I started out my education in a Catholic school. My mother taught there, and my guess is that as a perk of her employment, my tuition was waived. Which is probably the only reason I could go there. At the time, my Dad was driving trucks for Canada Dry and – as stated earlier – my mom was a teacher. On those two salaries, we were not the family that was likely to bankroll a catholic school education.
It was called the Franco-American School. It was on Pawtucket Street in Lowell, Massachusetts, flanked on one side by a funeral home and on the other by a wide busy street. Behind it – one of the old canals fed by the Merrimac River. I remember that canal as a constant source of wonder and entertainment for me. Often times at recess or lunch, I’d find myself peering through the fence there at the edge of the play yard, dreaming about where that river came from and where it was going.
The school itself was a large brick and stone structure, seven or eight stories high. It served grades K-8. It had one or two outdoor places of worship. The smaller of the two was called the Grotto. It was a cozy place that could seat a class or two. It had various religious statues and icons placed about in a church-like manner. I am sure there was a crucifix but I can’t picture it. I only remember the statue of Mary. Maybe it was a Mary-specific grotto. The other area was not named but was a green and peaceful space that I think was meant to serve as an outdoor church. The back wall was Ivy-colored and several stories high. In front of that there was all the catholic stuff, an altar, the crucifix, etc. Looking directly at the altar, the wall to the right was tall and made up of wooden slats. It was painted gray and had smatterings of ivy crawling up its planks. The wall to the left was a fifteen or twenty foot tall chain link fence separating the outdoor chapel from the 100-foot drop down to the canal. The Ivy thrived on this fence, nearly filling it in with dense, knotty patches of green. There were only a few places along this where the fence was bare and one could see through to the river below.
The administration and faculty of Franco-American was a 70-30 split between nuns and laypersons. My mother was one of the non-nun types, which is good because I’m guessing it might have been fairly scandalous if she was my mom and a nun. To complicate things further there were two types of nuns running the place. I know they have technical titles based on what degree of vow is taken, or the religious order involved, but I’ll just keep it to what they wore. Some of the sisters wore the traditional habit. Usually gray and white, sometimes black. The others wore “normal” clothes. This was the seventies, though, so not that normal. One sister – who might run the place now – used to rock a fairly groovy vibe. She was one of the “Fun Nuns” as I called them, sporting a pixie-style haircut. I remember patterned polyester shirts (the kind dudes of the time would wear opened three buttons) with lots of browns, beiges and mustard hues. Her shirt would be closed at the collar, a simple golden cross on a humble chain hanging at the neck. Stretchy, no-belt flares were the pants of choice. Sensible shoes.
I assure you, I am not poking fun at anyone. My mother (and father for that matter) both probably wore the exact outfit outlined above on many occasions. I remember this sister – I think it was her – having a guitar. Maybe a Dobro or a National. Which of course I thought was cool. Looking back, I think this might have been a time of change and growth for the Catholic church. A time when changes or concessions were made to reach a changing population. This might been have right around the time the “folk mass” was born. If you wanna know what a folk mass is, try the Google. All I’ll say is that they made going to mass cooler, if possible, in a really hippie sort of way.
So there’s no real story happening here, just a lot of detail about a place that you don’t care about unless you went there or are related to me. That said, there will be a few words about a fight and bodyguards and enormous people later on and that might be worth your time. Might be.
I remember that the school had two distinct populations, boarders and day students. I know that I was a day student because at the start of every school day I drove in with my mom and drove away with her at the end. I think most of the kids in my classes were day students as well. I know that some of the older student lived at the school.
Before my time, Franco-American School was an orphanage (So I was sorta like an extra in a real-life version of Oliver!). By the time I got there, I am pretty sure that the program was in its waning years. The word orphan was never used. Boarders and residents were the terms I heard. And it only seemed to be the older boys. I know there were girls in this school, but I wasn’t really aware of them at all. My assumption is though, that there were also girl boarders. If there were boys, there were girls, right?
So I went to a pretty weird school by today’s standards. It was once an orphanage. It was dominated by French-Canadian nuns that spoke French and English and ruled with a swift swing of a ruler (yeah… ruled with a ruler – that just happened) aimed for the knuckles. There was a boys’ side and a girls’ side, and outside of class, separation was strictly enforced. Looking back there were probably a few good reasons to keep boys and girls apart, especially the older residents, but I didn’t get it at the time. After each class we (the boys) had to pair up and hold hands as we were marched down the hall and either up or down the stairs to our next class. Hold hands? What? It was for safety, right. Sister?
Recess was gender-biased as well. Of course we were separated. No boy /girl interaction allowed! And talk about gender bias – the boys’ side was hard and concrete and grey, all concrete and metal. The girls’ side (maddeningly kept from us by a 20ft chain link fence) was verdant and happy. It was always sunny over there, too. But in an urban, city-style way our side was cooler. It was the loft space I used to have compared to the suburbia where I dwell now.
One of the other places that the nuns would make us walk to hand-in-hand was the cafeteria. This was in a half-basement room, the kind with windows only along the top fifth of the wall. We sat at long tables, boys with boys and girls with girls. I swear this place was the prototype orphanage dining hall. We were forced to sit in silence. The nuns would prowl the aisles between tables holding large metal bowls of slop or eighteen by twenty-four inch trays of slop. To acquire slop, I would have to raise my hand. And then, like bats chasing a bug at night, the sisters would swoop in. Bam! Green bean slop. Bam! Watery mashed potato slop. Bam! Meat pie slop. All piled on top of each other, touching.
My policy is that food shouldn’t touch. No way. A dish with multiple, intermingling ingredients is fine, but two distinct foods, say spaghetti and sauce with salad, should not touch. And these nuns, these angry, sexless nuns had to push us around by slopping our slop on top of other slop in a sloppy, sloppy way.
It scarred me for life. Yet… I remember the meat pie as pretty tasty (you know, when the mutton was nice and lean).
The school had a wildly diverse population that only grew more and more diverse closer to grade 8. My mom’s classroom was a Benetton ad dressed in Catholic school uniforms. She taught eighth grade in the school. She was worshipped by her students. Which could’ve been awkward seeing how it was a Catholic school and the kids should have paying attention to Him. These were the days when smoking was allowed anywhere and encouraged everywhere. My mom would light up her B&H 100’s all day long and no one thought anything of it, except maybe to bum one from her after class.
There was a kid named Eric Reid in one of her classes. To me, Eric Reid was the largest African American in the world. He was in eighth grade at the time. Eighth grade is still pretty young, but I was pretty sure that he was a fighter pilot, superhero, doctor and more. When he came to my rescue during the one and only fight I’ve ever been in, I was pretty sure he was a guardian angel. It turned out, he liked my mom’s class and wanted an A.
So there I was, one recess or lunch hour, on the dark and gloomy and always cloudy boys’ side playground. I was bored with the jungle gym or monkey bars or whatever we called them. I wandered past the kids playing kickball, the bullies talkin’ Catholic smack and the swings. I avoided a clique of shiv-wielding altar boys and made my way over to check out the canal and daydream. I liked the movement of the water. The white, bubbling froth it offered up as it crashed over rocks or around bridge supports. I followed something in my sight line down toward the outdoor chapel. I found one of the few spots in the fence that were ivy-free. I peered through and stared.
That’s when Brian Cunningham decided he wanted a piece of this guy.
I don’t know what really happened. I don’t know if that kid antagonized me or just generally pissed me off by existing. Maybe he just interrupted my daydreams, the one bit of independence I got during a day dominated by crazy Carmelites. He likely said something normal that I then made shitty in my head.
“Your mom works here.” He said, matter-of-factly, because it was a fact.
“What… did you say?” I stammered furiously.
“Um… you’re good at school.” Also true, and subsequently, not insulting.
It was on, gloves were off. And this poor kid, who probably had a palsy or something and walked with those forearm crutches reserved for people who aren’t getting better anytime soon, became my sparring partner. But don’t worry about him. He was like Verbal Kint at the end of The Usual Suspects when he finally stands up straight and walks without a shuffle. We squared off. We shoved each other. There was minor mayhem and grunting. Luck intervened and I got a better position and then I was pushing him toward the hole in the Ivy, the place where I peered down at the canal just moments earlier. More vague anger followed.
And then two enormous, dark brown hands flew into my peripheral vision. Eric Reid. He palmed the top of my head and picked me up and moved me away from Brian. He did the same to the other guy. He scolded us, said the sisters were coming, be cool. He walked us back to the main play yard, just as two of the younger nuns were walking toward us hurriedly.
“Mrs. Farrell was looking for Shawn,” he said (heroically), “ I found him.”
The sisters looked at each other. Then back at Eric, Brian and me. They instructed Eric and I to hurry, that lunch would be over soon and went back about their business.
Not only did Eric save me, but he gave me a chance to see my mom during the day. We walked together to nearest stairwell and walked up the few flights of stairs to find her, smoking in her polyester and pixie cut, prepping for her next class.
We didn’t hold hands walking up the stairs, but I knew I was safe anyway.
