Off the Record

My latest trends of nostalgia have done nothing but give me the richest and most pleasant experiences I’ve had in a long time. Maybe it’s a part of growing up: wanting to reconnect with your roots, discover who you are by way of finding out where you came from. Wandering the streets of your hometown to discover what you missed while it was right in front of your face. Knocking on old friends’ doors just to say hello. Writing former teachers letters in the hopes of reconnecting what is now disconnected. Sifting through forgotten boxes in your childhood room only to uncover what you once idolized. Talking with your dad about what you used to be like as a child. Making people think about how innocent and tough and troubled we were back then. Visiting your old school just to touch the bannisters, smell the cafeteria and step into your favorite stall on the 2nd floor bathroom.

I recently experienced the latter. Impulsion, compulsion, and an urge to reenact the past drove me 45 minutes across the river to my school. The same posters of Fr. Lanteri hung on the walls inside the entrance. The gigantic double doors made that sound as they clicked open from the electronic latch inside. The wrought iron stariwells gave me the same chill they did as a child. A kid in navy pants and our old polo shirt logo sat at the bottom of the steps with a trash can at his side–that area remained the “I feel sick so I’m going to sit with my head in a can for a whole class period” area.

I spoke with Principal Peggy Oungst and Secretary Carolyn Fahnestock about where I was, who I was, and what I was for about 20 minutes, then i excused myself with the thought that I needed to walk through the in-and-out doors of the bathroom because, after all, that’s what I came there to do. I walked ‘in’, ran my hang over the steaming radiator, then over the porcelain sinks. I walked into the third stall from the door (always my first choice), stared at the worn toilet seat then closed the door behind me. The same scratches were notched in the wood and the sturdy slide metal latch was still in place. I moved it back and forth a couple times then opened the door and looked in the mirror. I walked toward the ‘out’ door slowly, savoring that one moment of the 90 degree turn where it’s pure darkness before you exit. It was all the same–even me.

I left the school and walked under the carport to the bottom of the church where, at one time, we had music class, audial testing, computer class, youth group and tutoring. The doors were locked, however, as things have changed since we were small and the world didn’t have it out for us.

Set-Up
To many, I’m sure the memory of their grade school Christmas pageant is either unfulfilling or unassuming or perhaps it isn’t even a memory at all. Maybe they don’t remember how itchy that skirt was that grandma made or how tight that clip-on tie was or how corny you looked wearing a matching jumper you shared with your sister. Or how thrilling it was to stand up in front of hundreds of people and sing (or not sing) your heart out.
At my grade school, we’d practice for months in advance. We’d rehearse walking in and arranging ourselves on the altar steps. Sometimes it was alphabetically, sometimes it was by height. But mostly it was a clump of girls broken up by the outnumbered boys who never sang anyway (except Brian Coalson–he always sang).

The Bathroom
On the night of the concert, we’d meet in our respective classrooms. What I remember the most is how cool it was to be in the room at night. We were all out of uniform, our teachers were there, dressed nicer than usual, and we sat in our desks working on homework or doing special projects to fill the time. Going to the bathroom was always an adventure because the school I went to was old and dark with wrought iron railings and those funky sort of mosaic/marble/granite floors with wooden baseboards and real doors with small glass windows and original frames. The bathroom had four stalls, two porcelain sinks and a huge radiator that spat out sounds so terrifying no one wanted to be in there alone. But the radiator was so huge that it made the bathroom very hot. So we’d jack ourselves up onto the scalding radiator and crack the frosted glass windows that sat above it. The room had an in and an out door, the latter at the end of a small 90 degree angled turn. As a small child, it seemed like a neverending hallway. As a teen it was a mere two-step process.

Showtime
So we’d gather in our rooms then trek over to the church under the carport, through the computer room then up the back stairway under the church. It was dank and small and hadn’t been touched since the ’30s. Val recalls there being a coffin in the basement of the church, but I remember it only being one of those huge tombs topped with a statue of La Pieta or something along those lines. All 25 of us would grip the bannister in the cold stairwell and wait to walk through the sacristy an onto the altar, where we clumped up to sing something surely out of tune or unsynchronized.
One year I played the chimes. One year we did sign language. Another year we clapped like they do in black churches. I think I even played the guitar one year, those simple, obligatory chords of C, A, and G surprisingly easy to mess up.

When I was little we used to meet on the landing, all four of us, and sing Happy Birthday to Jesus. My feet were hot from being snug in the footied pajamas, my face was swollen with sleep and my heart raced as I thought of what lay beneath the tree downstairs. I slept in the room through which the chimney passed, so I always assumed that I would hear Santa first, before anyone else, as he came down the chute, belly big and bag of presents bundled.

I still have the same stocking with thin red material lining the back and bright-colored cross-stitches of reindeer, sleighs and snow covering the front. While it used to hang from the mantle, the stocking now is simply placed on it, its contents not as overflowing, but certainly more meaningful than when I was a child. It was always my favorite part of Christmas, the stocking raid, and I’m not sure why; maybe because so much goodness was packed into one small sock. Or maybe because I didn’t like unwrapping things.

We would eat monkey cake (a delicious, decadent bundt-cake-like thing made of biscuit dough, sugar and butter) after the opening of the presents, then we’d get right to playing with every single one, our sticky hands making it tougher to get off the remaining wrapping paper that clung to its former contents.

And while I have these standing traditions and ways of doing things and these perfect memories, the one thing I would like to know is:
Who the hell ate the cookies we left out for Santa?

In grade school we were surrounded by nuns and priests and very, very Catholic lay people. We went to church 5 times a month and were let out of class to go be altar servers for funerals and special Masses. We stood up and said prayer every morning and, during Lent, the rosary instead. We walked the stations of the cross and went to Benediction when necessary. Confessions were heard every month. On Fridays a priest would come teach our religion class. Nuns prepared us for our First Communion and Confirmation and taught us music. Sometimes we were lucky enough to have a nun as our everyday teacher. My sister found it all a bit hoax-ish but for some reason I was fascinated by it. At one point most of the school and church thought I would turn out a nun I was so “holy.” Sure, I listened, I did the work, I was passionate about it, I went to Mass even when not told, and I wore a medal around my neck, but I knew I could never do what these selfless people would be doing for the rest of their lives.
Here were these (usually) young, attractive people, dressed in habits, who have given their lives completely to someone they’ve never seen face to face. They’ve talked to him, about him, seen things he’s done, but never once have they physically seen what this guy looks like. They’ve never shaken his hand. Knocked on his door. Shared a coffee with him. Met his friends. Petted his cat. They’ve got a courage and a belief system that, while not infallible, is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever seen anyone possess.
I just received a letter from a nun who I met in Mexico while doing a service trip down there about 7 years ago. She STILL sends me letters. She STILL remembers me. She touched me deeply, and I suppose I touched her, too.