It was
graduation week. The rest of the boarding students had gone home for summer
vacation leaving only us seniors on campus. It gave the place an empty vacant
feeling; the yard was empty, the rec hall was empty, the whole building was
empty, the whole place--anywhere you went--it was empty. The true character of
Mount Saint Charles had appeared. After all the years, the true character of
the school was one of emptyness. We students languished for a while, taking our
t
ime adjusting to the quietness of
the place. There was no shouting, no hustle bustle, no crowding, no nothing but
us soon-to-be graduates off the leash of regimen. The day students who were
going to graduate were at home and would rejoin us for graduation ceremonies at
the end of the week.
To
ready us boarding students for the realities of the world, we were allowed to
go downtown. The six years when Woonsocket was a forbidden city had been
changed overnight.
Talk
in the yard is subdued. It's strange not being forced to study hall or chapel.
The horn is quiet. The whole place is quiet. I'm to see the last of it and
inwardly I'm pleased. The back road beckons. The drabness of the building, the
tall windows, the chapel abutment sticking out of the brick with its colored
glass windows, the door to the rec hall: it's all passe. The feel of confinment
is lifting, easing. I'm to be set free. A few more days. A few more days. I
savor the thought.
I'll
miss the guys.
The
wall. My wall. It's waiting, silently. It is behind me as I stand in the yard.
Only I know of its meaning between it and I. It is everlasting obiedient.
I'm
sitting on the curb with Pete Doliver. We're taking in the sun.
"One more week to go," I tell Pete.
"Yeah, one more week," he says in return.
"The class picnic should be pretty good. Do you
think some of the day students will
be there?"
"No. Why would they go to a picnic for us
boarders?"
"I guess you're right."
"I'm always right."
And
we laugh.
"Hey! We can go downtown! Let's go downtown this
afternoon."
"Yeah. Let's see if anybody else wants to go."
Paul
lines up to go with us. Pete has found out about a bar where we can be served.
I'm skeptical. That afternoon, just after lunch, we go to town; me, Pete and
Paul.
Paul's
a latecomer to Mount. He's smallish, quiet, of fair complexion and with blond
hair. He is deceptive in the mildness of his manner, for he can be quite
risque.
One
instance:
Another
student at Mount who lived near Paul's town knew of a girl who would give blow
jobs. He gives Paul her telephone number. On the month end, Paul calls her up.
They go out. Paul drives to the nearest park. "Come on," he prods.
The girl is hesitant at first, then gives in saying, "Well . . .
Okay."
I
couldn't believe it. "Just like that!" I question Paul.
"Just
like that," he tells me.
"Was
she good looking?"
"Average
looking."
Disbelief.
"Just like that?"
"Yep."
I
conclude that, not only have I been going to the wrong school, I've been living
in the wrong city.
So
we're on our way to town. Down the hill we walk, through a residential section
of Woonsocket and across the bridge, heading toward downtown Woonsocket. The
city has been off limits for so long it has an aura. (If you can imagine a city
like Woonsocket developing an aura: Imagine Mount. *)
Pete
spies the bar. It's just on the other side of the bridge.
I
don't believe it. I've just turned eighteen a few weeks ago and we get served.
Here I am having a beer in a bar and I'm not out of high school yet. Pete's
unfazed and guzzles his beer. Paul is drinking like a pro. I expect police to
enter and haul us all away to the local jail.
Pete
orders another beer. Paul and I pass. Pete chug‑a-lugs and we leave. Stepping
from the dark of the bar into the bright afternoon sunshine makes me squint. It
must be the beer and I look down at my shoes. I need to see where I am stepping
and to gain a righting perspective, and not to appear drunk.
We're
walking back across the bridge.
Coming
our way is a girl our age. She has entered the bridge's walkway at the opposite
end. The walkway is wide enough for about three or four people walking abreast.
It has an iron railing on the dropoff side, and on the roadway side there is a
small bump curb. Below is the Blackstone River, foaming a white yellowish froth
of water, chemicals, and urine that splashes upon blackened rocks as it weaves
its way downstream.
Paul
has picks up the pace and moves a couple of steps ahead of Pete and I. The
oncoming girl adjusts her walk and moves a little sideways to get out of Paul's
way. Paul counter's her move. She double counters. Paul makes a quick shuffle
as he nears the girl. He is almost upon her. The girl stops. Paul continues
foward and pretends to stumble. In his pretense of losing his step or
stumbling, his hands go up. Chest high. Paul and the girl collide, and Paul
steals a quick feel. The girl pushes him off and curses at him. Paul is
unfazed. The girl, highly angered, takes a swing at Paul with her purse. The
blow glances off Paul's shoulder as he had protected himself from the blow. The
girl continues on her way. She's miffed.
I
can't believe it. I look at Paul. I look at the girl as she passes Pete and I.
She walks past Pete and I not saying a word. Ten paces behind us, she turns and
blurts out a long list of profanities.
I
quicken my steps, passing Paul, putting some distance between him and I. The
way I look at it: First we're in a bar, underage drinking; Then I'm associated
with someone who's molesting a girl on a public sidwalk. Sheesh!
I
take a look back. The girl is well behind us, she turns again and shouts more
obscenities. I'm a good twenty-five yards from her now and still with lively
step I continue walking, but I can't help from laughing.
"You're
going to get us arrested," I shout to Paul who is trailing behind me some
nine yards.
Paul's
laughing.
"He's
nuts! He's going to get us arrested," I shout to Pete who has also put a
little distance between himself and Paul. Pete's laughing.
Is
it the beer? It is the freedom? Is it the end of school? What is it that has
turned everything upside down?
Uh
oh! Here comes another girl!
Where
the heck are they coming from? I brace myself and walk as straight a walk as
can be. It is almost a stifflegged walk. Almost a march. It is not too rightousness
because I have had drink.
The
next oncomming girl has entered the bridge's walkway, is thirty five feet away
and is closing in fast. She's our age. I continue my quick walk, continuing to
distance myself from Paul.
The
girl passes me first. I give her ample room. I must not be implicated. And, I
try to warn her. But my words come out somewhat lighthearted, mirthful--is it
the beer? "Watch out for him," I say, and point I to Paul.
She
smiles, passes me and says nothing.
From
behind me, I hear their footsteps shuffling. It's a repeat. I know it. It's a
repeat. I turn and look. The girl is pushing Paul off. She doesn't curse or
yell. She's silently determined and has pushed past Paul. I look at her and she
manages a smile. Under very difficult circumstances, she manages a smile. She
should have listened to my words. "Watch out for him!" But after it
has been done, she smiled. Was it to say, we hardly know each other; or, you're
so quick.
The
girl continues on her way. There is a building silence, then the three of us
break into laughter. The girl, now behind us, turns and smiles, which brings on
more laughter from us.
That's
fifty-fifty. If you ask one girl and then another, chances are fifty-fifty you
get what is wanted. All that has to be done is to ask. Thinking that, we walk
on our way laughing and pushing each other. Fifty-fifty, that's not bad odds.
Of course the introduction would have to be modified.
Wendesday
Pete
and I are talking out in the yard. Brother Phillip comes our way to speak with
us. But, what does he want? School is over. It's done. Grades are in. We're
graduating. What is it that he wants?
"How
would you like to go on a retreat?" he asks me.
"Where's
the retreat?"
"In
Manville."
"Where's
that?"
"Manville's
in Massachusetts, just over the state line."
And
I'm thinking it must be on the other side of Woonsocket. Woonsocket. It would
be a short ride or something.
"How
are we going to get there?"
"I
have a car."
I
look to the driveway but I don't see a car. There's no car around, but if he
says he's got a car, he's got a car. From here to Manville should be good for
an hours' drive. "Okay," I tell him.
"Good,
I'll see you tomorrow at nine o'clock." He says and tries to leave.
Wait
a minute! Wait one minute. I was believing this was going to be here and now.
Not tomorrow.
"Oh
no I can't go tomorrow. That's the senior class picnic."
"But
you have to." he tells me.
"No
I can't." You didn't say it was for tomorrow. You tricked me into thinking
it was for today. Not exactly a trick. You mislead me.
Pete
leaves. He wants no part of this. It's becoming a confrontation between Brother
Philip and I. And I am not in a good position. I am still a student. I have not
graduated. Yet.
"The
Brothers have chosen you from all the students," says Brother Philip.
Me!
The Brothers have chosen me! Why would they chose me. I'm the student who
hasn't been to confession in years. The student who pays no attention when in
chapel. Who makes the motions half asleep. The Brothers have chosen me! Which
Brothers! I'm not on the best liked list. I'm the outcast. The untalked to.
Backs are turned towards me. I'm the nigger. I'm the one held in their
contempt. What Brothers? Who are they? They turn as I approach. The Brothers
have chosen me! Tell me their names to justify the truth of your words.
"No. I can't go." I tell Brother.
"It's
a privilege. You can't refuse." Brother Philip says it defiantly. He says
it as a Brother to a nothing. He is adamant.
A
privilege! A privilege to go to a church to pray while others are going on a
picnic? But there is no changing the persistence of Brother Philip. I agree
just to get away from him. He leaves and goes back into the school. And I watch
him walking, his heavy bulk encased in its black robe. He moves with the
authority of the Church and the crucifixion. He moves with all the practiced
persistence of repetition. Left, right, left, right. He marches back to where
he came from and will disappear within the motar, brick, pews and prayer.
Now
I'm stuck going on a religious retreat while the rest of the class is going to
the class picnic. The official retreat for seniors had come and gone; and I
didn't go on that. Maybe this retreat won't take much time. Maybe I'll be able
to get to the picnic or at least part of it.
The
next day I'm out in the yard with the rest of the guys idling about. Brother
Philip drives up in a black four-door. We say a few words. I get in the car and
we drive away.
"We
have two semimaries," he tells me.
"Where's
the othere one?"
"The
one we're going to is in Manville. The other's in Rhode Island."
"Let's
go to the one in Rhode Island," I tell him, thinking it's the closest one;
that way, if things get dull, you can drive me to the picnic.
"It's
too far away," he says.
The
seminary in Rhode Island is too far away and the seminary in Massachusetts is
closer? Just backwards of what one would think.
Over
an hour into the the ride, Brother Philip turns onto a private drive which
leads to a building. There is no one there. It's deserted. We get out of the
vehicle and walk to the back of the building. There's a plowed field, and to
our left, a stable. In it is a cow. We walk there and Brother Philip tells me,
"Wait here. I have something to do."
Then he adds, "You can feed the cow some hay as the time
passes." And he goes back to the main building.
He
has left me in a stable with a cow. And I'm to feed the cow hay as the time
passes; or, to pass the time. All this while others in the senior class are
having a picnic. That bastard has left me isolated. I'm in the boondocks with a
cow and I'm to feed it. And this is a retreat?
I'm
thinking Brother Philip will be gone for a few minutes; five, ten, no more. A
half an hour passes. I feed the cow some hay. The animal is lying down and
doesn't get up. It takes the hay and eats. It eats and looks at me with those
big brown cow eyes. Munch, munch, munch, it chews. So I feed it some more hay.
On and on it goes; me feeding the cow, the cow eating. It looks as if I'm
supposed to hand feed it. No! I'm supposed to be on a class picnic with the
rest of my senior class.
An
hour passes. I'm becoming impatient. Where's Brother Philip? I've fed the cow
handfull after handfull of hay which it eats and eats. It could eat all day and
not tire of munching, chewing and eating. I tire of feeding it. I'm supposed to
be at the picnic. I supposed to be there and maybe do a little swimming, or
playing around and joking. It's supposed to be the big day for the senior
class; but no! I have a privilege. This is supposed to be special. Some
privilege. I'm out in the boondocks, on a farm with no one about. There is one
cow that eats and eats. There is a plowed field with nothing growing. And
Brother Philip is somewhere inside the building--problably praying. That's what
he's probably doing. Praying. He's probably praying for my soul. No. He's
probably praying that I will enter the religious life and become a celebate.
I
step to the threshold of the stable. It is now late morning and the sunlight
shines heavily upon the shed. I squint my eyes and look over the field. At the
far end there is a cluster of trees. Behind the trees I can just about see the
outline of a building. Are people living there? Is there anyone else other than
me out here in this emply place? To my right and left is the emptyness of the
country and the dry uncropped grass and clumped dirt. There is nothing here. It
must be nearing lunch time.
Eventually
Brother Philip comes toward the stable with a tunafish sandwich for me to eat.
Great! It's my special senior day picnic meal. It's a privilege meal: a tuna
fish sandwich with mayonaise. Nothing to drink. (Like the man in hell, he looks
up to Jesus and begs, "Water! Water!" But not one drop of water was
to touch this man.)
"Oh,
I forgot to bring along a drink," says Brother Philip, "you don't
mind do you? . . . I could go and get you a drink of water . . . there are some
dixie cups in the kitchen. It would only take a minute or so."
"No,
that's okay," I tell him and think, I don't want you running off for
another couple of hours just so I can get a swallow of water or two. I've seen
enough of this plowed field and stable--and the cow that can eat from sunup to
sundown. There is nothing around here. It is isolated.
I've
just about finished my sandwich when Brother Philip remembers something else he
has to do. He quickly turns and walks out of the stable and I'm left stranded
again. It is the same setting. The same senario. It is absurd. Here it is in
the afternoon and I'm still in a stable with a cow and Brother Philip is off
somewhere--I don't know where.
Thirty
minutes later I step out into the yard for a look around. No Brother Philip. No
one about. Not a soul. I don't wander
far. A little to the left, to the right. This is no place. It's the boonies,
this out stable, this out building.
Perhaps
my moving about has roused Brother Philip and he reappears. It's over four
hours into the day of my senior class picnic. It's wasted. I'm ready to leave.
I
walk with Brother Philip to the building. Two seminarians, novitiates, or
beginners, are inside. They are sitting near the window where they can be seen.
As we near the building Brother Philip waves to them. They wave back and smile.
I think it is so much window dressing.
"Let's
go inside," I say.
"They're
studying in there. We don't want to disturb them," replies Brother.
"Disturb
them? How could we disturb them? By entering the building? So I take it, the
building is off limits. Is that what you're trying to say? I've come here on a
retreat and I'm not to enter the building!? What kind of retreat is this? We
don't want to disburb them in their studies? What am I doing here in the first
place? Why did you bring me here?
"Well
let's go," I tell him. I've had enough of this retreat. This out building
in this out place. I've had enough of it. You can take me back to the school or
the picnic.
"One
minute, I have a phone call to make." And Brother reenters the building. A
minute later he's back. We're ready to go. Now this is more like it. Now we're
moving. And all I had to do was tell him, "Let's go."
My
senior class picnic traded for a sandwich, a stable, and a cow. The day is
ruined. We get into the car but before Brother starts the ignition he asks,
"How would you like to study here?"
The
absurdity of his question--it's unbelievable! He wants me to go from Mount
Saint Charles to this place! A seminary! That's absurd. I haven't seen the
outside of the wall in six years and he wants me to enter their religious life.
He wants me to go into their seminary! Become a Jesuit Brother! That's absurd!
It is a life of no women, no girls, no nothing. He wants me to wear all black
and to walk around with my head bowed. He wants me to get on my knees and pray
everyday. He wants me to live a life cloistered, within a building of brick and
stone, with religious statues made of plaster of paris. He wants me to pray in
a chapel, to hide behind stained glass windows, admist candles and frilly white
linen. He wants to hang a crucifix about my neck.
All
the anger and resentment that had been building within me just this past four
hours tries to come out. I stifle it. I haven't graduated yet. But I want to
scream in his fat complacent face. My words come out louder than usual and
somewhat shakey, "My father has no more money!"
This
is not the school gymnasium and it is not the school play where those words
were said by the portly bartender, played by Delli Bovi. "It's all gone!
There is no more money!"
Yes,
it brought a round of laughter from those watching the school play. And it was
a parody of my father, the portly bartender. He said those words to this very
person sitting in the drivers seat asking me to enter their religious life. It
was this very same Brother Philip who had gone to the Drake bar and Grill in
Fall River Massachusetts to get money from my father. My father said,
"There's no more money!" And thus started a serious religious queer
to my father's places of business. It was a curse upon his business. It was a
religious curse by the catholic religionists who sent deadbeats and trouble
makers to my father's places of business to make sure there would be no more
money. And for the bastards to parody the situation in one of their school
plays . . . and they put it in one of their yearbooks--was that for my father
to see? To piss him off. So it was with controled anger that I almost shouted,
"My father has no more money,"
Does
he remember? Does this bastard remember? He doesn't respond. His deadpan face
looks straight ahead and he starts the car. We drive out onto the blacktop and
head back the way we had come. Then Brother Philip says something equally
astonishing, "I can get you a scholarship," says he.
You
can get me a scholarship! You've got to be kidding! A scholarship? Sure! With
just about enought money to lock me up in another one of your institutions, and
with no money in my pocket you will want to keep me in a seminary with a piece
of bread, a glass of water and a book. He wants me to look like one of his
yokels sitting in the window and smiling! All I have to do is enter. He wants
me to lead a life with no girls, no social life, and the Society of Jesus will
pay my tuition.
Again
I stiffle the urge to shout in his fat nonpulsed face that is intently watching
the road ahead as he drives. Oh so smoothly does he drive.
"I'm
going in the Air Force," I say in a barely restrained voice.
Brother
Philip says nothing more. We ride in silence. For six years they have given me
all the crap they could, right up to this very day. It's the last two days of
the last week, and they haven't given up yet.
In
due course we pull up into the school grounds and I get out of the car. I take
the moment, holding the door open, and I tell him rather sarcastically,
"Thanks for the ride."
He
says nothing. He just sits there. They're trained to do that. They're trained
to be expressionless, non feeling, non pulsed. They pray every day in that same
non feeling manner. They teach school the same way, non feeling, monotonous,
droning. They are the non living, the dead. I slam the door shut; on him, the
school, their life, everything the Jesuits mean or don't mean. The whole
religious bit, I slam the door. I am to be set free tomorrow. There is no
denying that.
The
wall is waiting for me. My sweet wall. It is going to open for me tomorrow. The
lock will be broken. All these years and now I'm to take my long awaited walk
to freedom. One more day.
The Setup
I
don't remember exactly who first spoke of it, or what it was all about--only
that there was to be a communion. It was sort of special because it would be
the last communion that we as a graduating class would share together. That's
sort of the way it was put. To me, one communion is like any other communion.
You go to chapel and there is communion. But this communion was sort of
different and it caught my interest. So special was this communion that all
graduates were invited to attend: daystudents and boarders alike. And the
difference between communion and breakfast communion was diminished. It was all
blurred into one.
I
don't remember which one of the Brothers explained it as such--it could have
been Brother Walter, Brother Elexsis, but it was impressed that we soon-to-be
graduates should attend this one last chapel mass.
I
wanted to find out for myself. What was it that was so important about this one
last mass? So, I was prompted to attend chapel one last time. What could thirty
minutes more in the chapel mean to me. I had put in hours upon hours in the
chapel. I would go to this one last mass. I would not receive communion, but I
would attend the breakfast after.
It
was a setup, a preset. I was looking for something that was going to be
special; and, the difference would be there for me to see.
Brother
Walter would take part in the religious services; he would place a curse on me:
directing a curse at me. It would be a religious curse. Ecclesiastical.
Friday
Graduation
day was out of the ordinary to begin with. It was the culmination of years of
study, school, day to day sports, filing upstairs to the study hall, back
downstairs to recreation. It was years of chapel, breakfast and school. Years
of it. Today would be the end and the beginning of something new.
No
one was tardy when the lights were switched on in the dormitory that morning.
We dressed, washed and went down to chapel as always. There were no lines or
assembly. We marched straight to chapel on our good time. This was our day. Our
last day at Mount and everybody knew it. We had earned it. Even the slow students;
the troublemakers, the jokers. All students. Every one of us had earned this
day in their own right.
In
chapel, I sat in my seat relaxed, passing the time, waiting for the start of
the last mass I would attend at Mount. I looked about. Not one day student was
here. Pete was right. There would be no daystudents at communion. Probably not
at breakfast either, so what was the big deal? What was so special?
Then
came a little something out of the ordinary. It would be a religious curse.
This was the chapel and Brother Walter was of a religious order: the Society of
Jesus.
It
happened before the start of mass; Brother Walter, who was one of the
attendants to assist the priest for mass,
came out of the side door within the altar area. At first I thought he
was going to light the candles for the mass, but he was carrying no implement
to light candles. He came round to the
front of the altar, and at the altar rail he opened the door-gate dividing the
sanctuary from the congregation portion of the chapel. He walked out of the
altar area leaving the altar rail door-gate open.
It
was immediately obvious: Brother Walter had his mouth wide open!? Wide. Open.
He didn't shut his mouth; nor, did he cover it, as would be proper. It was as
if Brother Walter was going to accept something into his mouth that was so big
that he had all he could do to keep that mouth of his wide, wide open. It was
totally out of place; but, Brother Water was in his proper place: the chapel.
So,
with his wide open mouth and a half smile at the corners of his lips, he walked
to the right side of the chapel, up the isle, past me and the other seniors and
to the back of the chapel. As he walked he looked as if he was searching for
someone. Yet, all the time he had his mouth wide open, and did not shut it for
one second.
He
walked to the back of the chapel and shortly he returned via the main isle.
Coming back to the front of the chapel he went to the altar rail, through the
opened door-gate, locking it behind him and he exited the alta area from whence
he came.
It
was an encirclement.
What
Brother Walter had done was strange. I didn't understand it at the time. It was
out of the ordinary. It was a curse. A religious curse. And many years later I
would understand it. I would understand where it came from. Who did it. I would
know when the curse manafested itself, and when it did; I would curse back.
I
would curse Brother Walter. I would curse him and the other Brothers. They who
prayed for me. They who wanted me to go on that last religious retreat. By
myself. A retreat where I would be isolated, out in the boondocks with nothing
to do but feed a cow some hay. But no. It was said it was a previlege. I
couldn't refuse. Out of all the seniors, I had been chosen. Me. Deuce! So, I
would curse them back.
There
are people who don't believe in curses. Maybe in the later years of their lives
they may take another line of thinking upon the matter, because, usually, with
many years of living and experience gaining knowledge; then, with the approach of death the facade of
false knowledge fades. All the years of denial and ignorance can no longer be
held in check. Barriers quickly fall, psychological repression is removed and
with the removal the bareness of truth prevails.
Many
years will pass; over twenty-five, nearly thirty years that the curses will
operate against me. So, there are two curses associated with and against me;
the first curse by priest Shaleau, the second by Brother Walter. Some
similarities in common:
Both
curses against me were done by Catholic religionists: the first curse by a
priest, the second by a Jesuit Brother.
In
both instances I had been alerted that there would be something special: the
first curse that took place at a parish dance; it was said that the dance was
to be bigger and better than any sponsored by the adjoining parish of Saint
Michael's; in the second curse, word had it that the communion was to be
special.
Both
curses against me were religious curses performed by the clergy.
Both
curses had a symbol of death present: the crucifixion of Jesus. Jesus dead upon
the cross. In the first curse it was predominate upon the person of the priest;
he wearing the crucifix. In the second curse the crucifixion of Jesus was
predominate in the chapel as it is within any catholic chapel or church, and
again, the Brother of Jesus was wearing the crucifix about his neck. (The
clergy will say, no. The crucifixion is a symbol of life: the resurrection. I
say, as the subconscious sees it: the crucifixion is a symbol of death. Also,
in the first curse the crucifix was accompanied with the evil-eye. In the
second curse Brother Walter had his mouth agape. Aghast.)
So
the similarities were there: both curses were performed by the clery, a
religious curse; both curses had the symbol of death; both curses used a setup,
a preset, a reference that something special was going to happen.
The
breakfast following was good. We went downstairs to the dining room where
coffee and powered cake donuts were reading for our enjoyment. It was a good breakfast.
Later
that morning: We seniors are milling about in the yard. Graduation will take
place at twelve noon. Pete wants to downtown. He says we have plenty of time.
We head to the same place, a bar. I'm not up to a beer but it's Pete's choice
and I go along. On the second beer, I can't finish it, and give the rest to
Pete. He drinks it up and we head back to school.
It's
about eleven and the rest of the seniors are in the study hall readying for the
ceremony, putting their black robes on. Quickly Pete and I rush up the stairs
and into the study. There it is a scene of milling about seniors saying their
last good-byes. Pete and I melt into the group.
I
slip on a robe and I get a mortar board cap. Cellophane packets are handed out.
In it a red tassel for the cap.
Even seniors who were standoffish are now loosening up this last day.
"What's
this?" questions a senior.
"It's a tassel," says another.
"What's it for?"
"You put it on your cap."
"It's a feather in your cap," another jokes.
Time is getting near. We talk
nervously. Everyone is glancing over to hat clock on the wall.
Emmanuel
Provachi, class president for us boarders, calls out from the front of the
study, "Gentlemen. It's time."
With
those last words we file out of the study and head down the stairs, thru the
recreation hall, down another flight of stairs and into the gynmnaisum. As we
enter the gym, the parents and relatives seated stand and applaud. We seniors
are seated. Everyone sits and the ceremonies begin.
There
are speeches and words of praises. Then one by one our names are called and
student by student we get up, go to the center isle, and walk to the stage.
Individually, to the speaker we go, receive our diploma, shake hands and exit
the stage.
I
am seated. Waiting for my turn. Soon it will be over and I will be free from
this school. I take a look about. I see the people sitting on folding chairs,
men dressed in good suits, women in fine dresses. After six years. Finally.
My
turn. I enter the stage, receive my diploma and as I'm exiting I notice Brother
Director--the bastard who had whipped me, the bastard who I had not said a
word, who I now hate. He is saying something to a visiting cleric. They both
look at me as I am exiting the stage. I curtly nod in their direction. It is
out of spite, in spite of him, that bastard, that I have recieved this diploma.
Bastard. Bastards.
The last graduate receives his diploma. All the lights in the gym are
turned on. Parents and graduates merge into one big unorganized group. In the
crowd I find Dad. He's with my Aunt Cora; I was half expecting to see Aunt
Mary. Aunt Mary put forward the the money for our last year's tuition. It was a
loan. Gilbert joins us. Dad wants to leave. I want to say some goodbyes to the
other guys.
"They're leaving. Let's go outside," says Dad.
Outside we head to the grotto and take some pictures. Aunt Cora snaps
picture after picture using the grotto as a backdrop.
"Let's go to the front of the building," Dad says.
First
he wants to get out of the building. Now he wants to dally about and take
pictures. We walk to the front of the building, mill about and take more
pictures.
Dad
seems preoccupied. He is repeatedly looking at the building. Then he paces back
and forth. Back and forth. He stops, looks at the building and seems to be
upset about something. He tries to act defiant, like he's angry.
Perhaps
he feels as if he has been ripped off. All his money is gone. "There is no
more money." And this school: that's where the money has gone. They have
it. The Brothers of of Jesus have Dad's money and Dad's broke. Dad's now
selling used cars in a rinky-dink town in nowhere Rhode Island. Dad is pissed.
Teed. He doesn't understand the Brothers of the Society of Jesus. So, me, David
the Genius tries to explain.
"Dad,
they don't care," I try to tell himy. The Brothers of Jesus wouldn't care
if we stay out here all day. We can walk around, stare at the building, pacing
back and forth. They have your moneyd. They don't car. Look at the building.
Lood defiant. Stare at it all day. They won't car.
You
are angry?
They
will pray. They will pray to Jesus, for Him to comfort you. They will pray to
Jesus to have you leave their school grounds. They have Jesus on their side.
They are right. They are always right. It is a papal imprematur like situation.
That's the way the it is with these Brothers. You are upset: pray.
So
Dad's angry. He paid. But Gilbert and I paid too. I was whipped. Gilbert
flunked a year. Dad paid with his hotel, a bar and the attached apartments.
I've got a piece of paper (diploma) and a second rate high school education.
Gilbert was tolerated to the last year and was then shit upon in the school
yearbook as the class clown.
But
it should be remembered: the time when Dad bowed his head as some penitetant,
asking Brother Gilbert, "Father could you show me where the Director's
office is?" and then he went to Brother Director's office with a bottle of
wine. A present. It was to make amends. Well the amending days are gone and I
want to get out of here.
Times
have changed. Dad's money is gone. He's selling used cars. And he is not trim
and dapper any more. His clothes have a shabby edge. They are not as neat and
clean, not as pressed. It was years ago, Dad came down the stairs in the Drake.
The stair case creaking beneath his weight. He was still in the last days of
his prime; from his expensive grey hat with plum brim, to the bottom of his
highly polished wing-tip shoes. He was wearing a neatly pressed business suit
and had on a clean pressed and starched white shirt. Along with it a color
coordinated tie. His carefully combed and slicked back dark hair was stylishly
correct for that day. Dad presented the image of a sucessful business man.
But
time has passed. It is gone. Dad is a beaten man. He has been beaten by the
Brothers of Jesus. The Brothers of Jesus and his good old buddy priest Shaleau.
Pictures
are taken in front of the building. I'm to say good-bye to Mount Saint Charles.
Time is wasting. It's ironic. How can one waste time at Mount where everything
had been scheduled whether you like it or not?
Dad
acquiesces, we're going to leave. Gilbert and I go back to the building,
upstairs to the study hall, where we will leave our graduation robes and caps.
I'm
take one last look around. I'm ready to go.
This is the moment I've been waiting for. Six years I have worked toward
this moment. It is my exit from prison. White nigger boy Dave is about to walk.
I
tell Gilbert, " You go ahead. I'm going to hitch‑hike home."
"You
can't hitch‑hike home," Gilbert says, "it's graduation day."
What
do you mean I can't hitch-hike home? I've hitch-hiked home for years? This will
be my last hitch-hike home. It's the big one. My last to do at at this place.
"Oh
yes I can." I've waited six years for this day. Six years and you're going
to tell me I can't hitch-hike home? I've looked at that wall for six long
years.
I'm
irritated. Gilbert is telling me this is a special day. I can't hitch-hike. No!
What I'm supposed to do is, take a last look around and savor the moment. Then
I'm to casually walk out of this building and off the school grounds. I'm to
walk upon the back road. It will be my last walk from here. I'm to breath fresh
air; and, slowly, as I'm walking, I'm to look around and see how different it
all is. I will be free. It is today. Now!
"You
tell Dad." Gilbert says to me.
"Okay.
I will."
I'm
to walk out on that blacktop for the last time. My walk to freedom is moments
away. This interference from Gilbert, I don't like. They're supposed to go
their own way, Gilbert and Dad, and I'll go mine. For six years Gilbert has
gone his own way, so this last minute interference from him, I do not like.
We
walk back to the car where Dad and Aunt Cora are waiting. There is a new feel
to my walk. I feel the freedom. I already feel the freedom. No longer do I have
to answer to any of the Brothers of Mount Saint Charles. No longer do I have
anything to say to any Brother of the Society of Jesus.
Gilbert
quietly walks alongside. He has nothing to say of my equality, and he had
better not.
We
approach the car. I stop and say to Dad, "You go ahead. I'm going to
hitch-hike home."
Dad's
face drops. He's hurt once more. I don't usually hurt Dad, not openly. I usually
don't have the where-with-all to do so. But here, with Cora watching, Dad's put
in a position that all is not well. She is watching and doesn't understand.
"We're
going to get a little something to eat, . . ." Dad says somewhat
embarassed, "I don't have enough for dinner . . . some ice cream maybe, .
. ."
So,
the feeling is, Dad doesn't want to let on to Aunt Cora what a hell hole of a
place this has been to me. I feel sorry for him. He's been throught the mill,
just as I have--but the wall. My wall. It's a stones throw from where we're
standing, a mere fifty feet. I can see it out the corner of my eye. I can see
the back road. There is the footpath alongside the road. The footpath that
inclines, and will lead to the outer residential area of Woonsocket. I see the
baseball back stop of the junior section.
Dad's
hurt and I go along with what he wants.
I'm
to give up my cherished walk for a dish of ice cream. I've waited six years,
six Goddamn years in a bastard school. Six years for a dish of ice cream.
Aunt
Cora is wondering what this is all about. She looks at me holding up their
onward progress. If we're to get on our way, I'm to go along. Dad and Gilbert
are waiting for me too. Aunt Cora waits and doesn't have a clue. She doesn't
know the shit I've been through. Dad's doesn't want any bad secrets to get out.
Aunt Cora's husband is Dad's brother, my Uncle Manny. Manuel Faria. Protocol
doesn't allow me to tell Aunt Cora, this is a shit school. I've waited six
years for this walk. But that's not true; I don't have heart or the guts
to tell Dad, You can have my ice cream. I'm going to walk and hitch-hike home.
It's
goodbye to my walk of freedom. Goodbye to my walk in the sunshine. Goodby
leisurly walk upon the foot path. Goodbye to my listening to the sound of
approaching cars. No side steping, walking backwards, holding my thumb out,
hand held low, looking cool. Goodbye to turning and watching the vechicles as
they pass by. Goodbye to the hitch-hike-shuffle. Goodbye overhead sun, green
trees green, birds singing. There will be no fair wind, warm breeze caressing
my face, . . . No! Keep your ice cream and tell Aunt Cora how I hate the
school. I hate this bastard school. I always did; always will. Tell her. Let
her tell Uncle Manny. Let him tell Uncle Joe. Uncle Dave. Tell everybody. I
don't care. It doesn't matter any more--and I
quietly get in the back seat of the Olds.
Okay.
I've given up my prized walk. In return, nobody is to say anything. It is to be
in silence. My last ride from Mount is to be just as it has always been: in
silence. That year, at the start of my eighth grade when you yelled at me to
shut up. Well, there was silence following that remark. So it should be on this
one last ride. We will all shut up and ride in silence.
With
everybody in the car, Dad starts the Olds and eases it onto the drive. We head
out toward the back roadway. Dad momentarily slows at the intersection of
private dirve and the road. He gives a quick look for traffic, and with a
smooth motion gives the car some gas, at
the same time turning the wheel. The Olds responds, the engine pulling the
slight incline. I take a long look at the school thinking it's my last look at
the bastard place. Slow down! We're going too fast. You're driving too fast! I
waited six years for this day. Six years of my life I have worked and waited
for this moment. I'm supposed to be out there walking on the footpath slowly
taking my time. The least you could do is drive slow. I'm supposed to be
walking in the sunshine, breathing fresh air and with the grass beneath my
feet, every step taking me farther and farther away from the bastard place.
You're driving too fast!
Now
half way on the back road, the portion of the road from which the school can be
viewed, I look over the top of the bleachers that sit within the senior
section; I look at the junior section. Fleeting seconds have passed; half of my
six years at Mount gone in a matter of seconds. You're driving too fast! It's
my day. This is my moment. I've worked for it. I'm being cheated. And quietly
Dad drives the Olds. This whole Goddamn place is one big cheat. I've been
cheated out of my education. Cheated out of my freedom, my social life. Goddamn
it. And I lean forward in my seat craning my neck to take my last view of the
school as it silently slides away. For six years I had envisioned myself
walking away, viewing the school at my leisure as I had done many times on
month ends, but this was supposed to be different. I was supposed to take my
time. My one last time. A time when I would never have to return. For six years
I had imagined myself walking away from the black robed Brother's of Jesus;
walking away from the study hall, the chapel, the double file walking to the
dining room. I was to look at the school and walk away from it all; away from
the nightly treadmill up flights of stairs to the dormitory; away from the
years of confinement; away and never to return. I want to shout at Dad, Stop
the Car! I want to get out and walk! Stop! But it would be too upsetting to
Dad; to Aunt Cora; to Dad's position within the family, of what little family
there is left. For a little ice cream, I'm being cheated out of . . . too late.
The school has quickly passed out of sight and I sag into the seat. Cheated.
No
one has said a word. Thank God for that. Six years of my life in a few seconds
and onward we ride. The rule of silence that had been imposed years before is
still in effect. It is only Aunt Cora who unknowingly transgresses the rule
from time to time, but soon, she too settles into the silence of the ride. This
charade will be over when we reach our destination and I get my ice cream
reward.
And
I think of the ice cream I'll have; it will be a Strawberry Sundae. That's what
I'll have. And I hope it won't be served in one of those stainless steel
goblets. I want it served in one of them fancy glass type of goblets. I want to
see the ice cream. I want it to appear more than it is. And I want big scoops
of vanilla and strawberry. On the top I want strawberry syrup, topped off with
lots of whipped cream and sprinkled with chopped nuts. And at the very top: a
marisknino cherry. Yes, that's what I'll have: a Strawberry Sundae.
Forty-five
minutes later: We're on the road that connects Fall River to Providence. Dad
slows the Olds and turns into a parking lot just off the two-lane. The tires
crunch on the gravel within the lot. We park in thre front of a small creamery.
Through the front window of the business I can see some of the people inside
who are siting at tables.
Dad
shuts off the ignition and sets the brake. Aunt Cora opens the passenger door
and steps halfway out, her feet just touching the ground.
In
that moment I think, It's over. It's finally over. And I let out a sigh of
relief, then venting my long held silence saying, "Six years in that
place."
I said it with relief, an exaustive
all consuming expense of my years of life. A pent up prison life. I am a
prisoner on longer. Six years. Six years of my life.
My
words freeze Dad. He hasn't let go of the steering wheel. He says, "Let's
not go in."
Aunt
Cora turns and looks at him questioningly.
"I
don't feel like having anything." Dad says and he restarts the engine.
Not
saying anything, Cora pulls her feet back and shuts the door. Dad backs the car
away from the building, swings the Olds in a semi-circle, puts it in forward,
gives it gas and away we go.
What
about my Strawberry Sunday? First I give up my walk for an ice cream. Now I'm
not going to get even that. Six years in that place and I don't even get an ice
cream. Not even a thirty-five cent ice cream. No whipped cream. No nuts. No
strawberries. No nothing.
The
Olds rolls over the gravel of the parking lot and onto the blacktop we go,
continuing to ride in silence. It's the same silence of six years driving to
and from school. It's my silence. That's all I have left, and that too will end
when we get home. This is the last ride to or from that school. Good.(1)
(1)Many
years later my view of those six year will be much harsher.
*
My remark about the city of Woonsocket should be considered in the time frame.
Later I will visit cities as Paris, London, New Deli, San Francisco, New York;
much larger cities than Woonsocket. So, the remark is out of place, but it
should give the reader some feel of the narrowness of my life and the confines
that I endured in those earlier days.
