Mr. Montecarlo, whom we met last time, was not just a teacher at St. Francis High, he was also the faculty advisor to the Model Congress club at the school. Oh, and profanity spoiler alert on this one. There be some cursing. Read something else if that's a problem.
Being a super duper cool kid (irony), I was in the Model Congress club. Let me take just a moment here and address the fact that Model Congress is not considered a "cool" high school activity. St. Francis was an all-male Catholic school. Br. Willard, the principal, worked tirelessly to keep us out of contact with members of the opposite sex. Model Congress meant getting to go on a weekend trip to other cities and stay in a hotel with not only your own friends from school, but other high school students from lots of other schools, many of whom were girls. Have fun on the basketball court with the other guys, "cool" dudes.
Anyway, Mr. Montecarlo (or Monty, as he was often called) was constantly full of sage advice for his young charges. We already covered some of that advice in the previous post. A piece of advice that didn't get mentioned yet involved dicks. Yes, that's right, dicks. Like, slang for the penis. You see, Monty was very concerned that we practice, practice, practice for the Model Congress sessions (no, they were not held at Carnegie Hall). He wanted us to make sure we knew our stuff backwards and front. Why?
"So you don't wind up sitting in front of the room with your dick in your hands."
Oh. Good advice. Do not hold your dick. But later, Monty congratulated a very successful Model Congress weekend (Best Delegation award, what?) with the following summary:
"You guys walked out of that room with your dicks held high!"
Oh. OK. So holding your dick is good, as long as it's held high. Thanks for clarifying. So there you have it. Anyone reading this with a dick, or with ready access to one, do not hold it unless you hold it high.
Speaking of dicks, nearly everyone on the Model Congress trips got a little closer to a full view of Monty's Carlo each conference. The reason for this is not sketchy, just kinda gross. You see, Monty was a runner. On Model Congress weekends, he would volunteer to wake any delegates up early that wanted to go running with him bright and early, before our morning meet-ups. Monty and whoever else would go off for a run and the rest of us would wake up and stumble to the hotel room that the club officers were staying in to meet and touch base for the day. (We also had similar meetings to these at night to recount the day's events). Monty and his dedicated running fanatics would then show up fresh from their run to chat.
Monty, when running, dressed appropriately for running. His appropriate running attire consisted of a t-shirt and unbearably small short-shorts. When standing, they were short. When he would prop one leg up on the TV while talking to us all, they were beyond short. They were obscene. Perhaps it was a clever ruse to make sure we were paying attention to him and not looking at the TV, which was too close to the danger zone. This would make sense.
This would make sense because at the nighttime meetings, usually the TV would be on while we were talking, although muted. Here are some facts about hotel TVs, at least the ones at the hotels we stayed at. Hotel TVs carry HBO and other premium channels (at least they did at the turn of the 21st century). Here is a fact about HBO and other premium channels. Sometimes at night they carry soft porn. More than one meeting consisted of a clever Model Congress officer manning the remote so every time Monty wondered just what was so interesting on the TV behind him, he would look and see something innocuous like a muted Simpsons episode, not muted boobs.
All good things must come to an end, and the days of Monty getting to run the Model Congress show all by himself was no exception. A history teacher who started my sophomore year that most of us found annoying as all hell, Mr. Haystack, wanted in on the action. So he did what he needed to do to make himself the assistant faculty advisor or whatever for the club. Monty tolerated this. He gave Mr. Haystack zero responsibilities and basically just had him sit around and feel important. When we went to a Model Congress conference in a relatively nearby city, Mr. Montecarlo didn't even care that Mr. Haystack wouldn't be able to travel along with the group and would instead meet up late that night. The plan, by all accounts, was for Mr. Haystack to show up, head up to Mr. Montecarlo's room, knock, and crash there for the evening.
Around midnight, Mr. Haystack walked down the hotel hall and knocked on Monty's door. Several ear-witnesses confirm that Mr. Haystack repeatedly knocked and asked to be let in, only to be repeatedly turned away by a muffled "GO AWAY!" or "GO THE FUCK AWAY!" My good friend Graham Robot opened his door to see what the commotion was all about. Mr. Haystack saw him and said "Oh! Graham! Let me-" but was cut off by Graham closing his door without a word. Mr. Haystack had to end up paying for his own separate room. Also, his car was broken into and his radio stolen, I believe that very night. If he was less of an asshat, I would've felt really bad for him.
Mr. Montecarlo hated most people. He hated some people especially more. But there were a very select few people that he adored. One of them was a student a few years older than me, and at one time the President of the Model Congress Club: Zack Cherry. Monty LOVED Zack. Like, mancrush loved. Zack could pretty much do no wrong whatsoever in Monty's eyes. To Zack's credit, other than getting kind of an inflated ego sometimes, he was usually a pretty cool guy who took younger Model Congress delegates under his wing and taught them how to be good delegates and act cool at the same time. Zack is important to the very end of my Model Congress experience.
At the end of my senior year, Monty had an end-of-year goodbye party at his home for his Model Congress students. Zack had graduated two or so years ago at this point. My friends and I came to the party. Graham Robot was there, Dan Hellion was there, Bill Alias... a bunch of good guys. We sat in roughly a circle in Monty's screened in porch room. Each time a new person would arrive, Monty would tell them about how Zack Cherry said he might stop by for the party. Most conversation with Monty returned to this point eventually that day. Time passed, we ate, and Monty seemed more and more distant and dejected. Finally, realizing Zack Cherry would not be showing up, Monty abruptly kicked us all out of his house.
"Well, you all probably want to get going now. Bye."
So ended our Model Congress careers and our time with that delightfully bitter fellow, Mr. Montecarlo.
PS - One time he bought an air rifle from a student to kill squirrels with and when a school staff member found out she put a stuffed squirrel in his mailbox with a note that said "don't hurt me!". The next day he brought an actual dead squirrel to school in a plastic bag and returned the favor in her mailbox. Not really sure how to have fit that one into the narrative. Probably the most fucked up thing I've ever heard of a teacher doing, barring, you know, actual abuse of a student or something.
Showing posts with label Dan Hellion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dan Hellion. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Tales from High School X - Mr. Montecarlo: Enter the Misanthrope
My high school faculty was full of characters. You've already read about Señor Golbez, Mr. Manicotti, and Br. Raygun (at least, you've read about them if you're not a new reader of this blog... check the back entries to catch up!). Tonight I'd like to introduce you to another educator, Mr. John Montecarlo. Mr. Montecarlo was a cantankerous old bastard who was probably not THAT old, all things considered. Mr. Montecarlo seemed outright disdainful towards any and everyone, at least to some degree, although with a few exceptions. This put him in an odd relationship with students. On the one hand, he usually seemed to barely be able to tolerate his students, especially if they said or did something he found stupid or just didn't like (He at one point referred to a student in his class as Joe McCarthy (somewhat deservedly)). However, he also couldn't stand the school administration and some of their bullshit rules and regulations. And he didn't really believe in censoring himself. This meant that Mr. Montecarlo was sometimes an antagonist to me and other students, sometimes an ally, and sometimes just amusingly miserable (he once declared that highways should not post signs of any sort because they are eyesores. Not just billboards. Like, exit signs).
Mr. Montecarlo taught Civics to Freshmen, AP Politics to Seniors, and he was the faculty adviser for the Model Congress club. I knew him from the latter two of those three roles. Mr. Montecarlo, as I said, didn't really particularly care about rules he didn't personally enact. Rather than have us bring some waiver forms home to sign for Model Congress trips, he would save time by having us trade slips with the person sitting next to us and forge their parents' signatures. I actually thought that was kinda fun.
There were, of course, certain rules Mr. Montecarlo did expect us to follow. I remember the meeting we had the week before a Model Congress trip where the club officers announced that Mr. Montecarlo had a few words for us. "Gentlemen," he began, "you are representing St. Francis High next week. The things you do will reflect on the entire delegation, and the entire school. As such, I expect you to handle yourselves in a way that will not embarrass all of us. Now as you know, this trip will put you in contact with students from a lot of other schools. Many of those students will be female. You may find this causes certain thoughts and urges to crop up. I warn you now, and you'd better pay attention..."
"...No fat chicks."
What a class act. Bill Drill broke that rule and was never allowed to live it down, and got a mention by name during the same speech the following year.
Mr. Montecarlo, despite his career teaching at a Catholic prep school and lanky build, liked to appear tough, in touch with the blue collar working man. My friends and I speculated at one point that he would, every morning, drive his hands into buckets of nails and coal to toughen himself up. He would, as noted above, use colorful language in front of students. His image as a caustic dick seemed to be a point of pride to him (not hatin', just sayin'). This sets the stage for an awkward encounter between Mr. Montecarlo and my friend John Gozer, who was himself a fairly masculine and no-nonsense guy (although not a dick, caustic or otherwise).
John was stopping by Mr. Montecarlo's room after a school day had ended to clarify details about an assignment. He had gone to another classroom first, and so mostly all of the students were out of the building or in other rooms (detention, extra help, etc.) by that point. As he walked into the room, he noticed Mr. Montecarlo's radio was on. Then he noticed what song was on. Then he noticed Mr. Montecarlo facing the blackboard, oblivious to John's entry, dancing and singing along in his bass voice to Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It?" It only took a few seconds for him to realize he wasn't alone, but those few seconds of corpse-like dancing were enough for John to log a classic moment away for future discussion with peers.
Mr. Montecarlo was not a big fan of my friend Dan Hellion. Their political views did not align, and Mr. Montecarlo didn't like that Dan would regularly stand up for himself and disagree with him when he felt strongly about something. The two of them had a relationship that could be described as mutually respectful yet antagonistic... they each knew the other to possess clever intellect and strong views, but they often found themselves at odds. Senior year in AP Politics, Mr. Montecarlo would often reserve his toughest questions for Dan, trying to catch him not paying attention. One day he laid a special trap for Dan.
Every day in AP Politics we would spend the first few minutes reading copies of the Boston Globe to find articles about current events or politics to discuss. One particular morning, Mr. Montecarlo instructed Dan to pay special attention to an article a few pages in. After the few minutes of reading, class discussion began. Mr. Montecarlo asked Dan what he thought of the article he selected. "It was pretty good, raised some interesting points," said Dan. "What did you think of Edwin Meese?" inquired Mr. Montecarlo, with a satisfied look on his face. The trap was set. "Well, I'm not sure. I'd like to see the full context of his comments, but based on-" Dan didn't get to finish. Mr. Montecarlo gleefully, smugly sprung his trap. "You didn't read the article, did you, Hellion? Edwin Meese is DEAD!"
Edwin Meese was not, and as of the time of writing this post, IS not dead. He is alive and well. He was certainly alive and well 9-or-so years ago when this event took place. Dan knew this. "What!? No he's not!" Mr. Montecarlo was taken slightly aback, and was certainly unprepared for other students to chime in. "Yeah, Mr. Montecarlo, he's alive." "Yeah, he's in this article." "Mr. Montecarlo, what are you talking about?" He had to backpedal pretty quickly. "Uhhh... must be thinking of the wrong Edwin Meese. Anyway, moving along."
Next time, we'll go along with Mr. Montecarlo on the Model Congress trips and see what kinds of chicanery occurred there. But until then, may your lives be full and long, just like Edwin "Ed" Meese III!
Mr. Montecarlo taught Civics to Freshmen, AP Politics to Seniors, and he was the faculty adviser for the Model Congress club. I knew him from the latter two of those three roles. Mr. Montecarlo, as I said, didn't really particularly care about rules he didn't personally enact. Rather than have us bring some waiver forms home to sign for Model Congress trips, he would save time by having us trade slips with the person sitting next to us and forge their parents' signatures. I actually thought that was kinda fun.
There were, of course, certain rules Mr. Montecarlo did expect us to follow. I remember the meeting we had the week before a Model Congress trip where the club officers announced that Mr. Montecarlo had a few words for us. "Gentlemen," he began, "you are representing St. Francis High next week. The things you do will reflect on the entire delegation, and the entire school. As such, I expect you to handle yourselves in a way that will not embarrass all of us. Now as you know, this trip will put you in contact with students from a lot of other schools. Many of those students will be female. You may find this causes certain thoughts and urges to crop up. I warn you now, and you'd better pay attention..."
"...No fat chicks."
What a class act. Bill Drill broke that rule and was never allowed to live it down, and got a mention by name during the same speech the following year.
Mr. Montecarlo, despite his career teaching at a Catholic prep school and lanky build, liked to appear tough, in touch with the blue collar working man. My friends and I speculated at one point that he would, every morning, drive his hands into buckets of nails and coal to toughen himself up. He would, as noted above, use colorful language in front of students. His image as a caustic dick seemed to be a point of pride to him (not hatin', just sayin'). This sets the stage for an awkward encounter between Mr. Montecarlo and my friend John Gozer, who was himself a fairly masculine and no-nonsense guy (although not a dick, caustic or otherwise).
John was stopping by Mr. Montecarlo's room after a school day had ended to clarify details about an assignment. He had gone to another classroom first, and so mostly all of the students were out of the building or in other rooms (detention, extra help, etc.) by that point. As he walked into the room, he noticed Mr. Montecarlo's radio was on. Then he noticed what song was on. Then he noticed Mr. Montecarlo facing the blackboard, oblivious to John's entry, dancing and singing along in his bass voice to Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It?" It only took a few seconds for him to realize he wasn't alone, but those few seconds of corpse-like dancing were enough for John to log a classic moment away for future discussion with peers.
Mr. Montecarlo was not a big fan of my friend Dan Hellion. Their political views did not align, and Mr. Montecarlo didn't like that Dan would regularly stand up for himself and disagree with him when he felt strongly about something. The two of them had a relationship that could be described as mutually respectful yet antagonistic... they each knew the other to possess clever intellect and strong views, but they often found themselves at odds. Senior year in AP Politics, Mr. Montecarlo would often reserve his toughest questions for Dan, trying to catch him not paying attention. One day he laid a special trap for Dan.
Every day in AP Politics we would spend the first few minutes reading copies of the Boston Globe to find articles about current events or politics to discuss. One particular morning, Mr. Montecarlo instructed Dan to pay special attention to an article a few pages in. After the few minutes of reading, class discussion began. Mr. Montecarlo asked Dan what he thought of the article he selected. "It was pretty good, raised some interesting points," said Dan. "What did you think of Edwin Meese?" inquired Mr. Montecarlo, with a satisfied look on his face. The trap was set. "Well, I'm not sure. I'd like to see the full context of his comments, but based on-" Dan didn't get to finish. Mr. Montecarlo gleefully, smugly sprung his trap. "You didn't read the article, did you, Hellion? Edwin Meese is DEAD!"
Edwin Meese was not, and as of the time of writing this post, IS not dead. He is alive and well. He was certainly alive and well 9-or-so years ago when this event took place. Dan knew this. "What!? No he's not!" Mr. Montecarlo was taken slightly aback, and was certainly unprepared for other students to chime in. "Yeah, Mr. Montecarlo, he's alive." "Yeah, he's in this article." "Mr. Montecarlo, what are you talking about?" He had to backpedal pretty quickly. "Uhhh... must be thinking of the wrong Edwin Meese. Anyway, moving along."
Next time, we'll go along with Mr. Montecarlo on the Model Congress trips and see what kinds of chicanery occurred there. But until then, may your lives be full and long, just like Edwin "Ed" Meese III!
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Tales from High School X - Br. Thomas Raygun, the Short-Tempered Saint
This entry will not be one anecdote so much as a collection of reminiscences about one individual who was an unwaveringly positive part of my experiences at St. Francis High. While most of my conversations about the school range from complaints about some aspects to bemusement with others, I have really nothing but positive words for Br. Thomas Raygun. Br. Raygun was a man of honesty, honor, duty, and kindness and he worked tirelessly for the good of the school and the students (and, following a brief hiatus working for his order in another capacity, continues to do so today).
St. Francis High was several towns away from my hometown, and timing the bus system to allow for extracurricular activities was tough from day one. Since my father worked in the same town as the school, we decided it would be easiest and cheapest for all parties if he gave me rides to and from school. The only problem was that my father needed to drop me off well before the school actually opened in the morning. He explained the situation to the school and it was Br. Raygun who helped us out. Br. Raygun woke up unbelievably early in the morning every day (we wondered if he ever actually slept at all) to start working on things in the school office. He said it would not be a problem at all to let me in to sit quietly and do homework, etc. in the office until the cafeteria opened or the morning buses arrived. For my part, I stayed reasonably quiet most mornings, although sometimes Br. Raygun would remind me about what color silence was (it was golden) when I would get too loud chatting with another student or two in a similar position as myself in the mornings. This was my initial impression of Br. Raygun: a hard-working, busy, kind man who liked quiet.
Br. Raygun had another side to him though, a side that most freshmen experienced first. Br. Raygun had what could be called "a temper." And when Br. Raygun got angry, something about his face and his voice put you in a state of mortal terror. I (along with my entire year at St. Francis) vividly recall a time our freshman year when we were too noisy at lunch while Br. Raygun had the misfortune of teaching a class just a thin auditorium divider away. For weeks he had sent requests over for our lunch period to please keep it down. One day, we had ignored this request for too long.
The lunch period was nearly over, and students were just starting to wander into the halls to use the restroom, clear trays, etc. Suddenly, one of our classmates, Ryan Bubcook (a short, funny guy with a high-ish voice) came RUNNING into the cafeteria shouting "GO BACK! GO BACK!" with fear in his eyes. Several paces behind him, moving with powerful, purposeful strides was Br. Raygun. Death was in his eyes. Steam may have been coming from his ears. I could not for the life of me tell you what he actually yelled at us next, as my mind (and the minds of nearly every young man in the room) was reduced to a state of prey animal panic, only noting the loud noise coming from the direction of this enraged apex predator. Another student, a friend of mine at the time named Mike Brolan, had been in the restroom during all of this and wandered back in the room completely oblivious to the circumstances. Br. Raygun erupted at him that he should sit down immediately. The change in Mike's facial expression from pleasant daydreaming to fear for his life would've had the whole room in stitches were we not terrified for ourselves. In a matter of mere moments (which felt like hours), the storm passed and Br. Raygun returned to his class. We silently cleared our trays and left our lunch period, thankful that no casualties had been claimed.
I personally felt the fury of Br. Raygun's anger one time that same year. Despite that intense lunchroom experience, I still felt confident that Br. Raygun and I were on good terms. He was my good buddy in the mornings, of course. Br. Raygun often acted as a substitute when teachers were absent. One day I went to attend my Algebra I class only to note the teacher, Ms. Goodman was absent and Br. Ryan was waiting at the door. As I passed by, I thought it would be friendly and funny of me to greet him by saying "Hiya, Bruddah!" in a squeaky, Newsies-esque voice. I entered the room and took my seat, unaware that Br. Raygun had entered directly behind me. As I sat, he exploded at me that I shouldn't dare address him so disrespectfully ever again. I was stunned and afraid. I thought I had just made a harmless greeting. I spent the entirety of the period in silent terror, mixed with a sense of injustice over the harsh response I had gotten from so little provocation. What happened next floored me.
As the class period ended, Br. Raygun approached me, I assumed to remind me once again to watch myself and never do such a thing again. Instead, he offered me a sincere apology for his reaction, telling me it was not deserved. I didn't know what to do, I mumbled a confused acceptance and left the room. Here was this man, a fully-grown adult with terrible powers of intimidation, apologizing to ME for something he was within his rights as an authority figure to do (even though it may have been of unnecessary magnitude). That day, my affinity for Br. Raygun based on the early mornings in the office and my fear of Br. Raygun based on his superhuman yelling ability coalesced and evolved far beyond the sum of the parts. I realized my deep, abiding, unwavering respect for Br. Raygun, a man who was unafraid to speak up when he felt he should, and was also unafraid to own his actions and apologize for them if appropriate. From that day forward, my respect for Br. Raygun only ever grew.
As students in the school got older and wiser, Br. Raygun's interactions with us became more and more genial. Here was a man who loved the school, but was not blind to its faults and would always work to improve them. Certain aspects that he had no control over, he would let students gripe about and subtly let them know with a wise look or a slight smile that he agreed, though he may not voice that aloud. Maybe he didn't do this with every student, but he did sometimes with me, and frequently with my good friend Dan Hellion, with whom he had a great affinity. Dan and I (more Dan than I, but both of us at times) found out how good and sharp a sense of humor Br. Raygun had for those who took the time to get to know him. We already knew how hard he worked (this is a guy who would even be outside at 5, 6 AM salting the parking lot in the winter with the custodial staff, often starting before they had arrived for the morning), now we were starting to see how good of a guy he was in other ways.
I remember one time when my junior class went away for junior retreat before the start of our third year, and a few of us caught a ride with Br. Raygun. There were about six students that traveled up with Br. Raygun; three or four of us rode with him, another two or three drove in a second car, caravan-style. On the way up, we stopped for dinner at Chili's. This was an unexpected and fun stop and Br. Raygun was great company at dinner, laughing along with our surely inane, high-school-age humor. He then surprised us all by picking up the tab for all of us. I'm not sure exactly how much a brother of a religious order makes a per year, but I'm sure it's not a tremendous amount. This was a really kind and appreciated gesture from Br. Raygun, and was indicative of his impeccable character.
The end of my senior year was a bit chaotic, closing with some major unpleasantness involving me, my friends, and a couple of students that we had treated pretty poorly that year. We were, at the time, convinced that these students were deserving of any cruelty or jokes thrown their way. In retrospect, we were really just being mean, immature teenagers. I've made peace with one of the individuals, and another I hope is doing well wherever he is. But part of what made this situation really messy is that as part of the litany of our offenses, it came out that we (and by "we", I mean largely "I") had been making pretty bad fun of the school Principal, Br. Willard as well. Now, to this day I will tell you that I was not alone in a low opinion of this guy. But I was probably one of his most vocal critics, and also used my gifts for impersonation and cartooning to make my points. I should add that Br. Willard was a prideful man, and I earned his deepest scorn for damaging that pride.
I bring up this seeming non sequitur not for its own value as a story (this time, anyway). After a few of my friends and I had been suitably dragged through the public square over these matters, there were a variety of reactions from people in the school. Fellow students were largely sympathetic, and some even flat-out vilified the student(s) in question who had let Br. Willard know just what I had been saying about him. Some faculty supported us too, an appreciated but probably not altogether very professional stance. Other faculty clearly thought we were bad kids who got what was coming to us. Br. Raygun was one of a handful of faculty who made it a point to approach us and let us know that he was just looking forward to this whole mess getting wrapped up so we could move on and graduate. He didn't condone our behavior, nor did he condemn it. He showed great wisdom and insight by all but saying, "you already know you were out of line, I won't belabor the point. I also know you're good kids at heart. Hopefully you've grown from this, let's move on." At least, that's the subtext I got from him. He may not have outright said it, but silence, as Br. Raygun knows, is golden.
Br. Raygun, if you chance to ever read this, thanks for being a terrific person and looking out for me in high school. You're a living example of what it means to be a man for the students of the school and you have my perpetual, unblemished respect.
St. Francis High was several towns away from my hometown, and timing the bus system to allow for extracurricular activities was tough from day one. Since my father worked in the same town as the school, we decided it would be easiest and cheapest for all parties if he gave me rides to and from school. The only problem was that my father needed to drop me off well before the school actually opened in the morning. He explained the situation to the school and it was Br. Raygun who helped us out. Br. Raygun woke up unbelievably early in the morning every day (we wondered if he ever actually slept at all) to start working on things in the school office. He said it would not be a problem at all to let me in to sit quietly and do homework, etc. in the office until the cafeteria opened or the morning buses arrived. For my part, I stayed reasonably quiet most mornings, although sometimes Br. Raygun would remind me about what color silence was (it was golden) when I would get too loud chatting with another student or two in a similar position as myself in the mornings. This was my initial impression of Br. Raygun: a hard-working, busy, kind man who liked quiet.
Br. Raygun had another side to him though, a side that most freshmen experienced first. Br. Raygun had what could be called "a temper." And when Br. Raygun got angry, something about his face and his voice put you in a state of mortal terror. I (along with my entire year at St. Francis) vividly recall a time our freshman year when we were too noisy at lunch while Br. Raygun had the misfortune of teaching a class just a thin auditorium divider away. For weeks he had sent requests over for our lunch period to please keep it down. One day, we had ignored this request for too long.
The lunch period was nearly over, and students were just starting to wander into the halls to use the restroom, clear trays, etc. Suddenly, one of our classmates, Ryan Bubcook (a short, funny guy with a high-ish voice) came RUNNING into the cafeteria shouting "GO BACK! GO BACK!" with fear in his eyes. Several paces behind him, moving with powerful, purposeful strides was Br. Raygun. Death was in his eyes. Steam may have been coming from his ears. I could not for the life of me tell you what he actually yelled at us next, as my mind (and the minds of nearly every young man in the room) was reduced to a state of prey animal panic, only noting the loud noise coming from the direction of this enraged apex predator. Another student, a friend of mine at the time named Mike Brolan, had been in the restroom during all of this and wandered back in the room completely oblivious to the circumstances. Br. Raygun erupted at him that he should sit down immediately. The change in Mike's facial expression from pleasant daydreaming to fear for his life would've had the whole room in stitches were we not terrified for ourselves. In a matter of mere moments (which felt like hours), the storm passed and Br. Raygun returned to his class. We silently cleared our trays and left our lunch period, thankful that no casualties had been claimed.
I personally felt the fury of Br. Raygun's anger one time that same year. Despite that intense lunchroom experience, I still felt confident that Br. Raygun and I were on good terms. He was my good buddy in the mornings, of course. Br. Raygun often acted as a substitute when teachers were absent. One day I went to attend my Algebra I class only to note the teacher, Ms. Goodman was absent and Br. Ryan was waiting at the door. As I passed by, I thought it would be friendly and funny of me to greet him by saying "Hiya, Bruddah!" in a squeaky, Newsies-esque voice. I entered the room and took my seat, unaware that Br. Raygun had entered directly behind me. As I sat, he exploded at me that I shouldn't dare address him so disrespectfully ever again. I was stunned and afraid. I thought I had just made a harmless greeting. I spent the entirety of the period in silent terror, mixed with a sense of injustice over the harsh response I had gotten from so little provocation. What happened next floored me.
As the class period ended, Br. Raygun approached me, I assumed to remind me once again to watch myself and never do such a thing again. Instead, he offered me a sincere apology for his reaction, telling me it was not deserved. I didn't know what to do, I mumbled a confused acceptance and left the room. Here was this man, a fully-grown adult with terrible powers of intimidation, apologizing to ME for something he was within his rights as an authority figure to do (even though it may have been of unnecessary magnitude). That day, my affinity for Br. Raygun based on the early mornings in the office and my fear of Br. Raygun based on his superhuman yelling ability coalesced and evolved far beyond the sum of the parts. I realized my deep, abiding, unwavering respect for Br. Raygun, a man who was unafraid to speak up when he felt he should, and was also unafraid to own his actions and apologize for them if appropriate. From that day forward, my respect for Br. Raygun only ever grew.
As students in the school got older and wiser, Br. Raygun's interactions with us became more and more genial. Here was a man who loved the school, but was not blind to its faults and would always work to improve them. Certain aspects that he had no control over, he would let students gripe about and subtly let them know with a wise look or a slight smile that he agreed, though he may not voice that aloud. Maybe he didn't do this with every student, but he did sometimes with me, and frequently with my good friend Dan Hellion, with whom he had a great affinity. Dan and I (more Dan than I, but both of us at times) found out how good and sharp a sense of humor Br. Raygun had for those who took the time to get to know him. We already knew how hard he worked (this is a guy who would even be outside at 5, 6 AM salting the parking lot in the winter with the custodial staff, often starting before they had arrived for the morning), now we were starting to see how good of a guy he was in other ways.
I remember one time when my junior class went away for junior retreat before the start of our third year, and a few of us caught a ride with Br. Raygun. There were about six students that traveled up with Br. Raygun; three or four of us rode with him, another two or three drove in a second car, caravan-style. On the way up, we stopped for dinner at Chili's. This was an unexpected and fun stop and Br. Raygun was great company at dinner, laughing along with our surely inane, high-school-age humor. He then surprised us all by picking up the tab for all of us. I'm not sure exactly how much a brother of a religious order makes a per year, but I'm sure it's not a tremendous amount. This was a really kind and appreciated gesture from Br. Raygun, and was indicative of his impeccable character.
The end of my senior year was a bit chaotic, closing with some major unpleasantness involving me, my friends, and a couple of students that we had treated pretty poorly that year. We were, at the time, convinced that these students were deserving of any cruelty or jokes thrown their way. In retrospect, we were really just being mean, immature teenagers. I've made peace with one of the individuals, and another I hope is doing well wherever he is. But part of what made this situation really messy is that as part of the litany of our offenses, it came out that we (and by "we", I mean largely "I") had been making pretty bad fun of the school Principal, Br. Willard as well. Now, to this day I will tell you that I was not alone in a low opinion of this guy. But I was probably one of his most vocal critics, and also used my gifts for impersonation and cartooning to make my points. I should add that Br. Willard was a prideful man, and I earned his deepest scorn for damaging that pride.
I bring up this seeming non sequitur not for its own value as a story (this time, anyway). After a few of my friends and I had been suitably dragged through the public square over these matters, there were a variety of reactions from people in the school. Fellow students were largely sympathetic, and some even flat-out vilified the student(s) in question who had let Br. Willard know just what I had been saying about him. Some faculty supported us too, an appreciated but probably not altogether very professional stance. Other faculty clearly thought we were bad kids who got what was coming to us. Br. Raygun was one of a handful of faculty who made it a point to approach us and let us know that he was just looking forward to this whole mess getting wrapped up so we could move on and graduate. He didn't condone our behavior, nor did he condemn it. He showed great wisdom and insight by all but saying, "you already know you were out of line, I won't belabor the point. I also know you're good kids at heart. Hopefully you've grown from this, let's move on." At least, that's the subtext I got from him. He may not have outright said it, but silence, as Br. Raygun knows, is golden.
Br. Raygun, if you chance to ever read this, thanks for being a terrific person and looking out for me in high school. You're a living example of what it means to be a man for the students of the school and you have my perpetual, unblemished respect.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tales from High School X - The Most Excellent Tragedy and Comedy of Señor Golbez, Philip, and Cooper
Hey readers, sorry it's been a while. For a variety of reasons, including moving, starting a new job, and holidays, I have been an absent blogger for too long. I also used up most of my favorite Lebowski tales, which left me without a strong direction for the blog. So I thought, what other parts of my life do I have stories from besides my family? Welcome to the latest addition to the Shorts Below Freezing family of anecdotes: Tales from High School X. The Tales from High School X will chronicle the highs and lows of my high school experience at an all-male Catholic high school (a great contributor to my renunciation of Catholicism!). To protect the innocent and guilty alike, we'll call this high school St. Francis High, which is not its real name. To give you a sense of the time frame, I attended St. Francis High from 1997-2001. This first set of tales begins in the Fall of 1998, at the dawn of my sophomore year.
While I took French in high school, other friends of mine took Spanish, as so many high schoolers do. That year, the school hired a new Spanish teacher, a native speaker originally from Venezuela. This man has been mentioned before, rivaling Uncle Vinnie Jerboa in the world of self-believed lies: Bellido Alejandro Golbez. My good friend Dan Hellion would fill me in after every class about this new Spanish teacher. He was a riot, making jokes all the time, talking about attractive women and popular music, and had strange and original ideas for assignments. One assignment was to watch the Miss Universe competition on television and write about who was the most attractive, with a caveat that selecting Miss Puerto Rico would likely result in a high grade. Another assignment was to write two pages. About anything at all. In English. For a Spanish class. Dan, curious about Bellido's facility with more obscure English vocabulary strung together dozens of random 3-4 syllable words. When the paper was returned to him, two words were circled at random with the comment "That is so true!" added.
Señor Golbez was so entertaining that Dan introduced me to him, and we and a few other students would visit him before homeroom and at the end of the day, which was always a laugh. Before long, Bellido started to think of us as his friends, rather than his students, and insisted we never call him Mr. Golbez. Some of the wacky things he said once we were in his inner circle are stories for another entry. Today is about his dealings with another student, a student named Phil Mead. Phil was half-Spanish, and spoke Spanish with near fluency, so he was in the Sophomore Spanish class even though he was a Freshman. However, Phil was not the best student, in spite of his background, so his performance in class was average. Phil also was excitable and prone to zoning out. He was an easy target for some of the more prank-prone sophomores in his class.
Early in the year, Phil had the misfortune of sitting in front of a student named Cooper Walton. Cooper was the type of guy who had no problem with getting a laugh at someone else's expense, and wasn't all that interested in paying attention in class. One day, the custodians had changed the florescent lights in the ceiling, and had left a long tube florescent light bulb on the floor in the back of the room, near where Cooper and Phil were seated. Cooper, bored in class while Mr. Golbez was writing on the board, picked up the light bulb and started swinging it around like a lightsaber. To earn chuckles from his peers, or maybe just to stave off boredom, Cooper even started making lightsaber sound effects. Golbez's ears perked up. His turn around was imminent. Cooper had to think fast. Luck was with him.
Phil, sitting in front of him, was daydreaming, totally oblivious to the goings on nearby. He had the misfortune of having one of his hands open and visible to Cooper. In the instant before Golbez could turn around, Cooper slapped the bulb into Phil's hand, which gripped it reflexively. By the time Golbez saw the scene, Phil was staring agape at the tell-tale weapon in his hand. "PHILIP!" gasped Golbez, seemingly shocked and offended, "How DARE you disrupt the class in this ways?" Phil tried to protest his innocence, "But dude, it was Cooper! Cooper did it!" Mr. Golbez would not believe this apparent lie, "Philip, you are clearly holdings of evidence. You go to the office!" (Golbez sometimes tripped up his English a bit). Philip was sent to the office, in spite of his pleas.
The antagonistic relationship continued. During a test one day, students had to take turns going up to Mr. Golbez's desk to do a brief oral component of the exam. Each would come up in turn, then go back to their desk to continue the written work silently. When it was Phil's turn, Cooper turned Phil's desk around backwards while he was up at the front, then locked his legs into the desk to prevent righting it. Phil came back and stage whispered his anger to Cooper: "Dude! Stop turning my desk, I need to sit down!" Cooper ignored him and continued to lock the desk in place. Phil struggled to wrench it free, causing a bit of a ruckus. Golbez looked up from the student he was working with now and said "Philip! Stop this noise and sit down at once!" "Dude, I'm trying!" Phil gave up his struggle and sat in the desk facing backwards. Almost immediately this was noticed and Phil was once again ejected from the classroom, this time for trying to cheat by turning his desk to see other papers. This poor kid could not catch a break. It didn't help that Mr. Golbez was pretty much incapable of seeing or responding to any disruptions but the most obvious.
As the year continued on, Phil decided he'd had enough of Coopers constant torment. One day, tired of Cooper flicking him in the ear and whispering to him, Phil raised his hand and asked, "Señor Golbez, can I move to the empty seat in the front?" Seeing nothing wrong with this request, Golbez readily agreed. "Of COURSE, Philip, please come up to the front!" Phil gathered his things and headed up to the front, stopping to turn and deliver a smug victory look at Cooper. This would not stand, Cooper decided. "Mr. Golbez? I can't see the board, can I move up to that empty seat behind Phil's new seat?"
"But of COURSE, Cooper!"
There's plenty more Golbez stories, and other Tales from High School X, so stay tuned!
While I took French in high school, other friends of mine took Spanish, as so many high schoolers do. That year, the school hired a new Spanish teacher, a native speaker originally from Venezuela. This man has been mentioned before, rivaling Uncle Vinnie Jerboa in the world of self-believed lies: Bellido Alejandro Golbez. My good friend Dan Hellion would fill me in after every class about this new Spanish teacher. He was a riot, making jokes all the time, talking about attractive women and popular music, and had strange and original ideas for assignments. One assignment was to watch the Miss Universe competition on television and write about who was the most attractive, with a caveat that selecting Miss Puerto Rico would likely result in a high grade. Another assignment was to write two pages. About anything at all. In English. For a Spanish class. Dan, curious about Bellido's facility with more obscure English vocabulary strung together dozens of random 3-4 syllable words. When the paper was returned to him, two words were circled at random with the comment "That is so true!" added.
Señor Golbez was so entertaining that Dan introduced me to him, and we and a few other students would visit him before homeroom and at the end of the day, which was always a laugh. Before long, Bellido started to think of us as his friends, rather than his students, and insisted we never call him Mr. Golbez. Some of the wacky things he said once we were in his inner circle are stories for another entry. Today is about his dealings with another student, a student named Phil Mead. Phil was half-Spanish, and spoke Spanish with near fluency, so he was in the Sophomore Spanish class even though he was a Freshman. However, Phil was not the best student, in spite of his background, so his performance in class was average. Phil also was excitable and prone to zoning out. He was an easy target for some of the more prank-prone sophomores in his class.
Early in the year, Phil had the misfortune of sitting in front of a student named Cooper Walton. Cooper was the type of guy who had no problem with getting a laugh at someone else's expense, and wasn't all that interested in paying attention in class. One day, the custodians had changed the florescent lights in the ceiling, and had left a long tube florescent light bulb on the floor in the back of the room, near where Cooper and Phil were seated. Cooper, bored in class while Mr. Golbez was writing on the board, picked up the light bulb and started swinging it around like a lightsaber. To earn chuckles from his peers, or maybe just to stave off boredom, Cooper even started making lightsaber sound effects. Golbez's ears perked up. His turn around was imminent. Cooper had to think fast. Luck was with him.
Phil, sitting in front of him, was daydreaming, totally oblivious to the goings on nearby. He had the misfortune of having one of his hands open and visible to Cooper. In the instant before Golbez could turn around, Cooper slapped the bulb into Phil's hand, which gripped it reflexively. By the time Golbez saw the scene, Phil was staring agape at the tell-tale weapon in his hand. "PHILIP!" gasped Golbez, seemingly shocked and offended, "How DARE you disrupt the class in this ways?" Phil tried to protest his innocence, "But dude, it was Cooper! Cooper did it!" Mr. Golbez would not believe this apparent lie, "Philip, you are clearly holdings of evidence. You go to the office!" (Golbez sometimes tripped up his English a bit). Philip was sent to the office, in spite of his pleas.
The antagonistic relationship continued. During a test one day, students had to take turns going up to Mr. Golbez's desk to do a brief oral component of the exam. Each would come up in turn, then go back to their desk to continue the written work silently. When it was Phil's turn, Cooper turned Phil's desk around backwards while he was up at the front, then locked his legs into the desk to prevent righting it. Phil came back and stage whispered his anger to Cooper: "Dude! Stop turning my desk, I need to sit down!" Cooper ignored him and continued to lock the desk in place. Phil struggled to wrench it free, causing a bit of a ruckus. Golbez looked up from the student he was working with now and said "Philip! Stop this noise and sit down at once!" "Dude, I'm trying!" Phil gave up his struggle and sat in the desk facing backwards. Almost immediately this was noticed and Phil was once again ejected from the classroom, this time for trying to cheat by turning his desk to see other papers. This poor kid could not catch a break. It didn't help that Mr. Golbez was pretty much incapable of seeing or responding to any disruptions but the most obvious.
As the year continued on, Phil decided he'd had enough of Coopers constant torment. One day, tired of Cooper flicking him in the ear and whispering to him, Phil raised his hand and asked, "Señor Golbez, can I move to the empty seat in the front?" Seeing nothing wrong with this request, Golbez readily agreed. "Of COURSE, Philip, please come up to the front!" Phil gathered his things and headed up to the front, stopping to turn and deliver a smug victory look at Cooper. This would not stand, Cooper decided. "Mr. Golbez? I can't see the board, can I move up to that empty seat behind Phil's new seat?"
"But of COURSE, Cooper!"
There's plenty more Golbez stories, and other Tales from High School X, so stay tuned!
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