School Years Grade 10 #1

                            Honor Roll

 

     I was well into the tenth grade or so when I made second honors. The genius had finally made the honor roll. In the main hallway of the school, neatly etched into on a black lacquered nameplate was my name, DAVID E FARIA. The little one inch by three inch nameplate was hanging by tiny cup hooks on a display stand, along with other names of those boys who also made honors.

     It was a fluke; it had to be. How could I, David E. Faria, nigger of the school, whipping boy extrodinaire, actually make the honor roll? I wasn't allowed into the library. I wasn't allowed in the music rooms. I would be considered an average student at most; so, how could it have happened?

     At the time, I thought it was great. That month end when Dad visited the school I led him into the main hallway and showed him. proudly pointing to my name. Dad's eyes welled up with tears. He usually gets sappy whenever I accomplished anything. Could it be that he knew the odds I had to deal with? Well, he wipes at his tears with his hanky. But the question persists. How could it happen? How could this white nigger boy, this outcast, this boy that takes shit from the bastard Brothers of Jesus, how could he make the honor roll? I thought it was an an oversight.

     I thought it something like the 'Darrel Luzier Effect'. Darrel, having passed five subjects, fails one. That does it for the first quarter. Second quarter: Darrel doubles his effort at the failed subject. He passes that subject and all others: except one. Third quarter it's a repeat. Darrel chasing one subject then another, and so it goes. The harried student redoubles his effort, but it's no use. He will chase the elusive grade, a grade that is not to be given. Under no circumstances will the sought after grade be given. It is like a dog chasing his tail, and Darrel flunks out of Mount Saint Charles--not because of his grades. Darrel adamantly pronounces that he knows the subjects. Still he flunks out.

     So, me, make the honor roll again? For the second time. Can Deuce make the honor roll twice? No way. It would be like a dog chasing his tail. To the Brothers of Jesus, I didn't deserve to be an honor roll student at Mount Saint Charles. I was whipped by the Brother Director of the school. I was on the shit list. It must have been an embarrassment to them to have my name posted on that specialty display stand in the main hallway of the exalted, right next to the chapel doors.

     At the end of each quarter when the grades are posted, students scramble to see how well they've done. They will point to one grade and then another, comparing them, and sometimes they will point out some specific score to a peer.

     A year would pass and Pete Dolliver would scan my grades. "Oh, you just missed honor roll there," and he'd be pointing to some lone seventy-nine or eight. But it was the way he said it and to underscroe, he'd add, "Aw shucks," and he would swing his fist in a small arc. I liked Pete.

     But I didn't tell him of my thoughts or chances of attaining honors again at MSC. I wouldn't tell him about running in a circle for the sake of the Brothers amusement. Thinking one Brother would be depending upon another Brother to post one of my grades in the seventies, and thus off the honor list.

     I didn't make honors again. After some initial efforts at trying to stay on the honor roll, I never did much better or worse. It was a wasted effort to try to increase my grades. Try as I may, there was no resultant change. I could try or not try. My grades would come out about the same. Low eighties and high seventies.

     I turned my attention to the main objective: getting out of this bastard school. With a little over two years to go. Two and a half years; my goal was nearing. It was unbelievable. Elevating. I would review my past years and the deep gut feeling was reassuring. Years past, I had thought getting out of this environment was impossible. But now I had already finished almost four years in this school. I had adjusted to the routine. The way I did it was not to make any waves; stay out of trouble; bide my time. I was counting, and when spring neared, and the end of another school year beckoned, I would be at my best. Like a prisoner on his best behavior, quietly I would be mentally crossing off time from the pronounced sentence. All of my High School Years. Every bit of it: no girls; no social life; no going downtown; no nothing. Why they have everything right here. Right here at Mount Saint Charles--that is, if you are a Goddamn saint.

 

                         Handsome Brother

 

     It was one of those summerlike days. Gilbert, Dad and I were making ready to leave from Aunt Mary's place on Grinnell Street.

     "You're going to the school?" Camille asks.

     "Yes Camille," I quickly answer.

     "And Dad's coming back to Fall River?"

     "Yes, he's coing right back here to Fall River."

     Routine had it that Dad would drive Gilbert and me to Mount Saint Charles, turn around, and drive right back to Fall River. Camille had listened and learned from past years. This day she wants to ride along. She wants to see the school. She wants to see where it is; what it's all about. She wants to see where Gilbert and I have lived for months on end. She wants to see a real viable place, not something that's mentioned only in conversation, almost whispered about. Camille wants to dispel the mystique of Mount Saint Charles.

     "Can I go?" she asks innocently, almost plaintively.

     She took the bait--"Yes, Dad's coming right back." Right back here to Fall River. Seemingly there's no reason why she can't go along for the ride.

     "Sure Camille. You can come along," I tell her. I don't say: The ride will be in silence. You will have to shut up; because, if I'm to shut up, everybody riding in the car is to shut up. Camille doesn't know that. The moment I told her she could come along, silence enveloped the room. Aunt Mary stopped washing dishes and moved to the small kitchen which adjoins the main room. The main multipurpose room. There, Dad is immobile, like he's frozen, glued to one spot. Gilbert junior is quiet. If Camille comes along with us on the ride from Fall River to Woonsocket, silence will be enforced. That's the way it is. That's the way it has been; ever since that day three years back when Dad shouted at me to shut up. Now everybody shuts up. Camille wouldn't understand. She thinks everthing is peaches and cream. She doesn't remember, or will claim that she doesn't remember; all the riffs, the arguments, the little bickering and infighting that took place at Barnaby Street when all was not well between Dad and Mom. She will claim that she doesn't remember that. I had been in some of those disagreements. So now it continues; the riffs, the little disagreements. And there is a new element, a new person into the fray. Since Mom's suicide Dad opened the door to the priest, having him come to the house and explain the death of Mom. Ever since that day the priest has wormed his way deeper and deeper into family matters. He remains in the background; nevertheless, he is the church official who causes trouble to the family.

     As far as this little matter of the drive to school: Dad doesn't want to explain every little disagreement, and the ride to Mount is one of those. We put on a facade when visiting Aunt Mary and Camille; Aunt Mary goes along with the game.

     Inwardly I smiled after having said, "Yes Camille, you can ride along," now it is, come on Camille, ride to school and see what it's like. But it's not my okay that Camille has to get; Dad has to okay it. 

     "You're coming right back?" Camille asks Dad.

     He doesn't answer.

     "Dad, you're coming right back here to Fall River? Aren't you?" Camille presses on innocently.

     I'm silently smug. That's right Camille. He's going to drive right back here; right back here to Fall River. And it's such a beautiful day outside, a nice day for a ride. The sun is shining. There's a light autumn feel . . . what a beautiful day! And I believe someone--Aunt Mary?--had mentioned such, which is probably why Camille brought up the question in the first place.

     "It's just another school, Camille." says Aunt Mary, coming to the aid of her brother Gilbert. But Camille doesn't think it's just another school. No. It's the school that David and Gilbert attend. Year after year her brothers go away to somewhere in another state and there they remain for months on end. Then they come back to Fall River for a brief hello, a Sunday dinner, and good-bye again; off to that school they go once more. All the while she, Camille, cannot go anywhere. She has to stay in Fall River. And being brought up by Aunt Mary is no bed of roses. Aunt Mary is Old World. Camille cannot go out. She cannot date. She is a girl. Girls do not do as boys do. So, a ride would be good, if only to get out of the house.

     "No Camille, you don't want to go to the school." says Aunt Mary.

     "It's a boys school," says Dad who has re-found his voice and regained his sense. 

     "Girls can visit, can't they?" Camille poses the question to Dad.

     "It's a long ride, Camille." says Aunt Mary.

     "I won't mind. I'll be all right," Camille answers Aunt Mary, gamely putting off both Dad and Aunt Mary momentarily; but, Aunt Mary, boss of her house sets the law.

     "No, Camille. School's tomorrow. I don't want you tired for school. Maybe you can go some other time." Thus, Aunt Mary has saved the day for Dad. Aunt Mary may speak with a heavy Portuguese accent, sometimes stumbling on English wordings, but today she has saved the day.

     Camille gave it a good try and she still doesn't understand. I can't whisper, it's a secret Camille; the school is a bastard place. I can't say that to Camille who is too young and will come back with another batch of questions.

     There is an unease that Camille will bring up the subject again, that she will want to visit the school at another time. It was in Aunt Mary's words, maybe you can go some other time. Now Camille might think that she will visit that boys school David and Gilbert attend. Next time she asks, maybe she will get permission to travel to that boy's school in Woonsocket.

     To stop that line of thought, Aunt Mary's daughter Laura will visit the school in the near future. It will prove that Mount is just another school in another state, that it's no big deal.

     So Laura was called upon to quell the uneasiness. Laura is an upbeat person, everything's great. Mount Saint Charles is great. Everything. Upon seeing the school grounds for the first time she says, "What a nice school!" and she will add to that after she has talked with one of the Brothers, "And the Brothers, they're so handsome!"

     She was speaking about Brother Charles! The very same moronic bastard Brother who threw me out of his classroom by the seat of my pants and the nape of my neck. The very same bastard.

     But Laura was impressed. As we rode onto the school grounds she just about oohed and awed. I went one way and she went another, on a tour of the school, but before leaving, I saw her sitting in the car. Brother Charles who was then the supervisor of the junior section, had walked over to the vehicle, and like an older teenage boy or young man courting a young woman, with one hand upon the roof of the car, casually looking down, speaking through the opened passenger window, he proceeded to talk with cousin Laura for a period of time. I viewed it from a distance and hadn't thought much about it at the time. But later, when Laura said what handsome Brother's they have at the school; well, it irked me. She had to have been talking about Brother Charles, that red faced, six-foot, hundred and ninety pound, physically fit, moronic idiot. The very same moron who couldn't teach a day of class if his life depended on it. But he's so handsome thinks Laura!

     So cousin Laura came to the school, saw, was enamored, went back to Fall River and had to have given her report: See Camille! It's just another school. There's no big secret. Why go all the way over there? Yes, your father's drives right back here to Fall River, but it's a long ride Camille. You don't want to go all the way over there and then have to come back all the way back over here. And with school tomorrow. Camille must have been given all those and other lame excuses whenever she had questions about Mount Saint Charles.

     It was kept a secret. Mount Saint Charles: it's a bastard school. I thought everybody in the Vasconcellos household knew of the school, but they didn't.

     It was many years later, twenty-five or thirty, I was at Laura's house in Antioch, California. It being Christmas Eve, Laura's sister, Emily, was there and Emily's husband, Joe.

     I was relating a story from my school days, from Mount Saint Charles. It was a religious theme story that had been told to the class by Brother Philip. The title was The Blood of Jesus. As I explained the story, and using my handkerchief as a prop--like I had taken the Bread of Jesus and hid it by placing it within the handkerchief, and then placed it in my pocket. The story called for me to take the Eucharist home and as I would reach for it in my pocket, pulling out the handkerchief with the Eucharist Bread of Jesus within--I would appear to be shocked when seeing the white handkerchief would now be soaked in blood! It was the Blood of Jesus. It's a miracle! It's the transubstantiation! It's the Blood of Christ! It’s Jesus!

     Emily interrupts the story and asks in disbelief, "What school did you go to?" She can't believe what she hears. The religious story sounds so outlandish.

     I'm taken aback for a moment. Both these women have lived in the same residence on Grinnell Street. They're sisters; Laura and Emily. So I'm thinking, surely you have talked of the school, Mount Saint Charles. But Emily's disbelief of the religious story and not knowing where I went to school. It becomes apparent; it was a secret within the Vasconcellos household. It wasn't talked about. Little or no talk of Mount Saint Charles Academy. (It's a bastard school.)

     I looked to where Laura sat. She had taken a toy windup monkey. A wind up plaything. The toy monkey when wound would clap its little metal tin cymbals together. Clang! Clang! Clang! And it would dance slide around on the small table top where Laura had placed it. It was my attendant. As I told the story of the 'Blood of Jesus' the tiny toy monkey ceremoniously clanged and clashed its tiny metal cymbals.

     But the question was: if, after she had visited the school and said, "What a nice school! And the Brothers! They're so handsome." Why not tell Emily about it?

     So I believed Laura kept the secret, and her mother, Aunt Mary, most likely guided her.

     When I had asked Aunt Mary for her help in getting me out of that bastard school, she told me to wait it out. "Wait till you graduate, David," she told me, and I worked for that day.