'Connor breaks the spell. He twirls, as in a dance. He is a ballerina and his tattered shirt billows out. He slows and the shirt flutters softly down against his body. O'Connor wins. He is the center of attention once more. And he is the favorite of Brother Elisee. He twirls again, the shirt billows out, flying up, John twirls in a dervish whirl. It reveals his white skin. It's all a game. A wonderful playful game.

     Next to me, an older boy whispers, indicating that all is not right.

     But what is not right I thoughtfully question; the shirt being torn? The friendship between Brother and the boy?

     Then John O'Connor begins to parade, back and forth he paces. It is as if he does not to know what to do next. How can he over perform what he has done. He has it! He will wear his tattered shirt to dinner. He'll wear it as a badge, a token of friendship between him and Brother Elisee. He'll be the only boy in the dining room wearing a shirt in tatters, an emblem of embattled love between student and teacher. A flag of friendship. But no; "Go upstairs and change your shirt," says Brother Elisee.

     The game is over.

 

                         So Happy, So Sad

 

     The game cost Brother Elisee his position as head supervisor of Mount Saint Charles, not right away mind you. Things take time to be completed at Mount. People would get the wrong idea. They could possibly think there was some connection between the replacement of Brother Elisee and his ripping the shirt upon the back of little John O'Connor. Sometime has to pass. People's memories have to be cluttered with other items, other doings. The connection has to be broken. When enough time has lapsed, then the procedure can commence.

     Formalities started with the arrival of a religious cleric on a canonical visit, perhaps for consultation. The visiting religious dignitary became the front person. The seemingly hidden reason for the whole school to be assembled in the school gymnasium was for the dismissal of Brother Elisee.

     All the big wigs were seated up on the stage, in the school gym: Brother Claver, director of Mount; Brother Oscar, Prefect of Studies; Brother Peter, queer School Treasurer, and some elderly Brothers, along with poor Brother Elisee. Brother Elisee had his head shaved for the occasion. He sat forlornly, with his newly shaven head bowed down, remorseful, repentant. There he sat, sad faced throughout the speeches, the clapping, the praises, all about the school, the good deeds to be done, what can be accomplished. And all the time Brother Elisee has this hang down face, this sad pitiful expression like total sadness.

     It took me half the while to catch on what it was all about. It's a sham! It's a total sham! Brother Elisee is being sent away. This big time visitor, this big time to do, it's fake! The Brothers extraordinaire, sitting upon their little fold up chairs center stage in the school gymnasium, listening to the speeches, saying good work, well done, and we are so sad to see you leave, Brother Elisee, we are so happy to have known you. It's all a fraud. It is the first time I see a sham performed, and I'm completely taken by it. Now I'm ecstatic. It's a total farce. I had never seen anything like it. Never.

     They're getting up to go! Brother Claver, the visiting cleric, Brother Elisee with head bowed. They are filing out.

     We stand to applause. Fake! Fraud! Hooray! Brother Elisee! We are so happy to have known you! We are so sad to see you go. Hooray! Clap. Clap. Clap. I'm clapping and smiling. Happy and sad. So sad to see Brother Elisee go. So happy. Bye-bye Brother Elisee. A flash bulb pops just behind me, lighting up the area. I turn and look. Another flash goes off, capturing me for the school yearbook, so happy and sad. There I am smiling, happy and sad, my picture to be placed in the school yearbook, along with Brother Claver, director of the school and the visiting dignitary. I'm just a-smiling-and-a-grinning. I had just witnessed my first sham.

     So happy and so sad. With those words, Brother Elisee, shaved head and all was sent away from Mount Saint Charles Academy.

 

                            Dress Code

 

     The dress code at Mount:

     There shall be no stylistic fads, no wild and crazy haircuts, no Tony Curtis flips in front, and no ducktails in back. None of that. No shirt collars turned up, no peg pants, no motorcycle boots or those leather jackets with them chains or chrome things. No dungarees. There is to be conformity, niceness, pleasantness and we'll all get along, here at this wonderful school. God Bless Mount Saint Charles Academy.

     "Capistran!" Brother Blaise would shout from halfway across the recreation hall. Then he would add, "Collar!" Which meant, turn down the collar of your shirt, Capistran. Brother has told you time and time again. And any further dress code violations, snide remarks, glances or whatever from Mr. Capistran and Brother Director could be speaking to you this coming Sunday morning during conduct report. We wouldn't want that, now, do we Mr. Capistran?

     Capistran was from a big city in Connecticut. He was a neat dresser and had his hair stylishly combed back, his shirt collar turned up and his pants pegged. He was big city cool and it was an open affront to school regulations.

     It quickly turned into a little game and went like this: Brother Blaise would notify the offender Capistran who had his shirt collar turned up. Capistran would stop what he would be doing, go to the mirrors at the end of the junior section rec hall and reset his image. It was vanity to spend too much time at the mirrors looking at yourself, getting that image, that right look, the cool, and it irked the Brothers of Jesus who refrained from all vanity (supposedly). Within this little game of one-upmanship between Capistran and Brother Blaise--if Brother told Capistran to turn down his collar, he would make a beeline to the mirrors and spend time there. The turned up collar would irk Brother, spending too much time at the mirrors could irk Brother. So, at the start of the game it looked like Capistran was winning. But it would be the persistence of Brother Blaise that would win out.

     The next day it was the same, and the next, and the next. Capistran seemed to be wearing down Brother just by his mode of dress. Brother's words to Capistran got shorter. "Capistran your collar is up." Then, "Capistran . . . your collar." And invariably, "Capistran!"

     Capistran would slow down. Stop. Turn slowly, and with a cool amble he would walk casually to the mirrors to readjust his image in conformance with the school dress code. One time when Capistran was in the middle of something and Brother loudly reminded him, calling his name from one end of the rec hall to the other with the words, "Capistran. Collar." Capistran raised his hand. He didn't even look at Brother. He didn't even turn around. It was like signifying that he knew what he had to do. But, he, Capistran, was busy at the moment.

     Capistran was a leader. A few students followed him, forming a tightly knit clique. My brother Gilbert, wanting to be in with the in crowd, was drawn to Capistran.

     One morning, Capistran and a friend came out of the boys’ room and gave a disparaging look back. Out comes Gilbert! Gilbert could have been into some horseplay in the boys’ room. I razzed him about it and then looked away, forgetting the jibe. Gilbert sucker punched me. Coldcocked me and I dropped to the floor. I was out like a light. The next thing I remember, I'm being propped up into a sitting position by Brother Blaise.

     "What happened?" I asked but no one would say.

     Some may have been shocked by one brother punching out his brother, but they didn't know how things were at our house. I could have explained: it's something my older brother learned from our father. Dad sucker slapped me in the face when I wasn't looking. Like father like son. And Gilbert junior hits me in the face when I'm not looking. Gilbert is trouble for me, always will be. When we were introduced to Mount--the introductions; They're brothers aren't they? Asked the Brother of Jesus. Dad answered, Yes, that's Gilbert. He, him--as if, that one, he, him, the genius, an afterthought. Yeah--his name is David. The Brothers of Jesus should have quickly understood, one set of rules for Gilbert, another set for he, him. David.

     But no matter, students gathered to where I was sitting and talked of a boxing match between Gilbert and me. We could settle our differences in the ring. But Brother Blaise said, "Brother will not fight against brother." Perhaps he meant it for the Brothers of Jesus not to fight amongst themselves.

 

                              Boxing

 

     It seemed that Brother Elexsis liked us boys to box. He refereed, started the rounds, and blew his whistle. It was Brother Elexsis who promoted boxing matches at Mount Saint Charles. Matches that comprised some of the most amateurish mismatches and grudge fights to be viewed by most any assembly. Fights of dominance, status and respect.

     In a school of one hundred boarding students locked within a small confined area, day after day, week upon week, travails and petty grievances would erupt. Perhaps a student would push his weight around, or it could be, the good Brother would be bored. The boys would be bored. Restless. An excuse would be made--the announcement: "Boxing this evening. Anyone wanting to participate will have to find a willing opponent and the match will be made."

 

     The fights took place on the hardwood floor of the junior section recreation hall. Fifty to a hundred boys would gather around and make a perimeter for the two contestants. On the utility tables they would sit, lean and sometimes stand, two and three deep, to get a good view of the fight. Shouts and screams, laughter and excitement, they would yell for their favorite. A lot of boys would scream and yell, but not enter that hallowed ring. Bloodied and bruised, shocked with blunted blows of padded gloves, boys would be sucking wind, panting hard, pushing, pushing forward, with heavy arms swinging, pained heavy arms. And the blows would come. Blows would be given. And all would be forgotten of the bastard school with nowhere to go, no girls to be seen or talked to. And the pent up frustration would be meted out in blows, one after the other, left, right, left, right. To the face, to the side of the head, to the mouth. Duck. Bob and weave, shift left and right, under and up. Left right, and down again holding head low, tucked in. Watching those brown leather gloves, that power right. Watch it move. Block it! Glance it off! Twist now, a slight movement of the head and down. Down! With gloves up. Hold those gloves up! Protect yourself.

     I had fought in the ring, on that wooden floor, with arms flying and flailing. Getting weary, heavy, down and in, ducking, bobbing, and weaving. Moving. Hitting and getting hit. Bruised and bloodied.

     The fights were held in my seventh and eighth grades while I was at Mount. Then they were stopped. Suspended. But when they were on . . .

 

                       McNulty vs. Woodson

 

     It was a grudge match between two older boys. Possibly words had been exchanged. Perhaps there was a dislike between the two, a vying for position within a group of boys, a show of non-respect from one to the other. Perhaps racism was involved, yes, for Woodson was colored and McNulty was white. So, the match was made. "There will be boxing this evening after supper." Announced Brother Elexsis, and anyone wanting to box could contact him and a match could be made.

     Woodson, average in height and weight, was in trouble. McNulty was one of the tallest boys in the junior section, standing almost a foot taller than Woodson, hovering over him. McNulty was the favorite. McNult, as he was sometimes called by his friends, would win. There was no question about it.

     That evening, Brother Elexsis provided each fighter with a stool, towel, corner man, and gloves. Three rounds of boxing.

     I looked to where Woodson was sitting. He had a worried, frightened look upon his face. A colored boy sitting alone amongst one hundred waiting, laughing, excited anticipatory white boys. Both fighters had their shoes off and would fight in their socks. It had been complained of by Woodson that the floor was too slippery to fight upon, that the footing wasn't good. It was suggested that both fighters would fight in bare feet. McNulty wouldn't agree to that. Okay then, both fighters will take off their shoes and fight with their socks on. It was agreed.

     It had seemed that Woodson was trying to talk his way out of the fight, but no use. Now he was seated on a little stool waiting for the start of a fight between him and a much bigger boy. A white boy. A white boy in a school of white boys, with white Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus who prayed in a white chapel, adorned with white Saints, praying to a white God, all within the city of white Woonsocket. . . . Damn!

     At McNulty's corner ten boys crowded about, patting McNult on the back, giving him words of encouragement. One boy was giving him a backrub. From time to time McNulty's supporters would glare across the floor to where Woodson was seated. They would wave their fists menacingly and shout, "Now you're gonna get it! You're in trouble now, Boy!"

     Brother Elexsis, proud of arranging such an event, blew his whistle.

     McNulty, savoring the fanfare of the moment, eased up from his stool, expanded his chest, took his big gloved hands and grabbed at his pants, to hitch them up a bit, and swaggered toward the center of the ring. He was strolling this casual little walk, this casual swagger . . .

     From the opposite corner, Woodson sprung up from his stool, and in short steps ran toward McNulty. Running full tilt, trailing his right hand low and behind him, not missing a beat, not missing one step, Woodson came running toward McNult who was still on a Sunday stroll. Woodson caught McNult flat-footed and with gloves down. Woodson swung that trailing right hand of his with all he could muster. He brought that right hand up and around, full circle, full tilt bogey, and caught McNult square on the side of his face.

     The force of the blow was so quick, hard and fast that McNulty's feet came out from under him. McNult went from vertical, to diagonal, to horizontal. It seemed he hung there for a moment laying horizontal, a couple of feet off the floor, suspended in midair, levitating. Then the force of gravity pulled--and he plunged straight down to the floor. Flat on his back he fell, and with a thud that was heard throughout the recreation hall. So hard McNulty fell, that it shuddered the floor.

     Knockdown! . . .  Knockdown! Knockdown! McNulty's knocked down! The fight has barely started and McNulty's laying on his back, center floor, with one hundred shocked fellow students looking on. It was as if someone had thrown him with an unseen judo move. First there was stunned silence. Then total pandemonium broke out. From McNulty's corner; amazement, then screams of rage and anger. They were in total shock. That nigger put their big white boy down on the floor in one second with one punch. It was total pandemonium. The blow was so hard that McNult barely knew what happened; but, to his credit, almost instantaneously, he jumped to his feet and started swinging wildly, going at Woodson. Brother Elexsis tried to step in and give an eight count. McNulty powered past him and the fight continued in earnest. Brother Elexsis counted from the side lines while both fighters wildly swung roundhouses at each other. It was a toe to toe amateurish slugfest to the end of the round.

     Brother Elexsis blew his whistle.

     Both fighters withdrew to their corners for a one minute rest. Woodson looked at his foes corner where one of the white boys shook his fist menacingly and viciously mouthed some words.

     In the second round McNulty tried his best to put Woodson to the floor, but he couldn't do it. Woodson hung in there. He was sometimes overpowered by McNulty's heavier blows, but he wouldn't give an inch. Not one inch. He answered every blow till both fighters were winded. The fight seesawed once or twice but pride and prejudice would not be forgotten. Neither could the knockdown. The fight went to a draw, with the crowd groaning out their woes at the decision.

     If Woodson was a little cocky before, now there was an outright swagger to his walk. Woodson wasn't supposed to have won, but he fought his way to somewhat of a standing, a place to breathe, a little room. He got some begrudged respect. The white boys had to give him that.