School Years Grade 8 #2

 

                           The Whipping

 

     At that moment, from out of the stairway landing, Brother Claver, the Director of Mount Saint Charles, came running. To me, at this Catholic institution, he will be the pervert of perverts. The bastard of bastards. He stopped in mid hall, looked left and right. He saw us and quickly walked to us, slowing as he approached.

     I got up and felt light on my feet.

     With a red face, Brother Charles spoke rapidly in French. There was no hesitation. No smiling stupidly. No silent interludes. He pointed to the classroom and then to me. With much animation he communicated to Brother Director, all in French. The little I could make out was a word or two. He mentioned, mon frere, my brother Gilbert. Then Brother Charles stopped talking.

     Brother Claver turned to me and asked sternly, "And what do you have to say for yourself?"

     I looked at the black robed two; with their crucifixes, their blackness from head to toe, their comradship.

     "There's nothing to do," I told Brother Claver.

     "What do you mean, there's nothing to do! There's a class going on in there!" he said in angered disbelief.

     He didn't say: We've spent days, weeks, trying to place a Brother before this class. First we have an embarassing situation with one of us Brothers grabbing at young boys. Then we have student laughter at the queer Brothers we place before you in the class. Finally we find a moron who is dumb but clean. And you are to upset all this! . . . You! . . . You!, . . . You're that boy with the borish father who shouted at me, yelling in my face. Telling me, prompting me, "He's standing right out there in the hall! Go and ask him?" And so here you are, aren't you? You're standing right here in the hall. Now, isn't that a coincidence. How convient. You little bastard. And you wanted to enter my office? And your father shouting in my face! Shouting in my face! Of course I'll show you. Not the inside of my office. I'll show you. The gall! The unmitigated gall! And you wanting me to listen to what you have to say. You can say absolutely nothing that would make any difference. Absolutly nothing. Shouting in my face. Imagine!

     So it is a continuation of our face off from a scant few weeks before. But now, without my father at my side, there is not much to say. Or much I could do. He wouldn't listen before. He won't listen now.

     "There's nothing to do," I repeat, telling him in my eighth grade naive school boy way.

     And, it was true. We weren't allowed to read or write. No books on the desk. There was nothing to do but sit and listen to the ramblings of an incompetent. A moron. But, nothing I could say would make any difference to this pervert of perverts. This bastard. This sado-masochistic pervert Jesuit bastard of Christ Jesus.

     Now it is Brother Clavers' turn. Before him is a student with bad conduct. A student in need of punishment. A student that needs to be punished and disciplined; so he will obey the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Yes. But not here. I was to be punished in private.

     Not fully understanding my position, I slowly shook my head to the negative. No. There's not a class going on. Brother Charles doesn't know how to teach class. He's incompetent. He's not a teacher.

     But this fixated Jesuit bastard, Frere Claver, has his mind made up.

     "We're wasting time here. Come with me." He says with cold anger. And Brother Charles goes back inside his classroom. I follow Brother Director downstairs.

     In the main hallway we stop at a doorway where he unlocks a door and we enter. It is a small storage utility room. The floor is waxed and polished and through a window, the morning sunlight shines. Part of the yard outside can be seen. The room is located on the first floor, east side, between the junior section and the chapel. In one corner of the room is a mop and a pail.

     "Wait here," says Brother Claver and he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

     Thinking this may be my punishment--to wait in this small room alone--I relax and bide my time.

     Unknown to me: I am to be whipped. And I'm well prepared for the whipping that is to come. I had been whipped before. It was two years before . . .  the background had started with an incident at North Park, Fall River, Massachusetts during a Little League baseball game:

 

                        Warren Strikes Out

 

     There are two outs and bases are loaded. Warren Murray is to bat.

     I'm watching the game along with a small group of people. We're scattered about sitting on an embankment of soft green grass, underneath towering maple and oak trees. It is later in the afternoon on a nice summer day.

     Whispers filter though out the crowd. Can Warren hit? If he can't, he might force in a run. The pitcher is having control problems. What about a grand slam. That would put Warren's team within reach of a win. The main question is repeated. Can Warren hit? Yeah, he can hit say some. Others didn't know.

     The pitcher had just walked the last batter and loaded up the bases. There are two outs, and the pitcher has an ace. Most of these Little Leaguer's can't hit his fast ball.

     Warren Murray selects a bat and takes a couple of practice swings. They are good cuts. He looks neat in his clean white uniform. His hat is on tight. Warren looks good. Tough and good. By looking at his practice swings, Warren can move the bat. He steps up to the plate and takes a stance. He's ready.

     The pitcher, tall and lanky, sizes up Warren. He winds up and unleashes a fast ball. It blazes in and Warren takes a mean cut. Misses. Whiffing air. It's a duel. Can the pitcher throw faster? Or, can Warren swing the bat faster? It looked about even. But Warren missed the ball by a mile.

     Strike One! Shouts the umpire and the crowd settles down to wait for the next pitch. If Warren can make contact, he'd put the ball out of the park. It sure would. But he missed the ball by almost a foot. The pitch was chest high and Warren's cut was waist high. Maybe he closed his eyes.    

     Warren digs in. Now he's angered.

     The pitcher looks him over with another glance, winds up and throws another fastball. It whizzes down the line and comes in at the zone. Warren unleashes another wicked cut. Again he whiffs air.

     Strike Two! Shouts the ump.

     Warren's getting closer. That time he missed the ball by a few inches. At this rate, Warren could get a hit in about five or six swings. The crowd goes silent. It seems that Warren senses the silence. It is a sign of no confidence. From his bench come some comforting words.

     Warren watches the next three pitches go by. Ball One! Ball Two! Ball Three!

     Now it's a full count! Bases are loaded and there are two outs. If the next pitch is a ball, it will force in a run. The pitcher throws another fastball and it's right down the middle. Warren watches it go by as he did the last three pitches.

     Strike Three! You're out! Shouts the umpire.

     Warren is in a state of shock. He remains in his tight stance. It's a big league stance, right out of the book. How could the ump call strike three? For a moment in time, Warren holds that stance. The catcher has gotten up from his crouch and goes off to untie his gear. The pitcher has started walking off the mound. The inning is over. But not for Warren. He does an about face. He's now facing the umpire.

     The ump repeats his call: Strike Three! You're out!

     The umpire is not impressed by Warren's big league stance; legs spread, his bat is ready, hat on snug, low to his eyes. But then Warren does something that is not in the book. It's not in the Little League either. Warren cocks his bat like he is going to hit the umpire.

     A shock of disbelief goes through the crowd. Warren's threatening to hit the umpire with the baseball bat! People who don't know who he is, ask. That's Warren Murray.

     The team coach, who is Warren's father, gets up from the bench and admonishes his son. Warren throws the bat to the ground, goes to the bench, sits down and cries. He covers his face with his hands. Later Warren will go over to the umpire and says something; most likely an apology. But that is the setup.

 

     So now it’s Fall. I am in Westall Elementary School. I'm in the sixth grade. Warren is in the fifth. Warren's brother is also in my class.

     Out in the schoolyard Walter Fraze and Wayne Murray--Warren's older brother--approach me and say, Warren is hiding down those stairs. Down there in the darkness. He's acting like a crazy person. I look to where they indicate. It is some steps leading to the basement of the school. It is there Warren hides. I look but can't see through the darkness. It is quiet. If Warren is hiding down there; why? So I go down the steps to take a closer look. I don't see Warren. It's too dark. I call out to Warren and question him, why is he down here acting like some crazy person?

     Instantaneously, Warren rushes at me from out of the darkness. He grapples me and knocks me down. We fall to the cement floor and trash about, each trying to get a better grip on the other.

     I can't break free. I can barely contain him. He is a year younger. An underclassman. And has taken me on to fight. So we wrestle in the darkness, on the cement, rolling about in the dust and the dirt. Amidst fallen leaves that crumble as we roll and twist on the floor. We wrestle silently, holding our grip tight. We fight in silence.

     But a crowd gathers at the top of the stairs. And in due time, the school janitor stops the fight and to the principles office we are called.

     The principle of Westall elementary is a woman. Her office is on the first floor, right by the main door.

     I am sent there by my sixth grade teacher. Warren is already there. The principal is making telephone calls. I slowly realize that she is telephoning our parents; first one, then the other. Initially she has a difficult time, but she's persistent. And from what can I gather, what the principal wants is permission from our parents. She wants to whip Warren and me. First one parent disagrees, then the other. One, two, or three telephone calls and finally she gets what she wants. She can whip us. And having one parents permission, she gets the other to go along with that decision. It is granted.

     She will whip both us boys with a wooden stick. It is the dreaded Rattan! Or as some call it: the Rat Hand! The female principal will use a wooden blackboard pointing stick. A stick of wood about four feet in length and a half inch in diameter. It has a rubber tipped pointing end, most likely to be soft on the blackboard, so it won't disturb the quietness of the class when the teacher is at her work.

     Warren goes first.

     I always get to watch. Gilbert gets hit and I watch; then, I get hit. Now Warren is going to get whipped and I'm going to watch; then, I'm going to get whipped. I never did like all this watching and waiting.

     This is big time punishment for elementary school. It will be all over this small school. The Rattan is for bad boys. It will be whispered about.

     "Hold out your hand," she says to Warren. And he does as he is told. And I watch her whip Warren. The first snap of the stick hits Warren's hand with a smarting blow. It must have hurt. By the second or third blow Warren starts to cry. At first, the principal continues to whip Warren. Again and again she lashes down upon his hand with the wooden pointer stick. Warren cries continue and increase. Tears fall from his eyes. The principal eases up. She has hit Warren five times on his right hand. He is told to hold out his left. Now the lashes are light. A boy could take ten, twenty, or more. The louder the cry, the softer the blow.

     So it is to be five lashes on each hand. Warren fights like hell and cries like a baby.

     It's my turn. I know the routine. And I am told to hold out my hand. I do, and the woman principal lashes at my open palm. The first blow coming down moderately hard. I brace myself. The second blow hits. I wince. There are no tears from me. I'm a sixth grader. I'm a big boy. I'll not cry for this woman. She is not a girl, but has once been.

     Warren watches as I get punished, just as I had watched him. With Warren watching, it reinforces me. I brace for my punishment. Ten lashes. I should not cry. Tears should not fall. If there are tears it will be known that had I cried.

     Being silent and taking my punishment with no outcry brings out the frustration within the woman who is whipping me. She is angered at my silence. This impudent young boy before her. This sixth grader, he will not cry. Well then, she will see what I am made of. She will have me feel the sting of the stick, and her anger. She whips harder. The next blow, and the next until she is whipping as hard as she can.

     My palm reddens and the pain increases. It cuts into my hand like an unseen blade into the soft boyish flesh of my palm. I have not cried out. Inwardly I am counting the blows, but I am having difficulty at keeping still. I will not move. And the wooden stick makes a whooshing noise as it whips down upon my hand. The blows are much harder than the little baby swipes she had taken at Warren.

     A strong dislike against this harsh vindictive woman builds within me. On about the fourth lash, the wooden pointer stick breaks! It breaks upon impact upon my outstretched hand! A ten inch piece of the wood, rubber tip and all, falls and skitters away on the hard oak flooring. I'm elated! That's the end of it, I think. It's the end of my punishment. I have broken the stick! The rod has broke. I have won!

     But no such luck.

     The woman principal goes to where the broken piece of whipping stick has rested. She picks it up and inspects it as she walks, holding the two broken pieces of whipping rod in her hands, trying to see where and why it broke. She fits the two pieces back together, and momentarily holding it there, she inspects it as would a batter who has hit a foul ball and has broken his bat.

     It have must warmed Warren's heart! A vindication. Absolution! Transference. It must have expunged all his grief, all the guilt, all the heartache that he had been holding must have rushed quietly and unknowingly from the subconscious of Warren's mind and heart. His total being must have been cleansed of all that guilt. Finally, he had been punished and purged. Praise God! Thank you Westall Elemenary School. Thank you woman school principal. Thank you David Faria. So, in that fleeting instant, with no pain, no feeling of the hurt, Warren Murray must have been cleansed from his Little League sins.

     But not I. No! The lady principal. The batter. The swinger of the stick. The bitch. She goes to a metal cabinet, opens it, reaches in and pulls out another whipping stick. My heart sank. Within the locker I spied a dozen or more of those same type wooden blackboard pointing sticks. Whipping sticks. There will be no lapse in punishment due to insufficient whipping implements. Within that metal locker there must be the whole damn school supply in there. A veritable stockpile.

     The bitch principal inspects her new rubber tipped rod for defects. She looks at the wood and the run of the grain--perhaps she wishes to put the trademark face forward so as not to damage the stick. Then she held it in one hand and upon the other she tested it upon her palm, gingerly snapping it. Snap. Snap. Snap. The vile bitch, now satisfied, closes the cabinet door and returns to me for unfinished business.

     This was the first time in my young life that I truely I hated someone. I had never hated an adult with such unrestrained feeling. It was new to me. Subconsciously havoc was being slowly wrought; there would be a widening riff between me and my parents. It was my parents, at least one of them, who okay'd the physical punishment that allowed this bitch principal to whip me.

     The whipping finished; five lashes on each hand, and not one tear did I drop for that vicious hateful woman's eyes to see. I went back to my class and took my seat. It was soon that whispers were going from one student to another. I knew what it was. It was being whispered that I had been punished. Whipped. I had gotten the Rat Hand! I was shamed and put my head down low, and soon I covered with my face with my arms. With my head resting on my desktop, I cried. I cried and cried and I couldn't stop crying. My sixth grade teacher allowed to leave the room. I went to the boys room and stayed there for some time.

     From that day on, when I went to school at Westall Elementary, I braced myself. When school ended and when my foot stepped off the sidewalk of School Street. School Street being a short street one block long; that's when school ended. It ended when my foot lifted off of School Street and stepped upon the road of Prospect. I, David Faria, was no longer under the policy of Westall Elementary. I wouldn't lead patrol, and my patrol was taken from me. I don't care. I was put in another patrol and promptly got into a fight with a boy I seriously disliked. I was suspended for some hours and sent home. I don't care. Finally, I was let alone by the bastard bitch principal of Westall Elemenary. So, when the end of the day came, where School Street ended, it was then that I was free from Westall and the bitch principal who ran it. At that time I didn't know the bitch word, but that was my feeling toward her.

 

     But Goddamn, now it's two years later. This is Mount Saint Charles Academy. A good Catholic school. I'm prepared for a whipping now. I'm experienced. I know what these adults are wanting. I didn't know who gave permission for me to be punished at Westall, Mom or Dad. But at Mount Saint Charles the protocol is different. There are no bitches. There are bastards. Sick perverted sexually repressed bastards. Bastards of Christ Jesus. They are the bastard Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Oh, but there is something else. I will have to kneel. This is a religious school. I will have to get on my knees before the pervert Brother Claver of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. And that too I had learned from years before. It is so Catholic. It was on Christmas Eve, at Saint Josephs Church, in Fall River, Massachusetts.

 

                        The Bread of Jesus

 

     There was a new priest at Saint Josephs, and this new priest was going to celebrate Christmas Mass at midnight. Mom said we didn't have to go to Mass the next morning. We would stay up late and go to the Mass at midnight.

     While Dad took time out for one last drink, Mom changed from one style of dress to another. Then she would touch up with a little puff of powder, some rouge, a little lipstick. And if it didn't suite Mom's taste, she'd fuss and fix-up some more.

     The time ticked by. Midnite was nearing.

     It turned into another contest between Mom and Dad. A quiet test as to who could outdo the other. Would Dad have that one last, very last drink? That last gulpfull? Or would Mom have to fluff one last time with that super soft brush upon her cheek? Or one last mist squeeze from one of her dainty perfume bottles?

     As we approached Saint Joseph's Church that night, we could see the light from inside with each opening and closing of the front doors. Outside it was cold and no snow on the ground for a December night. Inside the church it was well lit and full of people. Most were holiday worshipers. The mood was not that of a subdued Sunday morning crowd. There was an undercurrent of holiday cheer and lightness pervaded. There was quiet talk, whispers ebbing and flowing. It made the church seem different. Not like it usually was, a quiet solemn place of ritualistic worship.

     And when we did enter, the usual Sunday morning seatings were not enforced for this special Christmas night Mass. People sat where they pleased. It was first come first seated. People stood in the back. Some crowded the isles. Mom couldn't find seating for all of us, so we stood in the side isle near the back of the church. A woman moved over, giving Gilbert and I a place to sit. Mom and Dad stood nearby. They said they would be okay. They weren't tired. They would stand.

     Altar candles were lit, signaling that the Mass would start soon. The priest entered the altar area with his attendants and proceeded to the front of the altar, but he stopped. He faced the congregation and said, "Will the people standing in the isles please find somewhere to sit."

     I sensed the priest wasn't happy. It was his tone of voice. Perhaps thinking of these people, these parishoners, holiday worshipers, how could they be so intemperate and inconsiderate. Yes, the young priest, Father Shaleau, sounded upset. There was no holliday cheer in his voice. Or was it nerves? The church was full. And now people were standing in the side isles and crowding the back of the church. And even though the Mass had started, people were still entering. They were latecomers; more inconsiderate holiday worshipers. And more room had to be made for them. When the priest asked those sitting to make room, there was movement in the pews and some people just adjusted their sitting positions. Some made room, others shifted about just to satisfy the priest. Look! There is no more room here. Those people who came in late? Let them stand. 

     I whispered for Mom and Dad to sit. Gilbert and I would stand. "No," said Mom, "it would be too crowded. You boys sit."

     The priest continued with the Celebration of the Mass for a short period of time, and then he again stopped, turned to the congregation and asked once more. He said to the people, "There are some seats available. Will the people seated please make room for those standing," and he waited for people to seat themselves.

     He waited, but the crowd was too large. And more people had come into the church. Not knowing that they should have done their best to find a seat, they stood in the back of the church, crowding it all the more. Once again there was a feeble attempt at making room in the pews. Less than before. Why make room for these latecomers? And some people standing in the isles shuffled about in slight embarrassment while some moved a few feet farther back into the church. Trying to move away from, and trying not to further offend the priest by their unorthodox presence of standing. Some people seemingly did not know the rules of the church, holiday worshipers they were.

     Young Father Shaleau continued with the Mass. And during the Offertory, he stopped the Mass once more. And tried to explain to the parishioners, he said pontifically, "This is the Bread of Jesus!" and he waited for total silence, then he added, "Will those standing, please kneel." And he waited for those people standing in the side isles, and the people in the back of the church; he waited for them to kneel! It was, get on your knees, please. This is the Bread of Jesus.

     Mom genuflected, putting one knee to the floor. Dad shuffled embarrassingly. He had previously refused a place to sit and choose to remain standing in the side isle. A place where he could see and be seen. But the situation had turned. It was not for the parishoners to see and be seen. This night was for the priest, and the Host; the Bread of Jesus!

     Dad was being seen, but under poor light. He was being viewed as a latecomer. A holiday worshiper. A person who didn't completely know the protocol of the Church. And some parishoners turned in their seats to look. Dad was a guest that was out of place. And he had had a couple of drinks. One last, or one very last. He was a holiday worshiper with holiday sprit and it slowed his perception. Within a moment or two he realized that the priest had indirectly addressed him. Dad reached down. He grabbed the crease of his neatly pressed blue pin striped pant leg, and then slowly, genteelly, he genuflected, putting one knee to the floor and kept it there. Dad did it with all the grace that could be garnered for the situation. And it had a somewhat sobering effect upon him.

     More was to come. This still being the Offertory of the Mass, the priest continued. He held up the Bread of Jesus, then the Chalice, the Wine of Jesus. The Blood of Jesus. It being the Offertory of the Mass, assistants walked down the side isles armed with long handled wicker baskets. It was to take the offerings (money) from the parishoners.

     The congregation came alive with movement. People reached into their pockets for change. They pulled out their billfolds. Women reached into their purses. They reached for money. It was contributions for Jesus. Contributions to the Church. And since this was Christmas, the offerings will be a little bit more than usual.

     Dad conferred with Mom. He had nothing smaller than a twenty. Did she have anything smaller? A five? Okay, then a ten? No she didn't. How about a few dollar bills. No, Mom didn't have any money on her. But Dad had nothing samller than a twenty. It's too much money said Mom, even for Christmas. But it wasn't that. Dad had been made to look small before the congregation, these people. He was one of the last to kneel. And he kneeled at the command of the young priest. A big offering of money would make him whole again. A twenty! Yes. That would do it. It would be an over offering. It will make up for the slight.

     No. It's an exorbitant amount thought Mom.

     The wicker basket comes round and Dad tosses the twenty into it with not so much as a blink of the eye. There! It is but a peice of paper; and after all, this is Christmas. So, Dad got back some self respect.

     Well, that did it for Midnight Mass. We didn't go the following year. And it was some time later that Mom gave me advice, 'Don't kneel before any man.' Advice that I should have followed; because, little did I know that I would kneel before a pervert and be whipped. So, I had been thoroughly prepared. I had learned how to kneel. I had been whipped. I had been slapped in the face by Dad. I had been taught good. Father to son. Jesus Christ had I been taught good. Goddamn! I am one obedient son-of-a-bitch.

 

     So, the door re-opened and Brother Claver came back into the little utility room. The room with nothing but a pail, a mop and me; with a window showing part of the back yard. Brother Claver closed the door behind him, and he quietly locked it with his key. He turned to me and commanded, "Get On Your Knees!"

     Get on my knees!? What for? And I balked. I raised up on my toes, coming almost face to face with him: the old man. Brother Director slipped his hand beneath his black robe and slid out a dark brown leather strap. It was about eighteen inches long. It was a barbers strop, used for sharpening straight edged razors. But this leather strop had half inch serrations cut into the end. Small stubby bobs of leather. More to hurt young boys.

     He wants me to get on my knees so he can whip me with that strap!!!

     I can fight him.

     I can block every blow. I can counter every move that he can make. He's old. I can outlast him.

     "Get on your knees! . . . or, I shall strike you till you fall to your knees!" He said it so convincingly. So commandingly. Like he said it with all the authority of the Church and Brotherhood. He said it like angered Moses coming back down from the mountain. He said it like any evengalist speaking about sin and sinners! Fall to your knees! Repent!

     If I fight him, I will be expelled from school! I will be forced to run away. And he will call the police. The police will hunt me down. I will be caught and put in a police car. Then I will be brought back here to the school. He will call my father. Dad will come to the school. He will be angered and he will take me home. There he will hit me. He may even slap me in my face. Perhaps again and again. And after all that, I will be forced to go to a reform school. And I will have a record.

     In that second. In that ever so brief time frame. The question was posed: This school? Or, a reform school? I have to choose. Should I kneel before this vile old man and be beaten with a leather strap? Taking my punishment now? Or, should I stand. Block his blows, then wait to be expelled? I will most likely be beaten by Dad and then sent to a reform school. I have to choose. If I take the beating now; it will be over! But, to get on my knees! Damn! If I run away. Where can I go? I have nowhere to go.

     Because I had nowhere to go I chose the punishment to be given. Slowly I knelt. I knelt in front of that old perverted bastard of Jesus. I put both knees on the floor. I knelt before that pervert religious Jesuit bastard. That sick bastard of Christ Jesus. Goddamn that bastard religion. It was most degrading to me. Much more so than when I was whipped at Westall by the bitch principal. And there again I believed it was my father who had given permission for me to be whipped! My own Goddamn bastard father! Jesus Fucking Christ!

     "Hold out your hand!" commanded Frere Claver, "If you move, I will start over from the beginning." he said.

     I carefully listened to his words. This was no time to make mistakes. I must hold out my right hand, and not move it. If I move my hand, he will start over. And that, I didn't want to happen.

     He measured with the strap, holding it over my hand, holding it right front of my eyes, inches from my face. Oh! He wants me to see the strap before I feel it. He did it so deliberately. He had his arm outstretched, straight and stiff for dramatic effect. Slowly he raised his arm. He raised the strap in front of my eyes with a straight and stiff arm . . . like he was a Nazi. It was that straight stiff arm of a Nazi when they saluted Hitler; but this was a salute to Jesus. A salute to Jesus by a Jesuit. And with the straight stiff arm in an ever raising salute, on the end was his hand holding the object of dominance: a leather strap. So slowly he lifted it up and higher and higher till he was holding it over his head. He held it there and waited. He wanted to see if I was going to move.

     I didn't. I braced myself for the oncoming blow. And I thought once more, trying to imprint the words; If I move, he will start over!

     Frere Claver struck downward. He struck down with that same stiff straight arm, not having it bend at the elbow. It was for dramatic effect. I did notice.

     I watched the leather strap flash down. It flashed in front of my eyes. And it slamed into my outstreched hand. I barely heard the noise of the leather hitting my hand. Immediately! Very intense pain shot up my forearm to my elbow! I cringed. I wanted to double over. I wanted to cradle my hand. I wanted to blow soft air upon my injured hand. I wanted to move and push cool air upon my hurt hand. No! I must not move! He will start over, from the beginning!

     Despite the pain and shock, I didn't move. Do not move! Do not move! In a reflexive motion, my hand tried to close clawlike. Something like a shell fish being thrown into a pot of boiling water. I tried to stop any minute movement of my hand. At the same time I thought, Do not move! Do not cry out! He will start over!  

     Brother Director watched me. He carefully observed how I reacted. Whether he took any perverse enjoyment from my pain--I wasn't thinking of that. But did notice his careful cold calculating observation. I would notice that during this punishment. He could not say anything. I had not moved. I did not cry out. So, he could not start over. I had one lash on the hand, and thought I had four to go.

     Frere Claver redoubled his effort. He measured once again placing the strap in front of my face. Using the same tactic, the used that Nazi straight arm and lifted it, with his hand holding the strap. He lifted it before my eyes. Slowly and deliberately he lifted it. He lifted the whipping strap, and this time, to gain more power in his downswing, he also lifted up upon his toes. His black polished shoes flexed and I braced myself for the next oncoming blow. Once more I thought: Do not move! He will start over!

     Viciously he struck down again, and the leather strap blazed into my hand. Firing my skin. Again I cringed in pain. My body wanted to move concave. I wanted to cradle my injured hand. To gently sooth it. To hold it close to me. To hold it close to my stomach. Now my hand was burning. My arm tried to pull inward but I blocked the impulse. So much did I want to cradle my hand and protect it. I must not! Do not move. He will start over. Slowly and carefully I thought: Do not move! Do not move! And thinking so, my hand stayed there. Obiedently. Waiting to be punished. A quietness came upon me. And the pain diminished. It was something I had not experienced before. Then, I looked straight ahead. I didn't take notice of Frere Claver, his leather strap and his Nazi stiff arm. I didn't look at him. I wouldn't look at him or when he would hit me. I was in a strange double place. I was there, but I wasn't there. Like it was someone else being punished. The outstretched hand didn't belong to me. The arm held aloft, like it was not mine. It was like a slow motion play of life. Surreal. There was a delay. An unconnectedness. Time slowed. I knew what was happening, but seemingly it receded from harsh reality. It was a diminishing of time and place, and the pain diminished.

     As for Brother Claver, he had been defeated twice. This young boy had not cried out. He had not pleaded or begged for mercy. It seemed to increase the anger within him. The bastard Jesuit wanted the young boy to cry for mercy. In the name of Jesus, cry. Beg for mercy. In the name of the Blessed Virgin Mary, plead for mercy. Beg for forgiveness. In the name of all the Saints and Jesus Crucified, beg for mercy. Beg for mercy and forgiveness. Yes, the bastard Jesuit wanted a begging, babbling, sobbing, tearful young boy, kneeling before him slobbering out his heart. That is that what he wanted, wasn't it? He wanted to hear cries for mercy and forgiveness. He wanted total power over the young boy. He wanted the whipping to culminate in a babbling plea of tears, sobs, and promises of obedience. Yes it was uncontrollable babbling he wanted. Then he would lord it over the poor young penitent.

     But I had defeated him twice.

     Jesuit Claver measured again with the leather device. I watched him slowly lift the strap before my face with that same deliberate Nazi straight arm of his . . . Stop!

     And I caught myself. I will not watch him lift the strap before me. My eyes will not follow the lifting of the leather strap in front of my face. I will not watch. I will not watch him when he is about to strike me. I will not watch any more. And quietly, just as before, as if in a play of slow motion, I regained a disassociation and looked straight ahead. I became transfixed and stared blankly before me. It was enough. I could see the strap, that second, that instant before it would hit my hand. Within that split second I would brace for the pain: only minutely.

      Frere Claver saw me not watching, not paying attention to my punishment. He saw me not watching the movement of his hand, and he tried to break my concentration. He stopped the upward movement of the strap and moved it back down to my eye level. He held it before my eyes. As if; Watch boy! Watch the strap that is going to hit you! But I did not pay attention to him. I stayed transfixed. Not moving. I was told not to move.

     Then Frere Claver did something that boiled a hatred within me. It was a hatred that would set me against the Brothers of Jesus. What he did was . . . He jiggled the strap up and down in front of my eyes. Six inches from my eyes! He jiggled that strap in front of me. It was trying to break my concentration. He did it to make me react. He wanted me to react to the punishment he was going to give. So he jiggled the strap before my eyes. And me in a kneeling position; in front of that perverted bastard of Christ. He jiggled that strap! Its short cut tassled ends bounced minutely in front of me. Up and down. Up and down. It was done as a fisherman would do; jiggling a bait, or a boy toying with a goldfish in a bowl. That vile dirty bastard. Bastard of Christ; Queer of Christ.

     For a split second I looked up at him. From my kneeling position, I looked up at that vile perverted bastard of Christ Jesus with an anger pervading my entire being. Yes, he must have saw the hatred within me. How I hated that pervert bastard standing over me. How I hated the bastard school I was attending. These bastards of the Society of Jesus. This Goddamn bastard religion. My father; he's a bastard too. He, with the slobbering tears of a drunk, placed me within this bastard school. So this is what it is to deal with these adults. These bastards. They with their little talk--and my father was shown a report card stating that he was a man amongst men. (Duped drunk is what I would think.) Goddamn bastards.

     The feeling of contempt and hatred overwhelmed me. It focused on Frere Claver. I despised everything about him; his black robe, his bastard Crucifix, everything he wore and everything he represented, I hated. All of it. I hate all the bastard black robed Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The hatred extended to my father who sent me to this bastard school. The drunken bastard. He giving permission for me to be beaten. He was a drunken bastard.

     All of that within a split second, for it was only a split second that I had looked up at the black robed Director of Mount Saint Charles Academy. Then, catching myself once more, I looked straight ahead. I was resigned to my punishment. I transfixed my hand, mentally locking into position. It was an outstretched hand that was waiting for the punishment to come--then it will be over. Finished.

     Frere Claver did not toy with me further. He lifted the strap, waited a moment, measured, then he struck downward upon my outstretched hand. He struck downward with such force that his upper body overextended in an exaggerated off balance movement.

His upper torso, shoulders and head, bend downward, toward me, and the lower portion of his body, his rump, moved backward, away from me. It was like a bow, only his right arm, still straight arm, was pointing in a forty-five degree angle, almost touching the floor.

     The leather strap slashed into my hand and the pain erased all my thoughts of hatred in an instant. Only the pain in my hand I felt.

     Three lashes!

     Four lashes!

     Five lashes!

     Silently I counted every lash.

     The body movement of Frere Claver was one of doubling over and straightening up again; but, with the added touch of his arm swinging a leather strap.

     I didn't look at my hand. I looked straight ahead. I saw the pelvic movement of Frere Claver rocking back and forth with the motion of the punishment he was giving me. Brother's pelvic movement back and forth was in tempo with the punishment. In time with the leather strap moving up and down. Like a giant metronome! Attached to an angered Jesuit! It was a timed movement. Synchronized. The strap slashing down upon my out stretched hand and then up again. The pelvic movement of Frere Claver moving in and out, toward my face. I was kneeling before him. It was as if he wanted to sodomize me. Like he was getting a blow job. A dry blow job. It was a face-fuck. A dry Face-Fuck! Frere Claver continued, sadistically he whipped up and down upon my hand with his leather strap.

     He didn't stop at five, but raised the leather strap once more over his head. Inwardly I cringed and braced myself for more punishment, believing he was going to strike me ten times on each hand. Ten times! I'll have to endure it. I am not to move.

     I saw the leather strap hitting an outstretched hand. It seemed it didn't belong to me any more. The hand that was outstretched was not my hand. It was detached. Supported in mid air. Weightless. Somehow I could will it to remain suspended, immobile. The pain was reduced; and, it gave me a minute feeling of control.

     The whole scenario seemed to be a dream like sequence; the hand outstretched, the leather strap slamming down, the black robe, the pelvic thrusts toward my face, and above all, was the crucifix of Jesus swinging above, hung around the neck of Jesuit Claver when he bent down in his over swings. It was like slow motion. The pain became null. The hand shuddered slightly by the leather strap hitting it, but the pain was muted. 

     He stopped!

     Abruptly, Brother Claver stopped on the count of seven blows. (Praise be the seven Sacraments! Damn the seven deadly sins. Damn the seven Devils.) Frere Claver dropped his hand to his side. The whipping arm and hand with the leather strap. He dropped it to his side. I wondered why he had not struck me ten times; but, this was a Catholic school, so I did not understand. I remained motionless. I am not to move. Do not move. Wait. Do not move one inch. So I waited. I was waiting for instructions. Am I to lower my right hand and hold out my left? Is he to strike my other hand seven times?

     Frere Claver didn't say anything. He was immobile. Silent. It was like he was defeated.

     I waited and didn't look at him. Not just then. I stared straight ahead. One second went by. Two seconds. Three. Very long seconds they were. I was waiting for instructions. 

     Then I made a fatal mistake. Very minutely, from out of the corner of my eye--and I saw his hand by his side, holding the leather strap--very minutely, it was such a small movement. Just the movement of my eye, looking up at him. Me in my kneeling position; my subservient, submissive, obedient position. Minutely, small as it had been, I moved my eyes a fraction of an inch, barely in the time it takes to blink an eye. I glanced up. My look went up; from seeing his hand at his side, holding the strap motionless, I glanced up. And, with a look of question upon my face--oh yes, it must be my soft brown eyes, or, perhaps it was my youthful pubescent boyish look of innocence. It was a questioning look I gave Frere Claver: like, Is it over? Am I to hold out my other hand?

     But too late! It was done. In that instant when I looked up at Bastard Frere Claver of the Society of Jesus, in that one fleeting instant, I saw him defeated. He was momentarily undecided on what to do next. That pervert bastard Director of Mount Saint Charles Academy. He had been defeated by a junior grade student. A mere boy who would not cry or move.

     It was too late! He saw me looking at him, and he knew that I saw his failure. It enraged him to a new height of sadomasochistic angered violence. His face contorted in rage! That was when I knew it was too late. My glance, my innocent look, my boyish pubescence, all rolled into one; it enraged him. And his face contorted in anger.

     It enraged Frere Claver to a new level of fury. A new degree of evil. A vile, sick, perverted, bastard evil. An evil that seethed beneath all the prayers and Communion Bread, beneath all the bloody bastard Crucifixes and candles within the bastard chapel of that bastard school.

     Frere Claver went into an uncontrollable rage striking at my hand repeatedly. In a fury of hatred, rage, anger and resentment that would transfer to me and last all my lifetime. He struck and my outstretched hand with his leather strap.

     Seven!

     Eight!

     Nine lashes!

     He whipped down with the strap. He pelvis was now undulating back and forth. In and out. In and out. Before my face with every blow his pelvis moved in and out. It is an obscene, grotesque, homosexual movement. Like he was wanting to face-fuck me. To get a blow job. The bastard Jesuit of Jesus was moving his pelvis back and forth. In and out. At the same time he was whipping the Seven Devils out of me. Or trying. He was lashing at my hand with that leather strap. All the while, his face was a contortion of rage. Face-fuck. Arm up, pull pelvis back, whip down with leather strap; in other words, Face-fuck and whip! Face-fuck and whip!

     My hand went numb on the eighth blow. I felt no physical pain as he struck my hand for the ninth time. I became alarmed. I had no feeling in my right hand! He is going to damage my hand! Jesus Christ Almighty. Goddamn! He is going to damage my hand! Goddamn!

     I looked as the leather strap continued to strike my outstretched hand. There was no feeling! Nothing! Frere Claver continued whipping in his maddened frenzy, whipping my hand with the leather strap and wanting to shove his pelvis into my face. One after the other. One after the other. Whipping down then up with his are; then his pelvic movement: face-fuck. Whipping down then up with his arm; then another pelvic face-fuck.

     Ten!

     He's going to damage my hand! I cannot feel with my hand!

     Eleven!

     Twelve! He stops.

     It was so quick, so sudden that he stopped. Tweleve lashes! I braced for the punishment due to my left hand. The bastard doesn't hesitate this time. I don't have to wait, look up, or see his peverted contorted face of rage. I didn't have to see the bloody bastard Crucifix of Jesus that he carried proudly about him, hanging by a black cord about his neck.

     "Now hold up the other hand," he told me.

     Ever so slowly. Deliberately. In a detached movement, I moved my right hand down, and lifted my left hand. Placing it outstretched, palm up, before him. I braced myself and willed my hand to remain where it was, knowing it would be whipped twelve times.

     Praise bloody Jesus. Goddamn. Praise the bloody bastard Cross of Jesus. The crucifixion. There was no more waiting. No more teasing. No more jiggling the strap up and down in front of my face. In front of my eyes. The bastard of Christ, Frere Claver, didn't hesitate for a second. He got on with it and started once more with a full force of anger and hatred and his contorted face of rage. A frenzied face-fuck whipping.

     I transfixed myself, trying to see nothing. All the while the black robed Jesuit with the crucifix was before me, undulating his pelvis vilely into my face in a sick peverted homosexual movement. A movement that suggested repressed sex and frustration that fed his anger. And at the same time, the leather strap moved up and down, up and down, striking at my outstretched hand. The body of Frere Claver moved in and out, in and out. Face fuck. Face fuck. Back and forth. In and out. It was a sick perverted play of sadism. And that bloody bastard Crucifix! That bloody bastard Crucifix he wore--all the time, my hand was receiving pain, all the time, his pelvis was moving back and forth, that bloody bastard crucifix was swinging ever so gently above, looped around the neck of Frere Claver, the crucifix swinging idly. Face-fuck. Face-fuck. His pelvis moved toward my face. Away from my face. Face fuck! Face fuck! In and out. In and out, his pelvis moved. A sick perverted dry fuck in the face between a young boy starting puberty and an aged perverted decrepit old man. Jesus Fucking Christ! The crucifix swinging mildly above. Face-fuck. A sexually repressed celibate bastard of Christ Jesus. Of the Society of Jesus. It was to be a minor part of a curse that would follow me throughout my lifetime, causing me resentment and hatred to the bastard Society of Jesus, their bastard religion, and their bastard God.

     Ten!

     Eleven!

     Twelve lashes!

     Both hands! Done! Finished! It should be over.

     Frere Claver, finished punishing me, turned away, not looking at me, he said in a tight, high pitched voice, "You obey . . . " The goddamn words stuck in his throat. The perverted goddamn bastard, he must have had an orgasm! The sick perverted bastard mush have cum. He must have had a cream. His cup is half full? No. It is empty? Perhaps. " . . . the Brothers." So his words are, “You obey  the Brothers.”

     He completed the sentence in higher voice register and the words were barely audible.

     "Yes Brother," I high pitched squeaked meekly in return.

     I am to obey the Brothers of the Society of Jesus. Goddamn and curse their filthy bastard school. Goddamn and curse the dirty drunken bastard of a father that I have.

     He unlocked the door and I followed him out of the small utility room and went to the recreation hall to wait for the rest of the students. They would be coming downstairs for lunch in fifteen minutes.

     My hands were red and stinging, so I went to the wash basins at the far end of the rec hall and placed them under the faucet, turning the cold water on to full. Slowly I started to feel pins and needles, then heat, lots of heat. That vile perverted black hearted crucifix sucking bastard. I will later refer to the whipping as 'The Frenetic Face Fucking From Frere Claver'. It's so French, so Mount Saint Charles.

 

“Goddamn and Curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Church.”

 

“Goddamn and curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Eucharist.”

 

“Goddamn and Curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.”

 

     At the end of the month, I went back to Fall River, to Alan's house and asked his mother, Mrs. Manning, saying to her; "Visit my aunt Mary, ask her to tell my father if I could stay with Alan. I could go to a public school here in Fall River.

     She did that for me.

     Not only that month did I ask, but the following month also. Again Mrs. Manning complied, but to no avail. My aunt Mary would not stand up against my father, her brother. I was to attend Mount Saint Charles Academy. Some time later my aunt Mary told me, "David, you wait till you are out of that school."

     Advice that I should not have taken. But I was too young to follow any other course of action at that time. I was becoming a good whipping boy. A little bastard Jesus. I was almost a full fledged whipping nigger to be beaten on. A little white Sambo.

     Back at Mount Saint Charles, I was the bad apple. To the Brothers of Jesus, I was the bastard. In class my questions would go unanswered, and sometimes answered incorrectly. In the hallways, as I would pass the Brothers, some of them would turn away from me, showing their backs to me. I was being shunned. I was the bad boy. I was the stupid student. It wasn't the idiot bastard Brother Charles who didn't know how to teach class; it was the student who caused all the trouble in the classroom. It was the student that was wrong. That's how the bastard school was run.

     Of course the parents are not to give a shit. That is a prerequisite. So it has to be; bastard parents, bastard school, then the bastard Brothers of Jesus may do as they please.

     Because my classroom opposition against Brother Charles had something to do with reading school textbooks in class--from that time on, for years to come, the Brothers would indirectly remind me of my disobedience. If I would question about the school library being closed and ask for a book to read. Or, when the library would reopen, I would invariably be answered with something like, "Don't you have enough work to do with your school textbooks?" It was a hint that I could get more school work if I had any free time for reading library books.

     It was one of their ways of answering students, reminding the boy of some past disobedience.

     One time I was answered smirkingly and sarcastically, "What book is it that you want? Perhaps I can get it for you."

     It was words similar to those used by Brother Cyril when he was withholding the human anatomy book that I had wanted to read. The faggot Brother, a queer, was toying with me. Teasing me. Like I was a sex pervert and wanted the human anatomy book so I could look at the nude woman. Never-the-less, the end result was, the library would be closed to me for the next few years.

     Fed up with my wanting to get into the school library, a Brother flatly answered me, "The library is closed."

     At least I got a straight answer.

     Nigger.

 

     The eighth grade was reorganized. Brother Charles took one group of students, and another new Brother, Brother Stanislaus, had the remainder.

                         Richard Breault

 

     A few days after I had been thrown out of class, Richard Breault approached me in the yard. Breault was a few inches taller and some months older than I. He was a quiet student. Even out in the yard he was quiet. He would hardly laugh. A smile would be most of what could be gotten from him. He approached me with a quiet smile and wanted to play catch.

     We did. And he could throw a fast ball, and had a good curve. I was the catcher. Shortly thereafter, the time came to choose fellow students for an improvised Saturday game. I was given the opportunity to choose one of the teams. The first player I sought out was Breault. He'd pitch; I'd catch.

     The game was in its first inning. The opposing team couldn't come close to hitting the hot stuff Breault was pitching. A few more innings went by and he was pitching a shut out. Breault would throw his fast curve ball and most of the batters couldn't handle it. They'd whiff air. Batter after batter struck out or was called out.

     Then, the opposing team tried a new tatic: they started razzing Breault. They stood on the sidelines, making catcalls. They critiqued his every move, like; He can't pitch! He doesn't have a wind up! Look! He doesn't even have a wind-up! On and on the razzing continued until Breault had enough of it and wanted off the mound. He's pitching a shut out and wants off the mound because of the razzing he's taking from the opposing team.

     I couldn't believe it. He's pitching a shut out, and he's going to give up the mound because of the other guys razzing him. It was part of the game. So I tried to get our team to counter the catcalls. I tried to talk it up. But it was half-hearted from our team. They weren't interested. Breault's good pitching made for a slow game, and our fielders were standing idly about. There was no action. No one was going to hit what Breault had. The outfield was in the same stupor. They were standing out in the field waiting for the next three batters to be struck out. The only action we got was when we batted.

     Breault had the game in his pocket; but seemingly, this little razzing thing bothered him. When the catcalls and razzing started, he looked tight, tense. Still he'd strike out batters. He'd hunker down, take his time, and unload that difficult to hit fast, hot stuff. But inwardly he was taking a beating. In the latter innings he gives up the mound. We were far ahead enough to win the game. 

     Breault had that natural atheletic ability. In his eighth grade he was on our junior varsity hockey team, and the following year he quickly stepped up to varsity.

 

     At the end of the school year Breault and I were standing near the far-end backstop.

     "You coming back next year?" he asked me.

     "Yeah. What about you? You coming back?" I queried him.

     "Not as a boarder."

     "What do you mean?"

     "I'm going to come back as a day student."

     "You are! Do you live around here?"

     "I live in Providence. I'll be old enough to get my license, . . . then I'll drive to school.

     It was totally unheard of. Here's Breault just getting out of eighth grade, and he's going to come back here next year driving a car. I couldn't think of one ninth grader who had a car. For that matter, there must have been about ten or so cars total driven to school. And I don't believe many were student's cars--they belonged to their parents.

     "Are you sixteen?" I asked.

     "I'm not now, but I will be this summer."

     "And you're going to drive from Providence to here, and back?"

     He nodded his head affirmative.

     "That's a long way." I said.

     "I live on this side of Providence."

     That's was a laugh. Mount Saint Charles must be fifteen to twenty miles from Providence, and driving at forty, forty-five miles an hour would take the good part of an hour.

     "And you're going to drive to here and back every day?"

     "Yes, my father's going to buy me a car. He says it will cost less to drive to school than it is to board."

     I couldn't believe his good luck. I looked at him, he, with his fair skin and blond hair. He with his height, weight, and quiet strong physical strength. His light colored eyes--he's French. French Canadian. 

     "Will you be able to drive it after school?"

     "It'll be my car," he said, smiling quietly and then added, "as long as my grades are good."

     That being so, Breault could have his choice of many girls. Fair skinned blondes; tall and willowy. I quickly wondered what kind of girl Breault would like. Perhaps one his size. Maybe a couple of inches shorter. That would make his future girlfriends about five foot six, blond hair, blue eyes, with fair skin and soft. An all around cool looking girl. A steady. But there was a catch! His grades have to be good. Whew! For a car; I'd ace every test.

     "What kind of car are you going to get?"

     "I don't know. We'll look around and see what's available. It'll have to get good gas mileage."

     "What does your father do?"

     "He's a mechanic."

     "A car mechanic?"

     "No, but he can work on cars."

     I tried to imagine what his father was like. Did they talk father to son. His father's going to buy him a car! They must.

     "Boy, are you lucky," I told him.

     And he smiled again and we talked of cars. Fords and Chevys. Chrysler cars.

     But Breault, with his natural athelic ability, would have to get good grades, and it would bedevil him in the coming year. It would eat on his insides, just as it had on the pitchers mound. It would churn in his stomach as he would sit in Brother Gilbert's class. It would be as if Brother Gilbert, of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, was there just to foul up Breault.

 

     We had that little talk just a short distance from the back perimeter wall. Ah! That wall. It was ever present; cold and silent. It was there for every boarder, every day, sunrise to sundown. It was a cold arm of silence embracing the yard and us students. Protecting us young boys from whatever evil that lay beyond. Protecting us from the evilness of life and love. Of cars and young girls. Protecting us from the evil of dancing. Of walks along the ways and walks of towns and cities. The wall silently protected us. It stopped us from walking and breathing life. It stopped us from holding, living and loving. It stopped, protected us, from life and freedom. It was a silent inpenatrable wall; and sometimes, nearby, the feet of young girls would walk. Their young bodies moving beneath their cotton clothes, their dresses moving, and their long hair flowing.

     We were protected.