Tag: discipline

Laissez Faire

CLASSES AT ST BASIL ended at 1500. At about 1455 every day,
like clockwork, the public address system would come on. The
vice principal, Father Rourque, would make an announcement in
his usual matter of fact way. It would start:

“Attention, all students. The following students have been
kindheartedly awarded the detention of the day: so and so, so and
so and so and so, and so on and on so.”
Followed by:

“Would the following students be so kind as to grace us with
their presence at the vice principal’s office: so and so, and, so
and so, and so and so, and on so and on so.”

Grace, my ass, for this was code for major pain.

We never knew what the infractions were or the degree of
which warranted a detention or a visit to the vice principal’s
office. Initially we did, but after awhile, like Pavlov’s dogs, we
became accustomed to this daily rant. Listening but not really
listening unless the familiar tone of one’s name was announced.
We just didn’t care. We sucked it up, whatever punishment it
may be. These priests had a way about them and each of them
reacted in their own unique way.

Father McMullen—math class. Chewing gum? No problem.
Spit it out onto his hand then watch and feel his hands rubbing
said gum into our curly or wavy locks. Brush or crew cuts
presented their own unique problems when this type of discipline
was meted out, but given this new age of Beatlemania and
longish, stylish hair, very few of us sported the short-cropped
hair design. Sports card bubble gum, Bazooka’s, was the worst,
extremely difficult to get out of one’s hair. Chiclets? Wrigley’s?
They were much milder. It must have been the sugar content that
dictated the air and degree of difficulty in trying to get the
gummy gum out. Invariably this equated to a trip to the barber
with the causal effect of sporting the now defunct fashion faux
pas of a crew cut or a brush cut. The John Glenn look. The very
right stuff indeed.

Mr Aslin was a priest in waiting. Perhaps, but he was more
like civilian laity doing the work of a Catholic apostolate. A
pretend priest. An ecclesiastical groupie per se. His modus
operandi was in the form and shape of a thin metal ruler, eighteen
inches long, very flexible and bendable in its delivery of
pain via an effective slap across the palms of one’s hands.
Talking or not paying attention usually earned a slap from this
innocent looking yet nefarious piece of torture machinery. Even a
smirk on one’s face could warrant such a physical reprimand if
Mr Aslin thought, in his smallish mind, that it was a smirk of
defiance.

“Hold out your hands,” he would bark. “Palms up.”
Then whack.

One day Mr Aslin met his match in one tall, gangly looking
student named Art O’Neill. This O’Neill boy was definitely
making a name for himself? Mr Aslin walked down one of the aisles, pulled out the ruler, and stood by Art’s desk. Standing there, patting his left hand with the ruler itself.

“Hold out your hands, Mr O’Neill,” Aslin barked.

“Palms up.”

Nothing.

“Did you hear me, Mr O’Neill? Get those hands out,” he
yelled.

Nothing.

“I said, get those hands out!” Now Aslin was screaming.
Nothing. Art would not look at Aslin but just sat there staring
straight ahead with his arms crossed across his chest.
Suddenly, a whack came down hard across Art’s wooden
desk top.

“Now get those hands out,” Aslin demanded.

We all flinched. Aslin’s face was beginning to turn red. He
sensed, and we all sensed, that he really had no clue as to how to
handle this token of disobedience. Fortunately for him, unfortunately
for Art, the situation was resolved for him.

Art suddenly stood up, defiant, facing Mr Aslin. In his black,
Cuban-heeled “Beatle Boots” he was about half a head taller than
Mr Aslin. Then without fanfare, without notice, and without any
indication of intent, Art stepped back, and then with all of the
forward momentum that he could muster, he kicked his right leg
up, making direct contact between the pointed toes of his “Beatle
Boots” and the balls of Mr Aslin. Ouch! Emasculated, Mr Aslin
went down on all fours groaning, cursing, and writhing in pain,
gasping for breath and gesticulating at someone, at no one, that
he needed divine intervention. Art calmly stepped over Mr
Aslin’s frame and walked out of the classroom. We were all in
jubilant shock. We never saw Art again at St Basil’s Catholic
private high school for boys.

SJ…Out

Father Knows Best

Continuing on from yesterday’s post, another excerpt from my first crack at writing a novel: I Thought I’d Died and Gone To Heaven. You can support my effort in purchasing a copy. Click on the link above and / or check out my other two attempts at being an author. Every little bit helps this poor Canadian author.

In today’s vernacular, what had just occurred was all shock
and awe for the rest of us. We were agape, our mouths wide
open, our eyes and minds in disbelief at what we had just seen,
witnessed, and processed. “Holy shit,” these words being
mouthed in silent unison. This was going to be really different
from elementary school and all that the nuns could ever muster.

This was not corporal punishment but major pain. Now I understand
the reasoning and the escalation of pain from the Sacrament
of Confirmation through our elementary days to high
school. Sister Mary Bernice’s punishment would pale in comparison
to Father Stack’s ingenuity and that of the other priests and
priests in waiting here. Nevertheless, it was considered a natural
progression of discipline in the overall Catholic scheme of things
and a transition from the rudimentary slap on the face by the
priest during the Sacrament of Confirmation, to the more classic
Catholic penance of major punishment and pain for the slightest
transgression. Self-sacrifice, flagellation, for better or for
worse. Whoa!

Thank God again for the geniuses at Hilroy. They produced a
school classic in the “Hilroy Scribbler.” These innocuous-
looking writing books were an essential part of any student’s
toolbox at St Basil’s Catholic private high school for boys. They
had an important role to play in the classrooms of St Basil
Catholic private high school for boys and the survival of its
students’ backsides. Flexible and malleable, these scribblers were
more than just a tool of record. No, they provided the perfect foil
against Father Stack’s unique method of class management and
control. Not knowing who or what might set Father Stack off
during any given class or who might find themselves at the
receiving end of his methodology of good order and discipline, it
was absolutely prudent that one protected oneself appropriately.
Consequently, prior to entering his classroom and domain, it was
necessary to stuff one or two of those scribblers down the rear of
one’s pants. Personally I preferred just one as two or more scribblers
were difficult to control. They would separate, move
around, or slide down one side or the other, especially after
sitting down on them during his discourse. Any one of us could
be caught and snared into his devilish trap so it was absolutely
essential that these binders worked but in a stealthy kind of way
as we did not want Father Stack to have any inkling that his
punishment was being met with some resistance and was therefore
ineffective. The nice thing about these Hilroy scribblers is
that they could conform to the contours of one’s backside. Even
bending over, and we did test this out, they were difficult to
detect. The tails of our blazers overlapped the upper portion of
our backsides to such an extent that, on closer inspection, the
outline of the hard spine of the binder could not be seen. It was
even better if one’s trousers were baggy in the crotch area.

This stroke of adolescent ingenuity and genius only worked
once, I’m afraid. Thinking back, it was insane for us to believe
we could outsmart these priests and their corporal ways. They
had seen it all before and no amount of creative effort on our part
could outsmart them. When they did discover our inspired inventiveness
and resourcefulness, the punishment only got worse. At
least Father Stack had a sense of humour about the whole thing:
smirking and chuckling as he was giving it out whenever we
were found out. Yet after awhile, after few months of suffering, it
became evident that Father Stack’s bite was worse than his bark.
We began to respect him, enjoy his lectures, and admire his way
of expressing himself. While we were constantly trying to
outsmart him in a juvenile sort of way by playing with his form
of corporal punishment, he never belittled us or made us feel
insignificant. Funny too, as with the feeling of being recognized
by an adult by the use of your first name, it felt really great when
Father Stack would dispatch one of us to the local corner smoke
shop during class to pick him up a carton of smokes. Keep the
change, he would often say. You had the sense that you were
trusted and respected by him. Over the course of the school year,
each and every one of us made that trek across the street to the
smoke shop to get him that carton of Camels. Good thing he was
a chain smoker.

There always existed a bit of cat and mouse play in Father
Stack’s class. We would attempt to mitigate our circumstances by
trying to undermine the tool of his trade. More than once we
addressed that bookcase by placing a multitude of objects on the
empty shelf. To no avail. He would just go over to the bookcase
and with a broad sweep of his arm scatter everything that was on
that shelf over a wide expanse of the classroom floor, then carry
on. The poor sod who was the victim of the day would then have
to clean up the mess after he received his punishment. We even
tried to hide the shelf itself. He was nonplussed about that
because, to our consternation, he would somehow produce an
exact replica of the delinquent shelf. Our most daring bit of espi-
onage was to nail the shelf into its cradle, doing so before class
and before the great inquisitor arrived. This worked to some
degree but was again thwarted. Quite ominously as it turned out.
For when Father Stack went over to grab the shelf in his
customary fashion, the shelf would not budge. But the resulting
flash of his kinetic energy caused the entire bookcase to come
crashing down, missing him by a hair’s breadth. The cacophony
of the resulting noise attracted some of the other priests in the
adjacent classrooms to come running. He just waved them off.
More importantly and more ominously for him, the action and
momentum of his arms was suddenly squelched. The causal effect
on Father Stack was equally momentous as the energy released
was oriented toward him and his entire body mass. This was unexpected
and resulted in an unflattering predicament as he found
himself off balance, falling, and landing squarely on his ass. We
were all shocked, fit to be tied, and laughed ourselves silly.
Fortunately Father Stack was not hurt except for a toss of
wounded pride. To his credit and our growing admiration for
him, he got up, brushed himself off, and continued the lecture
without missing a beat. The poor lad who was about to be the
focus of this latest cause and effect sauntered slowly and
cautiously back to his seat for he was still unsure of the consequences
to occur to him as a result of this latest student transgression.
Nothing. The next day the bookcase was back in its normal
state, the middle shelf intact, empty as always. We did have a
short respite but, in time, we were, and he was, back to our
normal selves and our normal state of affairs. We did detect that
there seemed to be a hint of mutual respect in the air in his
manner of teaching because the punishment never seemed to be
as harsh as it was at the start of the year. The whacks were bit
more subdued. Father Stack always seemed to chuckle as he was
giving it out as if to say to all of us:

“Hey, you may have won that battle, good on you, but you
will never win this war.”

Over time Father Stack met a woman, fell in love, and even
got married. He was then excommunicated.

Thought for the day:

If things need to be so diverse, why is diversity breaking up my country.

Leave well enough alone.

More of the blues: Moody Blues

SJ…Out

 

Rabid Dogs…6

…I came back for the medical in about a week’s time. This was serious stuff. A full blown medical. Every orifice looked at and probed. This was not the two minute makeover that one sees in the movies.

“Is he breathing? Yes? Approved! Next!

I was a little bit worried about my eye test as I had had a lazy eye when I was a child. It cured itself but left some visual acuity issues in my right eye. I remember my dad telling me how he got through his eye exam in the Army during the war. He held his hand over his bad eye, read the scale then returned his arm to his side. When the doctor asked him to cover his other eye he placed his hand over his bad eye a second time, read the chart and got through the exam with a 20/20 result. I tried the same thing and it worked, primarily because the doctor was focused on the chart and not the patient.

I do remember a story from a naval friend of mine about his experience with his medical on joining. It kind of reflects some of the old military schooled attitudes of the times. My friend had had a severe case of acne when he was young. It left his face hideously pockmarked – had been for all of his life. He did his joining medical only to find out that he failed. He wasn’t told why although he suspected the reason. He left, forgot about the military, and went on his way. About 6 months later he was asked to return to the recruiting centre only to be told that they made a mistake in his medical assessment and would dearly love to have him return. He did. Apparently, the doctor, on examination of my friend, felt that his pockmarked face would not look good on parade and would reflect poorly on the military ethos. He wanted to protect the “Colonel.” So he failed him. Imagine the outcry if that happened today?

Finally finished, then in for another interview. This one was all encompassing but in generalities: the process, basic training expectations, career progression, military life, its rewards and sacrifices, security, threats and on and on he went. This would be the last interview and on receipt of a successful medical examination an offer to join would be given. The candidate, me, would have a few days to think about the decision to join prior to an invite for the swearing in ceremony and “Oath of Allegiance” to Queen and Country. Where was God in all of this? Swear on the bible of course!

In a weeks time I was sworn in. I told my mother, she was thrilled. I told my friends, they thought I was nuts. I also had a few months time before I had to report for Basic Training in August. Not too sure if I liked that break as it provided too much free time to think about my decision. But it also gave me the opportunity to get into physical shape, which I did….

Rabid Dogs…4

…I thought of my options. Why not join the Navy?  Why not indeed. But the military life seemed to be an anathema to my easy going ways. Yes, I was intrigued by the stories my father told me of his military life. The fun he had although he never ever parlayed his combat experiences to me or anyone else in the family. His friends, the sports, the overt camaraderie he seemed to enjoy were interesting but I always sensed that he despised the discipline, arrogance and bullshit of the Army. It was no wonder, or joke, that we never ever went camping as a family. Holed up in a tent for weeks at a time: cold, dirty miserable English weather or the heat and humidity of a European summer all the while scared out of your ever loving mind.  No, I think for me I was scared of the discipline and uncertainty of the military life. Especially the Army. All that salutin; yes sir, no sir, your shit lockers full sir etc. On top of that, the only insight I had of the Navy arose from the serious and dark images of Jack Hawkins in “The Cruel Sea;” or the fanaticism, madness of Burt Lancaster and Clark Gable in “Run Silent Run Deep;” or conversely “McHale’s Navy.” What should I do? Yes or no?

I decided to check it out as I didn’t have to commit right away. I didn’t tell a soul what I was doing.  Down I went to the recruiting centre, taking the metro then bus to an imposing but stark and sombre looking building downtown. I hesitated. Should I or shouldn’t I? Yet the unknown always appears worse than it really is. Just go for it and see what happens. It may turn out that they “DON’T WANT YOU.”

In I went, to reception. Everyone here, except us snot nosed delinquents, was in uniform of some sorts. But I didn’t really know one from the other.

“Can I help you” a uniformed man asked.

“Um ah, yes Sir. I think I, well what I mean is, I would like to or perhaps – do you have any openings for a Boatswain’s Mate?” Not cool!

The guy looked at me like the dork that I was. He chuckled somewhat, gave me a book of forms and asked me, politely but assertively, to fill them out in the “fill out the book of forms” room.

I complied. It took me about an hour to complete the application, as best I could. Of some concern was the part about a criminal record, trouble with the law etc and my mind came back to that time with Timmy and the Great Record Robbery. I felt I had better be honest here and not lie for I had seen the movie and knew what happens to guys who lie in the military – Firing Squad – just like that anti-war movie “Paths of Glory” with Kirk Douglas. “Nothing glorious in being dead” I shivered to think of it myself. Then again this was the Navy. What then? Oh damn, the gangplank, as in walk it, as in how long can you tread water? As in how far can you swim? As in keel hauling, just like Jack London’s “Sea Wolf” with Edward G Robinson and John Garfield! Cookie and the shark! Good gawd man I thought to myself, stop with the movie fantasy, this is real life.

I handed the application back to the nice man in the uniform. He shuffled them into a file folder. Oh yeah, the infamous file folder. If you want to look good in the military and not be a target for some stupid duty, like KP, you walk around looking important, and busy, with a file folder in you hands – just like Phil Silvers as the Master Sergeant con man in “Sgt Bilko.” But I digress.

“Thanks John” the recruiter said, then adding “Now I have here a battery of aptitude tests for you to take: basic math, algebra, general knowledge, things of that nature. If you would be so kind as to go over to the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and I’ll be right with you.”

In I went into the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and sat down. I was the only dork there. The recruiter came in and told me that these tests were time sensitive in that I had a certain amount of time to complete them. Fine I thought but somewhat nervous.

“Try not to be nervous,” he reassured me. He was a nice guy actually. But then again they are all nice guys and gals until they have you dead to right or lost to your rights, right? No left!

First math – 20 minutes, done. Then some geometry, algebra – 30 minutes, done. Then general knowledge – 30 minutes – done admiralty, er admirably. Finally history – 20 minutes, done. Whew, finished, tough go for sure.

“Okay John, thanks. You can go back to reception, or go out for a smoke, or whatever. We should have the results in about 30 minutes.”

Whew, that was tough I thought. Almost two hours of this. I was a tad drained of energy.

Go West Young Man…5

…My routine after work and after supper with my sister and her partner never really varied that much. After a very long walk in the rain, I would hit a local fast food outlet and gorge myself on the standard acceptable food groups of the day: hamburger buns… carbs, hamburger patty… protein; cheese…dairy; fried onions… vegetables, french fries…carbs and starch; topped with mayo…egg whites; relish and mustard…sodium, sugar. It was always the same routine.  Livin the life.

I never met anyone other than family and Sandy the whole time I was out there. I just remember being very lonely while walking up and down those downtown streets at night and in the rain, the mist, the drizzle, the light rain, the light mist and the light drizzle amid the high rise apartments and sky high business skyscrapers, alone with my thoughts and a weird habit of conversing with myself while walking to keep myself company. It didn’t really matter being considered a nut-zo in a city such as this as the streets were almost always deserted. During the day the mice came out to play in the liquid sunshine of course, scurrying about as the city seemed to come to life but at night the place resembled a ghoulish, grey coloured morgue: eerily dark as only Hades himself could appreciate except for the glint of the dull yellow or faint orange glow of its street lights. The inhabitants seemed to be nearly dead and laid up, one on top of the other, in their individually marked trays or cocoons called apartment blocks.

After a couple of months I had had enough. I quit my job and returned home.

The west end of that city appears much the same today as it did 55 years ago.

It still rains. A lot!