Tense

Before time I is good and happy.

Now time I is worried and thinking

About future time.

I not know what is in future time.

Things happen in before time

And things happen in now time that I see.

Before time is good before.

Before time is not good now.

Before time is not now time.

I can’t see future time.

I thinking about future time.

I thinking now.

Kevin Swanwick

February 2013

Remembering Jazz

Francis "Jazz" Swanwick died on October 26th, 2007 in Middletown, New York.  He was a lifetime resident of the wee village of Goshen, NY.

October 30^th 2007

Well….today we honor one of Goshen’s finest.  My father, Jazz Swanwick - Jazzbo to some of you - was a good man and I am very proud to have been his son.  Like many of his generation, Jazz was a child of the Great Depression.  And while Goshen was a different place when my sisters, brother and I grew up - we know this from our own experience - it was a very different place when Dad and his brothers and sisters grew up.  We know this from the stories of my grandmother, my aunts and uncles and close childhood friends of Dad’s and from Dad himself.  But we also know it from the way childhood experience informs a person’s life and we Swanwick children, as adults, came to see that Dad’s life habits, his sense of duty and responsibility, his avoidance of financial debt – "if you can’t afford it, don’t buy it" - his impatience with procrastination – “the early bird gets the worm; tomorrow is promised to no man” - came to him honestly, being formed at a young age.

As a boy I raised, lowered and folded the American flag everyday at our house and if I forgot to take it down at night or when it rained, there was hell to pay.  My father was grateful and proud to be an American and I think this was one of his ways of teaching me a sense of duty.

My father was human and therefore, imperfect.  Among the many stereotypes of the Irish is stubbornness, considered a virtue when one is resolute, but a vice when we are obstinate.  Jazz was Irish and he was stubborn.  But he could change  - and he did.  And in the most American and Christian tradition he did not judge others who were different from him.

Jazz was a great teacher as some of the fireman here today can attest, but let me share with you some of the things the Swanwick children want you to know about life with Jazz and what we learned from him.

Jazz was proud of his Irish heritage, painting his first pickup truck, which he paid $100 for, kelly green – with a paintbrush.  He was a frugal man.  In the 1960’s the Swanwicks could be seen driving around town, like the Beverly Hillbillies; Mom and Dad in front, and the kids in the back.  Dad would sometimes ride me to school at Saint John’s in that little old truck and when we made the left turn at Murray Avenue, the passenger side door would fly open, while he held me in place.  I always wondered which route he took to work to keep that door from flying open.

We kids loved riding in that truck and I have no recollection of being made fun of for, like others then, in the small but diverse Village of Goshen: rich, poor, mentally and physically handicapped, people of color, we were accepted and were part of the community.  And we were proud of our Daddy’s place in it.  Things weren’t perfect, but there was some diversity and it was a blessed little town.

The Depression generation knew what poverty was and no one seemed to comment on the rate at which various Goshen families raised themselves up and pursued the American Dream.  My father always worked several jobs: his regular job at the County, moonlighting work as a Surveyor, bartending at Greenhills and harvesting and selling scrap iron, all the while serving faithfully in the Dikeman Hose fire company, whose fraternity he loved, keeping his Village Board commitments, taking calls at all hours, fighting fires in the middle of the night, and paying tuition for five kids to go to Catholic school.  Jazz worked very hard.

My parents paid $12,000 for our little house on Delta Place.  Two or three to a bedroom and a back yard and we had all we needed.  We learned many years later that when Dad had applied for a mortgage at the local bank, he was turned down because he didn’t make enough money.  Charles Mayo, who sat on the board of the bank would have none of it and after apparently failing to persuade the bank to give this young WWII veteran a chance, told Dad that everything was OK and to mail the monthly check to him.  It was not apparent to these young parents at the time that Mr. Mayo was the actual holder of the mortgage, which was later paid in full and on time.  You see he had known my grandfather and he knew Francis Gerald Swanwick and what kind of a young man he was and I gather that he took him at his word. 

We loved our house, celebrating many a Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter with a cast of relatives and cousins and there always seemed to be enough room.  From Dad we learned gratitude, not because he told us to be grateful, but because he acted gratefully.  And what was there not to be grateful for?

My father was a practicing Roman Catholic all of his life.  But he never wore his religion or his faith on his sleeve.  His was a dignified piety expressed not in talk about religion, but in acts of love, hard work, conscientiousness and public service.  The Book of James, which concerns itself with Christian conduct, describes a number of Jazz’s personal characteristics.  I don’t know if Dad ever sat down and read the Book of James, but he certainly understood how we are enjoined to live by its injunctions and he tried to live according to them in a way that taught his children some of the most important lessons of life.  Among these was, Endurance, Humility, Faith and Good Works, Restraining the Tongue (Jazz hated gossip; if he had something to say about you, it would be to your face) and Eschewing Favoritism.  Whether or not we practice these virtues with fidelity, we now know their importance because of Dad.

After Dad died we all wept, but we also had a good laugh.  I listened to my sisters, one by one, while they referred to their Dad-given nicknames, describe how they knew they were his favorite, because he had told them so: Pat-Poo, Boo Boo and Deb-a-Jean.  Now the secret was out.  He had told them all the same thing all of their lives and had made each of them feel as though they were his favorite.  That was Dad.

If you were his friend, you were lucky: he loved you and respected you.  He had great integrity and honesty and when he gave you his word, you could take it to the bank.

He loved his sons-in-law and accepted them warmly: Danny, Ron, Paul, Charlie, Al and Stanley (his gentlemen friend) and he grieved when we lost Ron and Al.  His daughters-in-law Kathy and Laureen, knew his generosity and were among those special women in his life enjoying his old fashioned, gentlemanly kindness.

Dad had been a male chauvinist.  I say “had been,” because it was not possible for male chauvinism to prevail at 19 Delta Place.  In this area, Jazz was no match for three passionate, very bright young daughters and a quiet, but determined and intelligent wife.  These women each came to exemplify the virtues that he himself lived and taught; he only needed to see that it was proper and right for women to carry these virtues as far or farther than any man.  Over time, they each taught him that and he understood it.  Each of them challenged Dad in a different way.

To Deba-Jean, first out of the gate, Dad gave his fierce pugnacity and endurance for life’s trials.  While it seemed back then that it was all about combat and defiance, they transformed each other and earned each other’s respect, though it was hard for Dad to articulate these things at the time.  Dad lived to see Debi become among other things, a well-respected, caring, health care provider to women, a mother, a wife and a widow.  While it gave him great sorrow to see any of his children suffer, we know Dad was in awe of her courage and her independence and today she understands her debt to him.

To Boo-Boo (Mary Kay), he gave the gifts of tolerance and service to others.  We all remember regularly having dinner at 19 Delta Place with Larry Munch, a mentally retarded boy whom Mary Kay cared for at AHRC.  This was while she was still a teenager.  Larry, for a time, became part of the family.  In Mary Kay, Dad saw his children begin to take the next step in public service: caring for the least among us.  Dad loved having Larry as well as our Fresh-Air child, Edith at the house and he treated them both with gentleness, love, respect and dignity.  When Larry later died, it was a loss to him and to our family and Mary Kay was our rock and Dad adored her.

Patty-Poo.  What can you say?  Here Jazzbo was simply outwitted.  And charm comes to mind.  Jazz had great charm, but his little Patt-poo perfected it as an art form.  Patty remembers well the morning she was walking up the stairs, at 5:30 a.m., and Dad was coming down the stairs, on his way to work.  Dad said “There’s my Pat-Poo, up and at ‘em early while everyone else sleeps late!”

“You bet Daddy; the early bird gets the worm!”

Why couldn’t I come up with a line like that after being out all night partying?

When Patty expressed interest in Golf, Dad assented, but let her know that ladies shot from different color tees (closer to the hole of course) and needed to move along more quickly or get out of the way to not hold up the men.  I didn’t tell you that Dad was competitive, but anyone who participated in a pumping contest with Jazz Swanwick and Nozzle Budd knows what I am talking about.  Jazz and Mickey Nuzzolese even competed for who could grow the largest tomatoes, substituting plants mid-season if either thought they were losing.  These guys played for keeps.

Patty learned well and what Dad didn’t know was that she began secretly taking golf lessons, because she wanted to carve up his hide on the golf course.  And she came close to doing that.  If anyone wants to see what Jazz looked like teeing off, just watch his little girl, “Little Jazz” at the tee; the similarity is comical.

His Poopsie, our Mom, quietly and over several years, defied his wish for her to stay home and not work, going further, working the night shift at Arden Hill as a nurse, going to school and later earning a Masters degree.  Dad was dumbfounded, but did the only sensible thing and took over laundry duty.

Jazz was transformed by the women in his life and he was proud of them.

Dad had a great sense of humor, enjoyed a good time and was a known prankster.  Time and tact do not permit all of these stories to be told, but some remember Halloween in drag with John Sherlock and Mal Shesa, ordering drinks at the Wonder Bar with Monopoly money.  Ed Weben, Dad’s next-door neighbor, will just now learn if he is here, that that mysterious tomato plant he wondered about, growing in his apparently fertile roof gutter, was actually planted there by Jazz and Freddy Cavanaugh.  It wasn’t the birds Ed!

Jazz loved seeing his grandchildren and he enjoyed watching them grow; he saw Matthew, Daniel, Jeremy and Patrick become distinguished young men.  He saw Griffin, the son of two English teachers, grow from a toddler to an articulate young…manJ; Colleen who still calls him Pee-pa, become a beautiful and compassionate woman, and he saw the latest additions, Holley and Paulette, come from around the world to become part of the Swanwick clan.  While he was sick, all of these blessings helped him persevere.

John – Johnny Wockett.  John and I know that Dad was proud of both of his sons and he let us know it.  We had both caused him grief at times, but he lived to see us settle down, build careers, marry and have families and we know this made him happy.

But the most important thing in Jazz’s life was his Poopsie.  You could always see it in his eyes.  Every day of his life, he knew that he married the prettiest girl in town and he adored her.  You see, Jazz was in love with Carol.  We all remember the black and white portrait photo of Mom that Dad kept on his dresser.  It was signed in her beautiful cursive, with the note “Always Carol.”  And always Carol she remained for him, in sickness and in health, often at some cost to her own physical and emotional health.  Jazz was frustrated by his failing health and told us numerous times that he hated being a burden to Mom.  He knew that he was not in control as his health continued to fail.  For a man who had not one sick day in 45 years at the County, this seemed so unfair and must have been terribly difficult for him.  Carol and Jazz have been living examples of faithfulness and the endurance that James speaks of in his Epistle.  We Swanwick children are still being taught and I hope I will have the endurance I have seen should fate call.

It was a great privilege to be at my father’s side when he died; all sons and daughters should be so fortunate.  Jazz died with the knowledge that his family was together and strong, that we all loved him deeply and that his Poopsie was in good hands.  And I believe that this was a great comfort to him as he slipped off to eternity.

So today, let us all celebrate his legacy and the richness he added to our lives.  And let us redouble our efforts to practice the virtues he taught us.  Rise and shine Pop.

- Eulogy for Jazz delivered at Saint John the Evangelist Church, Goshen, New York, October 30th, 2007. 

Our Hearts of Darkness

There are moments in life when the darker side of human nature makes itself known in the everyday and the commonplace. At these times, long held assumptions about human decency can vanish in an instant and leave us with a clear-eyed, but disturbed sense of reality. It is the moment when, with the sharpest vision and presence of mind, there is no doubt that what we have just witnessed is ugly and true at the same time.

While waiting for my delayed flight from Tampa to New York, sitting in the boarding area in my usual heads-down reading posture, I was briefly interrupted as I saw a wheelchair come into my peripheral field of vision. Some rapid-fire, automated memory mechanism wordlessly communicated to me that it was the usual and often-seen senior citizen being helped along to our gate. The mechanism was wrong. As I raised my head I could see that this was a young Marine, sitting ramrod straight in his military-issued wheelchair, legless from the hips and showing the remnants of third degree burns on his deeply scarred arms, the right one badly disfigured. Prominently centered on the back of the chair was the Marine Corps insignia and around it the words “Purple Heart Veteran.”

I had just had a long discussion the night before with a business colleague from California about war and US foreign policy and was in a circumspect mood. I had expressed my deep frustration with the lack of awareness of most citizens of the depth of trouble that war brings. We discussed the chronic under reporting of civilian casualties, the rampant illegality excused in the name of “protecting our freedom,” the monstrously large defense budget, the devastating costs to our veterans and their families, the continuing escalation of international conflict and the recent NYU-Stanford Law School collaborative study on the devastating human toll of the current Drone War in Waziristan, Pakistan.

Overcome with emotion, it took me several minutes to compose myself enough to approach and offer this young man a smile and a “thank you.” It was obvious that he was avoiding eye contact with people, including the flight attendant who was speaking to him with kind, gentle words and gestures of assurance. I thought she was an angel.

As we boarded the plane, the first class section was full and all were seated, many gazing at me, the 6-foot tall man standing before the galley. The young Marine was already seated in the coach section. I looked at the Angel and she looked at me. Our eyes locked. In a strong voice I said, “That kid belongs in first class, someone should give up their seat.”

I turned and looked at my fellow citizens seated in front of me and heard the flight attendant second my motion and also state that the young man was only 23 years old. She said, “I know you’d give up yours.”

“Of course.”

I thought, that’ll do it and stood for a moment longer. Everyone either looked away or looked down. I gazed ahead and at the young Marine and could see that he must have heard me. He looked down as well. With everyone in my view looking down, warrior and civilians, I felt my heart begin to race with waves of injustice rising in my gut. Before I could utter a second louder protestation I thought of the young man. This was about him. It was also about respect. Creating a scene would embarrass him I thought and would be an affront to his dignity.

He had not asked for a better seat and had lived, seen and experienced things that none of us could even imagine. No burden lay with him. It lay only with my fellow citizens and me. I moved on slowly to my seat. I could feel the massive weight of what just happened hanging in the air. Was I the only one feeling it? Could others escape away into their iPhones and newspapers? Did they not at least momentarily reflect? Did no one at all feel compelled enough, even after some moments of uncomfortable soul searching, to simply get up out of his or her seat? Such a simple and utterly modest sacrifice….

As we flew to New York, the flight activities proceeded as typical flights do with safety announcements and basic drink service. The young soldier and his circumstances occupied my mind the entire time. I began to weep. I could think of nothing else. I peered forward looking for the top of his bright blond crew cut. Did someone finally give up their seat? Yes, perhaps I missed it. Someone did the right thing.

As the flight attendants serving the Coach section made their way back to me, I ordered club soda and peanuts. I had been wiping tears away from my eyes and trying not to allow my emotions to overtake me. As my flight attendant, a man of military bearing himself, poured my drink I asked, “did someone finally give their seat to that young man?”

“No, no one.”

“He’s only 23-years old. He was a Minesweeper. Lost part of his arm too.”

I looked up at him and he could see that I had been crying. ‘What the fuck is wrong with people?,” I asked. I hadn’t expected to blurt out vulgarity and for a moment, felt a little embarrassed.

Slowly, he shook his head.

The angel flight attendant who was now serving first class moved back down the aisle toward us. She hurriedly asked the man serving my drink, “Do you have any vodka? I need five. They’re all drinking it and I’m out.” He reached below his cart and pulled out five bottles and she took them away.

I do not know what the conscience of another is. I can only speculate. I see so many bumper stickers reading “Support our Troops,” that I have been led to believe, perhaps naively, that most people really care about them and understand the meaning of their sacrifice.

Faced with a choice, I opt for the notion that at least some of the folks ordering drinks, were doing so to quell an uneasy feeling that had overcome them.

Perhaps they weren’t aware of what was making them uncomfortable and sometime later, it would become apparent. And then, with the full measure of time and distance between themselves and the young Marine they would come to realize that they had made a terrible mistake. That something which seemed trivial was actually profound; that the silent young man with the Purple Heart lives a life that is defined by sacrifice. That when given the wonderful opportunity to make the most meager sacrifice for him, to offer him their gratitude, their love, the simple recognition that they were grateful for his service and their own lives of luxury, they did nothing.

And that in this awareness, they will grieve for this soldier’s physical loss and emotional suffering and the many more like him and those who have died. And perhaps they will grieve as I am for a country that has lost its way in a culture of self-centeredness and willful ignorance of its own heart and soul.

It is in our best interest to hope for the emergence of the non-selfish parts of our character, in others and in ourselves. At times like this, it is difficult to make such a leap of optimism, but I have to believe that what is good in all of us only needs to be touched by awareness to make it operative in our lives, that our hearts of darkness can become hearts of light.

Friday, September 28th, 2012

Why Americans should be hopeful, and what you can do if you’re not.

I am hopeful. But should I be? Am I stupid, not watching what’s going on? How can I maintain such a posture in our present circumstances?

Aside from the obvious blessing of life itself and the dearness of my loved ones, I obtain perspective from two places: history and my local community.

One of the most enjoyable and useful aspects of studying historical scholarship is the experience, unique to humans, of mentally imaging the time, place and personal circumstances of a subject and persons we cannot see or touch. It seems far away, but still familiar because persons are there. But as one of my college history professors, Gerald Leonard once said, “The difficulty with History is that we are studying something that does not exist.” This simple, but profound observation leads us to the awareness that our grasp of what we understand as “history” is a combination of raw recorded data, the backward observation of postulated causes and effects and more importantly, our reaction to it all, both intellectually and emotionally. While emotion seems an errant factor that needs to be controlled for, in reality, it is ever-present and forces us to make value judgments and to appreciate what humans-past have experienced and what life might have really been like in another time. And we cannot escape our own emotions.

How can history make us hopeful, given our present economic and political circumstances? With a little attention, we can clearly chart progress. One simple exercise I use is imagining what it would be like to have been born at the turn of the last century and mustered into one of those WWI regiments serving in the trenches of Verdun or the Battle of the Somme, most likely facing grim extinction or at best, surviving while witnessing hideous death and suffering in every direction. Or what it must have been like to have lived as a young Ashkenazim boy in the Warsaw Ghetto of the 1930’s and what came later, or more remotely, what it might have been like to be a citizen of Carthage at the end of the Third Punic War, where devastation wrought by the Romans was utter and complete, thereby ending a civilization.

OK, not enough? We can also take measure of our own nation and its history, to see that despite the dark pallor of our economic system and the sometimes-wicked polarization of our politics, we have made incredible, measurable progress. Since my birth alone we have witnessed the passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1965, the ending of Jim Crow, the transformation of music worldwide by Rock and Roll, the complete mapping of the Human Genome and the development of Super Conducting Magnetic Technology, which confirmed the existence of quarks, verifying the theoretical physics models and allowing scientists to peer into the origins of physical nature. This same technology later made its way into use in the Magnetic Resonance Imager. Many of us know loved ones whose lives were saved because of this technology, all right here, in the US of A. Examples abound.

Still not enough?

One of the outstanding but obvious characteristics of the Television and Internet age is that we have access to more information than ever dreamed possible coming at us at overwhelming speed. The prerequisite for corporate profits and market share (or mind-share as some call it) means that the pace will quicken, not slow down. The viewing of this article takes time as does surfing the Net, using Social Media and scouring news and cultural sites to “keep up.” For many of us, that time has become inordinate in comparison to time spent with others, engaged in real, sensory human experience. For most, when working long days or looking for work, supporting self and perhaps family, paying bills, trying to stay informed, we can become a slave to this easy outlet that doesn’t require additional expense, travel or inconvenience. It also doesn’t require direct, human engagement.

A part of my own experience that has taught me how to grin at life optimistically and to live, work and productively engage with others who do not share my political or religious views, my taste in music or art, sports teams, food - you name it – has been doing community-based work on a local level. The postmodern injunction “think globally, act locally” is so pure and true that we can easily dismiss it as a foggy tree-hugger vagary. In reality, in your community right now, there are underfed children and homeless people. Even if you live in the suburbs, homeless people are there in the uncounted legions of “couch surfers” as the outreach organizations often call them. Food pantries often struggle for food supplies, but more often for good, reliable, volunteer help. Art and cultural organizations, local theater, small museums, often rely on volunteer help to make them work. These organizations allow community to live – really live.

One of the most life affirming experiences for me has been volunteering as a board member, but also a volunteer for homeless services and food programs in the poorer parts of my community. This is one area of need, but there are many others in most communities. In doing this work, I have collaborated with Catholics, Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Methodists, Jews, Muslims, Atheists, Agnostics, Buddhists, Unitarians, rock-rib, conservative Republicans, Libertarians, Green Party members, Left Radicals, traditional Democrats, Dissenters and others to work toward a common goal in the service of a common good. One of my collaborators and close friends, Frank, is very politically conservative and never votes for the same folks I do. In a political discussion, we would disagree on most topics. However, this is NEVER an issue and I love him dearly and I know the feeling is mutual. He himself has a son with Downs Syndrome to whom he is devoted and is one of the most charitable, compassionate individuals walking the planet. Our relationship is enhanced and deeply humanized by our collaborative, passionate service and our deeper understanding of each others personal lives and struggles.

Another friend, Jim, working in the same trenches, could be categorized as so far radical left as to be “out there” by conventional standards. He is anything, but out there. A father of three, he has allowed himself, despite a superior intellectual capacity and advanced education, to work for low wages as he and his spiritual partner and wife, Cathy, raise a bright and happy family, while continuing to serve the poor and homeless. He is fully engaged and maintains a clear-eyed view of a reality that most of us don’t know exists in the poorest communities of our nation. His work often occurs with people from faith communities, but also with those not so inclined, both “liberal” and “conservative.” The work is carried on and the community served is better as a result.

Many of our problems are intractable, but human compassion and dedication can be a death-defying force when people actively engage in common cause that crosses mythical, establishment boundaries. We see past what is superficial and find that diversity of experience and worldviews are not barriers, but rather opportunities to apprehend each others humanity. Push your self beyond your mythical boundaries and I promise, you will find hope.

“We are here to awaken from our illusion of separateness.” ― Thich Nhat Hanh

Telling Time - A Short Story | Kevin Swanwick

“Mr. Timmons” she commanded, “what time is it now?”

He suddenly awakened from his daydream, brought back with a jolt from his brief retreat from the terrorizing wait. But the wait was over and suddenly it was his time. With measured steps she moved forward, slowly and steadily, her tall and slender figure carrying the black habit with ease, brushing lightly, one by one, against the neat, perfectly aligned desks. The musty scent was unmistakable when she passed by. With one hand she held that press-board archetypal clock, yellow face with black numbers and notation and bright red contemporary clock hands. Her gripping long fingers obstructed the number 4. This threw him - the break in the analog series and his panic, brought hesitation.

"What time is it?" He sat silently, eyes watering. He knew a response was needed quickly, but he could not think.

Telling time was the new subject being taught in Sister Ignatius’ second grade class. For Sean this was something he knew only by the major markers of the day: waking up, leaving for school, lunch time, going home, dinner time and bed time. Of course, there were others, like the end of Topo Gigio on Sunday night’s Ed Sullivan Show, but weekdays for a seven-year-old student at Saint Stephen’s Elementary school were defined by these basic, temporal signals. Today was only the second time the Sister used the clock in class. Sean hadn’t paid attention the first time.

“I don’t know Ssturr.”

Her deep voice grew louder. “Stand up, Mr. Timmons and tell us what time it is!”
He stood up slowly beside his small desk and inhaled uneasily; this was going to be a bad day. Steadily, she moved closer to him. He felt ashamed and afraid, standing bare in front of his forty or so second-grade classmates, unable to conceal his shame while not brave enough to hold back tears. He tried to breathe normally, but could not and began to shudder uncontrollably.

Now she stood only a few feet away. “Alright, slap yourself in the face.”

Her small eyes, set beneath unusually dense, black eyebrows, did not move off of him. The white crown of her headpiece dug sharply into her forehead and established an austere lookout from which unquestioned authority could hold persistent vigil.

“Yes Ssturr.”

The classroom was silent. He could not see anything to his right or his left, her menacing, long dark form the only object in his field of vision. With his right hand, he lightly slapped his cheek, praying for some undeserved mercy. Please make her stop.

She stepped forward, teeth clenched tightly as if to physically restrain her tongue while forcing air from her mouth.

“Slap your face harder!”

He could no longer speak as he raised his right hand slowly, for emphasis, as if to say “see? I really mean it this time,” and slapped his own cheek with sufficient force to leave a sharp sting. His vision blurred and he began to drift off again to that place where he could watch events unfold as a sleepy spectator.

Sister Ignatius was thinking about how Sean could become a turtle when he wanted to and this annoyed her as she always wanted a child’s total focus when she spoke; the same way she had to focus when her teachers had addressed her. This talent of Sean’s was an obstacle for her. She saw him trying to withdraw and with keen purpose, moved in to recapture the tension she knew so well. This was her domain, her mark of excellence and she had perfected the form.

“Slap…your…face…hard!

Delivered again to his pillory, he began to hear the quiet sobs of other nearby children, but could see nothing, save the towering black and white personage before him. With utter resignation and obedience he smote himself for the third time. The sting pierced a vague sensation in his body and his legs felt weak. He was becoming nothing. He sensed an answer to his prayer. Please her; disappear. Disappear. Hail Mary, full of grace….

The second grade classroom at St. Stephen the Martyr Elementary School was a study in order and symmetry. Like all of the other classrooms in the school, desks were perfectly aligned in columns and rows and if one moved by even the smallest measure it was returned promptly to its correct position. Because Sean’s last name began with a “T”, his desk was near the back of the room, on the side furthest from the door. The luck of a name, he had thought.

Now he saw only black. The sudden, exemplary blow to his head brought gasps and sighs to the room, but only for a moment. Then silence. He did not hear anything outside of his body as his head throbbed and there was a ringing sound in his ears. It was a long way to the door and he understood that he’d be moved toward it against his will. Presently, her hand gripped his white shirt collar, making a fist that choked him as her holy “wedding ring” dug into his throat. The clip-on uniform tie fell to the floor and his head was forced backward. They struggled as a single entity in convulsive, halting movements; the familiar and awkward march began in unified forward motion, interrupted only by oblique collisions with the desks of his row and maintained by the jerking pull of her arm as it anchored, with hardened fist, on the fulcrum of his adam’s apple. He felt a great pressure in his face and head as the blood of his jugular veins backed up against the unyielding force of Sister Mary Ignatius.

Her mind was at ease as his head was easily moved in any direction she suggested. This short and turbulent trip to the hallway was giving her release from her own peculiar tension. Her excellent peripheral vision was at work, despite the fact that she continued to look straight at him and she could see and feel the children of the class looking on with pure fear and confused fascination. It felt good. Sean saw himself as the singular target for her forceful anger, but for her, Sean was a source of pleasure. ‘He responds so well’ she thought as she was savoring the drama of their encounter and the affirmation it brought her. For Sister Ignatius, educational training was a postscript to what she had learned in childhood and gentle touching was beyond her sense of the world and was hidden in a place too dark to apprehend. A slow, soft embrace – from anyone - would bring waves of fear. It was clenching, pulling and thrusting that came naturally to her, always, briefly bringing her the desired result - in the classroom - the sanctum. This would then be followed by a deep sense of remorse and often she became depressed. When she was with other Nuns, she would rarely speak and then only tersely in response to a question. In the classroom she would freely hum as she moved about the children doing their work, sensing each's discomfort as she approached.

“You…will…move…now!” Her verbal cadence was following the controlled stumble of their clumsy waltz.

Briefly, in small flashes, she remembered her novitiate when she’d struggled with hard questions. Her superior, during scheduled moments of “reflection” had asked her if she understood her own motives. She was proud of her association with the Sisters of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, their courageous roots in Ireland in 1776 and their instructive teaching so grounded in the Beatitudes. Lord, let me teach this boy as you would have me do it….

Sean would unwittingly receive his instructions, delivered in a long game of “telephone”, over two centuries, where distortions materialize not only from honest human failing - the limits of auditory sense and short-term memory – but from the great will of a tortured soul.

The heavy Maplewood door swung open and just as quickly slammed behind them, its murky and opaque glass sealing off any possible observation from one side to the other. She thrust him to the wall of heavily painted concrete block and then stood closely over him. The classroom entrance stood at the end of a long and poorly lit hallway just before the descent of a deep flight of stairs leading to the rear entrance of the school on the first floor. He wondered if she would throw him down the stairway. Ignatius was six feet tall in stocking feet and her head, whose actual shape was disguised by her habit, was disproportionately small for a person so tall. Her skin was fair and her nose was long and narrow, but slightly bulbous and when she came close, the pores of her skin were clearly discernible as was the oil they secreted. Her breathe had an unpleasant odor as she spoke in a tight whisper.

“Do you want me to smash your head through the wall?”

“No Ssturr.”

She had grabbed his ears as if they were the handles of a heavy milk can and lifted him from the floor. She smiled softly and leaning to the wall, pressed her body against him until he could not breathe as he was nearly suffocated by the pressure of her abdomen against his mouth and nose; the musty habit offering a veil of separation between her flesh and his. Her thighs were pressed against his small chest and she sighed softly. He had felt momentary relief when she released his collar allowing him to breathe freely and blood flowed from his head, but now he was struggling again. Standing straight, she turned her gaze down the lengthy hallway for what seemed a long time and then back to him again. She whispered.

“Do you want me to smash your head into that wall?”

“Nooo Ssturr.” He shuddered.

Suddenly she moved back, still maintaining her grip. The smile was gone, her face was flush and her eyes looked wild. Her breathing had quickened.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.

He could no longer feel the back of his head. The first few blows hurt, but after that, numbness. He started to believe that he could continue on for a long time. Just let me breathe. Her murmurings were now indiscernible. He imagined that his head was like one of the balls he threw against the wall outside the school as it seemed to have a small bounce with each strike.

She stopped and he could see that she was breathing heavily. Continuing to hold his ears and momentarily lightening her grip, she lifted her head and looked down the long dark hallway again. Silence….

Thud, thud….

When he awoke, the polished asbestos floor tiles were coming into focus. They were always so shiny and clean and during class he often followed the colored swirling patterns they presented on their background of slate gray. But he had never seen them this closely before, could no longer identify a pattern. They looked different. Where am I? His face was touching the floor and his head was partially supported by the bottom of someone’s fall coat. The back of his head hurt. He was in the rear of the classroom, lying on the floor against the open coat closet that spanned half the distance of the back wall. What time is it? Irony was not part of his world yet. He could see classmates at the back of the room turning their heads and gazing at him, making remarkable glances at each other and turning back to him. The bell rang and all of the children began to move out of their desks and he knew it was the end of the day. He arose slowly and turned for his coat in the closet. He looked toward his desk and could see that it was as he left it. Sister Mary Ignatius was gone to Friday’s teacher conference and the lay teacher at the front of the room was giving instructions about homework. He could not comprehend what she was saying except for the word “spelling.” He loved spelling. He walked to his desk, straightened it up and collected his books, paper and pencil and followed the other children to the door where Ms. Stephenson, the attending lay teacher, stood.

“Sister Ignatius said that you were being punished today for disrupting class. Did she say that you could sleep?”

He felt the back of his head and the large bump that had grown there. It hurt and it felt oily.

“No M’a'm.”

As the children formed a column in the hallway along that wall, his friend Peter whispered “Hey Sean, what did she do to you this time? You OK? I thought it was my turn today.” He wanted to form the right words, but instead he shrugged, wanting only to get outside and soon they moved quietly down the hall.

It was Friday, so dinner would be fish, probably fish sticks; not his favorite, but his stomach was growling. He noticed that when he touched the back of his head he would find dark crumbs on his finger. His heart pounded and he felt angry and took a quicker stride. As he walked, he became confused and the sensation of hunger in his stomach changed to a tight feeling and he stopped thinking about food. Normally he would wait for his older sister Colleen and they would walk the four village-blocks home together, but once outside, he turned quickly at the end of the building and headed toward the back of the school, where he could crawl under an unfastened section of fence and cut through Ms. Robertson’s yard to his preferred short-cut and then down a quiet street. Ms. Robertson lived alone, a widow, and was a member of the church and he had only seen her twice, but she had smiled and didn’t seem to mind when he cut through the yard.

“Sean!” It was his friend Brian coming from Ms. Robertson’s yard, running to catch up with him.

“I had to go to the Nurses office for my hearing test. Pete told me that she smashed you in the head and then took you out into the hall. Is that true?”

“Yea.” He was embarrassed and wondered how many kids were talking about his humiliation.

“My father says they are not allowed to hit us and that if they hit me or my brother that my parents are going to put us in public school.”

Public school…he wondered what that was like -more than just basketball; a different Cub Scout troop….?

“They can’t hit kids in public school?”

“No, and you don’t have to wear a uniform!”

When he arrived home, his mother was busy in the kitchen where she was beginning dinner preparations and watching his baby brother in the bassinette. His sister wasn’t home yet and he didn’t want to talk to anyone anyhow, so he went to his room and changed into dungarees and sneakers and then ran to the back yard. The yard was less than a quarter of an acre but was lined with a few mature Maple trees and an Ash tree that was his favorite. It had a low, perpendicular bough which he could jump up and grab with both hands and this was just enough for him to swing his leg up and flip himself over and climb to the tree trunk. Once there he would navigate the other branches, or shimmy sections of the trunk until he got to his perch near the top of the tree. He loved this spot, because it was out of common view and it was his secret place and he could safely watch the world and think about whatever he wanted to. He leaned back to rest his head on an overhead branch, but that hurt too much, so he decided to just sag forward a little to balance himself and this seemed to work fine. He sat for a long time. He thought about what his Dad would say if he told him that he’d gotten in trouble in class and had cried and then was taken out into the hall and…”are you a boy or a man-boy son? A man-boy doesn’t cry.” Why hadn’t he listened well enough the first time she used the clock in class? What was he thinking about that day? Why did she pick on him? These were questions he could not answer and after a while he stopped thinking so much and his mind drifted as he looked over the roof tops of neighboring houses.

Suddenly he heard the loud blaring horn from downtown and his heart raced as it always did, at first, from the sudden, concussive noise. It was the village fire whistle. He knew it wasn’t a whistle at all and had wondered why it was called a whistle when it always sounded like the loudest horn in the world. He heard two blasts, followed by another two blasts. He knew this as 2 – 2, or Mutual Aid. His Dad was the fire captain in the volunteer fire company and Mutual Aid meant that a nearby town had an emergency and needed the help of other local fire companies. Dad had a radio in his pickup truck and would be able to hear the dispatcher tell where the fire was and then he would be one of the first men to the fire house. And he wouldn’t be home for dinner. Sean waited for the sounds of the sirens and they came. He could hear the loud barking of the diesel engine from the pumper truck as it roared through town and he knew that his Dad was probably sitting in the right seat, using the radio. The rattle of sounds that accompanied a fire call continued for several minutes and then gradually subsided as the sirens faded into quiet.

“Sean! Dinner time!”

His Mom was yelling out of the kitchen window. He and his sister would normally be within shouting distance in the yard or one of the nearby neighbor’s yards and then in a few minutes would be seated at the dinner table. Mom moved quickly and usually had some pre-dinner chores to delegate, like putting out the silverware and then it would be time to eat. He took his helpings of green beans and the fish sticks and drank from a large glass of milk.

“Sean, did you start your homework?”

“Not yet Mom.”

“Don’t wait until Sunday; you better get started tonight. We don’t want to see another bad report card.”

He hated getting his report card at school when the Monsignor would come to the classroom and call by name each student who in turn rose from their desk and walked to the front of the classroom to stand before him, as if to receive Holy Communion. Through Him, with Him, in Him….Slowly handing over the card, the Monsignor would always glance at it for several moments. You always knew the kind of grades by the greeting he gave. Kids with higher grades got a slight smile and a short nod and heard him say softly, “very good”, while those like Sean got a blank and sustained look. It was uncomfortable and it was designed to be that way. The Monsignor wielded a power that was expressed in silence and he exercised it in a precise and economic way. Afterward, Sean would have to bring his report card home and show it to his parents. Second grade was not going well and as he thought about the next report card, he lost his appetite. He had done well in first grade and his teacher, Sister Mary Agnes, had smiled often and would sometimes kneel next to his desk and look closely at his writing and offer encouragement. What had happened? Now he was confused….

“How does that feel Sean?”

Her warm and bitter breath enveloped him.

Thud, thud….

At bed time, when his mother said “don’t forget your prayers”, he thought about praying, then about God, then about Sister Mary Ignatius and soon it was all jumbled together and he tried to think about something else. Maybe he could be sick on Monday. It hadn’t worked the last time he tried it, but maybe he’d try again or maybe he would disappear, but how? Anyway, tomorrow was Saturday and he could play kickball with Brian and ride his bike. And with these thoughts he rode off to sleep….

The second grade year continued and visits to the hallway became common, but remained unpredictable. Sister Ignatius now looked at Sean in only two ways. One was when she smiled at him, which she would do at least once a day, as if he had pleased her, but he could never understand how. The other was when she was moving in on him with her jaw clenched and he couldn’t discern what made her want to do that either. Some days he noticed a sad look on her face as she sat at her desk and she wouldn’t look up or speak. At the end of the school year, Sean’s Dad had to go to the convent to talk to the Sister about whether or not to move him to the next grade and after some discussion it was decided to move Sean along, but to put him on probation. His father had taken Sean with him to the convent, in the old pickup truck, an experience Sean normally enjoyed, but they didn’t speak during the short ride. When they got to the convent it was getting dark and it was unusually cool outside. Sister Mary Gregory, the school principle and Mother Superior, had answered the door, not Sister Ignatius and when she saw Sean she hesitated before opening the door completely.

Does she know what happens in the hallway?

He could hear her whisper to his Dad that it would be better if Sean stayed outside and he could see that his Dad wasn’t happy, but he'd complied and said “wait out here son.” When the door had opened fully, Sean could smell the remnants of dinner and of wax candles burning.

He sat on the front steps of the convent wondering what the Sister was saying and wondering in turn, what his Dad was saying back to her. It was getting cold outside and he didn’t have a coat. Soon it was dark and he sat for a long time. He knew that it wasn’t good to be at the convent at night time and he was uncomfortable, but he felt safe because his Dad was there. Suddenly the door opened and he could hear his father’s deep voice from the vestibule, “alright Sister, goodnight.” Sean looked back at the Nun in the doorway and she offered him a slight smile and closed the door. When they got to the truck, Sean asked his Dad what was going to happen and he said “nothing son, but you need to buckle down and behave better for Sister Ignatius.” Buckle down…behave. They rode home in silence. When the truck came to their driveway it stopped in front of the house, without pulling in.

“Tell your Mom to give you a glass of orange juice and an aspirin before you go to bed; they shouldn’t have made you stay outside all that time. And tell her, I’m going down town.”

Going “down town” meant going to McShane’s bar and Sean would always ask his Dad if he could go with him when he said he was going down town and his Dad always said no. He hopped out of the truck and went inside. When he told his Mom what his father had said, she looked at him quizzically.

Third grade started and on the first day of school Sean met Brian along the way. They talked about the summer they had and about how glad they were that they didn’t have to go to Sister Ignatius’ class and how they felt bad for the new second-graders. At the main entrance they were greeted by Sister Mary Gregory who was smiling broadly and welcoming the children to school and giving directions to those who were confused about where to go.

“Good morning Mr. Timmons, did you have a good summer?”

“Yes Ssturr.”

He moved quickly inside and down the hallway to the third-grade classroom. He took a seat knowing that when it was time for class to begin, everyone would have to get up and go to the front of the room as final seats were assigned by alphabetical order. He looked around and tried to guess which seat was his. He gazed intently at the clock on the wall, seeing all of the numbers. After a moment he determined that it was quarter till eight. Children continued to enter in a steady stream and soon the sound of soft classroom chatter changed from discernible conversation to din. A new topic was making its way around the room and Sean was able to glean elements of a theme: Sister Ignatius wasn’t the second-grade teacher any more. No one had seen her. It was rumored that she had left the school, that she was sick, that she was made to leave, that…..

“Attention, please! Good morning children. My name is Mrs. Puzzuoli and I will be your teacher this year.”

The new lay teacher was a pleasant looking women and she was smiling. She seemed nice enough.

Sean never saw Sister Ignatius again. Rumors continued about why she left, but no one really knew. Pete and Brian and Sean were still together. They liked their new teacher. She would sometimes tell jokes and teach the children Italian words.
Upon awakening each day he felt anxious as he had for the past year. He still looked forward to weekends, but Sunday nights brought a peculiar anxiety and after Topo Gigio said “Goooodnight Ehhddy” and disappeared, a certain angst set in.
Sean continued to walk to school and while he liked Mrs. Puzzuoli, he would not speak to her. He often had stomach aches and the familiar smell of the school hallways and classrooms made him so anxious that he had trouble hearing what people were saying. He chewed his fingertips so that they regularly bled. Daydreaming became his primary activity and his school work suffered. On the day of first report cards he vomited before breakfast. He wanted to run away. He was less worried about bringing the report card home and more worried about standing in front of the class and facing the Monsignor; the same Monsignor who stood beside Sister Mary Ignatius and glared at him. Her spirit would be there and she would be smiling while Sean tried to hold back tears.

Sean skipped breakfast and headed out the door, walking to school alone. He took the long way this day and as he turned up Church Street, the final stretch, he saw the speeding ambulance, lights flashing and he heard the loud siren screaming as it rushed by. He turned and watched as it slowed down at the Stop sign and then sped off again toward the hospital. He imagined that one of the elderly residents of the neighborhood was very sick and he hoped it wasn’t Mrs. Robertson. When he arrived at school no one mentioned it.

At the hospital, the sisters had arrived quietly despite having used an ambulance.
Ignatius looked at the ceiling, restraints still in place, as Sister Gregory answered the attending physician’s questions.

“We don’t know doctor, her father committed suicide when she was a teenager and her mother later died in a mental hospital on Long island….no, there is no one else. We are her family.”

“She refused to get out of bed this morning, she won’t eat and she hasn’t spoken a word to anyone. Look how she cut her arms.”

Sister Agnes was praying over her and hoping for an acknowledgement, at least, to break the deep catatonia.

It is finished. I am not worthy… Daddy, we are not worthy. These were thoughts only, as spoken words had left her now. Her last descent had been too swift and no child, no prayer or thought, could break the grip as it held her fast.
At Saint Stephen’s, the classroom was quiet as the Monsignor entered the room and everyone, on cue, rose from their desks and stood until he quietly asked all to be seated. Sean began to feel dizzy and he was sweating as the first name was called. “Adams…”

Suddenly Sean had to pee. They were only just starting the “B’s.” He tried to pray. Our Father who art in Heaven…. It was no use. He looked out the window and could hear the rhythmic pounding of a basketball on the playground below. He imagined that he was playing and he took possession of the ball and at each pause in the dribbling, he took a jump shot and scored. The yelling was for him and everyone was impressed with his skill, especially the bigger kids. Soon he grew bored with the game and decided to show off his flying skills. He sprinted across the playground and from his left foot took a long leap, stretching his arms to the sky and was airborne. He waved to everyone on the playground and soared above the building and the trees and looked at the school and the church from above, examining the sloping, slate roof tiles that seemed as though they should fall but never did. He circled around the steeple once and then shot off in the direction of his house, sailing over Mrs. Robertson’s yard and instead of following the streets flew over homes and yards until he could see his own house and the Ash tree in the back. He was able to slow down as he approached the tree and grab on to the top branches, swinging himself into the trunk. He stood looking out from the treetop, searching for some of the neighborhood kids, but there were none, since everyone was in school.

“Timmons.”

His chest pounded furiously as he turned his head. All eyes were on him. As he began to rise from his desk, the coolness of the air on his soaked trousers gave him a chill. The pee was now running straight down his leg and into his sock. He didn’t dare look down at his pants and bring more attention to the situation. He walked unsteadily to the front of the room. His right foot was squishing inside his shoe and the pee was already becoming cool. With each step he felt wetter and wetter. The Monsignor stood with the report card in his hand watching Sean move up the aisle. When he arrived at the front of the room the Monsignor bowed his head down as he slowly examined the report card. Sean stood quietly for a moment. He felt his knees buckling and then it was dark.

He was back in his tree again, but was feeling colder than before. Next time, I’ll remember to wear a jacket when I fly. He could see some of the children walking and running below, rushing to get home to their bicycles and he was content to just watch them now. He wondered if his Mom would be yelling for dinner soon and he looked for his sister, expecting her to be coming to the back yard searching for him.
“…yes, his mother is on her way. Oh, his color is coming back; I think he’ll be fine. Look, he wet his pants...Oh, I can smell it too.”

He could hear the nurse speaking to someone as she came in to focus. He recognized the smell of the nurse’s office – rubbing alcohol vapor - and he felt cold. His wet pants were now uncomfortable and he noticed a burning sensation on his thighs. He sat up slowly with the help of the nurse. She handed him a paper cup of water, but he was too tired to reach for it.

“Here, drink this Sean. You passed out in the classroom. You’re lucky you didn’t hit your head. Your Mom is on her way. You are going to be fine. Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

“No, Ma’am”

Sean’s Mom came with a friend, Mrs. O’Brien, who had her own car and together they drove him home. He knew that tonight would be report card review and his Mom would also have to clean his pants before tomorrow morning. The women were chatting in the front seat. Sean rested his head in the back seat and thought about the day when he would be big enough for a newspaper route and how he would save his money and buy a watch. Before his thoughts could wander too far, he heard Mrs. O’Brien say that her sister, a nurse, was working in the Emergency Room when Sister Mary Ignatius was brought there. His Mom turned around in her seat.

“Sean, please pray for Sister Mary Ignatius. We understand that she is sick and in the hospital.”

“Did they say what’s wrong with her?”

“Yes, they say she is suffering from exhaustion.”
And Sean was suffering from exhaustion too. He fell asleep in the back seat and dreamed about the yellow clock. And he didn’t pray.