Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
you’re younger than I am.”
I laugh. “Now that makes me feel better!”
“Did you do any work today?”
“The New York trip, some other stuff. The father had good instincts. That trip was just the right thing.”
“And our man is showing signs of life.”
“Oh, Paul was no ice cube. Thing is, he learned early how to say no, even to himself. Very unusual for a young person, that amount of self-control. Even for a Catholic.”
* * * * * * *
THE STRANGENESS WAS OVERWHELMING. If I belonged anywhere in the world, this, my first high school classroom, was not it. A kid sauntered in as if he’d been here his whole life. When another brushed past, I took a deep breath and stepped in. Taking a seat in the rear, I looked around. A few familiar faces from camp. Everybody looked confident and intelligent. At the front a Brother sat at his desk on a heavy wooden platform, towering above us, reading. Occasionally he looked up and stared out at us. I wondered how tall he was. When the clock hit eight-thirty, he stood. He wasn’t that tall.
“Mister,” he said, pointing to a kid near the door, “will you shut the door.”
He had a long, bony face with furrows each side of his mouth and deeply recessed eyes. My impression was a hound dog needing a shave, a weary hound at that, which I thought odd, this being only the first day. He wore a priest’s cassock, at the neck a starched white bib split in two. “I am Brother A. Robert,” he began in a deep, husky voice, “and, gentlemen, as of today, you are La Salle boys. Three hundred forty-eight of you, the Class of 1959. God willing, that same number will be here four years from now.” He put a hand to his chin, then asked nobody in particular, “What is a La Salle boy?”
No response. It didn’t sound like a question, anyway.
A slight smile. “Come, gentlemen, that’s an easy one, but all right, let’s think about it. Consider our motto, that of the French Christian Brothers of Jean Baptiste de La Salle. Religio, Mores, Cultura. Religion, Morals, Culture. That’s it, in a nutshell.” He leaned forward. “We expect your time here will strengthen your love of Our Lord and Saviour, and mold you into educated young men, but let me warn you, we have very high standards...”
Suddenly the door opened. A tall boy with a shock of red hair above a pink face tiptoed toward an empty seat near me. Brother Robert called out, “What’s the matter, mister? Lost? Or just late?” He nodded at the clock.
“Sorry,” the boy mumbled.
“Perhaps you would favor us by introducing yourself.” He looked down his nose at the miserable creature. “In other words, mister, what is your name?”
“Michael Grady.” The boy was very thin.
“We’ll let it go this time, Mr. Grady, but be aware, tardiness is noted on your record and reported to the Principal.” Brother Robert peered down at us. “Mister Grady happens to be the first one to mess up, no doubt there’ll be others. Take a seat, Mister Grady.”
The boy sat down next to me and let out a long breath.
Brother Robert closed his eyes. “As I was saying, La Salle has the highest standards of any school in this city, and if that is not to your liking, I invite you to leave right now. Don’t waste our time and your parents’ money.” He pointed at the door. “You think I’m joking? Go! Cross the street to Mt. Pleasant or Central, because, gentlemen,” he banged his fist in his hand, “here we teach the qualities – that – make – you – different! That distinguish you from the boys in those schools. Oh, they’ll gain skills, but those young men will miss the opportunity to deepen their faith, to form themselves into young Catholic gentlemen. So get it into your thick skulls, you are fortunate indeed to be here. We expect you to work hard and follow the rules, because if you don’t,” he smiled, “if you don’t, we have ways of encouraging you.”
Jim.
Now the Brother was standing. “I am your home room teacher and your teacher of English. Class begins promptly at eight-thirty,” he said, glaring at Michael Grady and reaching for a thick, gray-covered book. “This is your textbook. Loring, Survey of English Literature. You may find a used copy in the bookstore, but they go fast. Cover your Loring because you will use it a great deal. By tomorrow I will expect you to have read these pages...” he walked to the blackboard and wrote, Loring, pgs 12 - 24. “Tonight’s assignment is a commentary and several excerpts from Beowulf.” Brother Robert looked around the room. “How many of you have read Beowulf?”
No hands went up, certainly not mine. “How many of you have heard of Beowulf?”
One hand, tentatively, at the front of the room. “Yes!” Brother Robert motioned a pudgy, dark-haired boy to his feet. “We stand for recitations, mister.”
“It’s this story about a wolf,” the boy said in a reedy voice, “at least I’m pretty sure...”
Brother Robert closed his eyes. “What an interesting answer! It certainly sounds like a story about a wolf.” His voice was soothing, encouraging. “Now, mister, what is your name?”
“Andrew McCaffrey.”
The boy stood basking in his success, unaware everyone was sizing him up, the first volunteer. Brother Robert ran his finger down a list of names. “McCaffrey... McCaffrey... Andrew... Ah, here you are! Well, Mr. McCaffrey, your answer is ingenious, though I must say it’s not correct. In fact, you haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about!”
The boy’s face darkened. He began to collapse into his seat.
“No, no, Mr. McCaffrey, stand until you are told to sit!” He leveled his chalk at the boy as he shrank before our eyes. “Mr. McCaffrey, I single you out only because you had the temerity to say what was no doubt running through many of your classmates’ minds.”
Brother Robert sniffed. “The fact is, I would be astonished if you or any of your classmates had even heard of Beowulf, let alone read it. Some schools don’t get to it until junior year and many not at all. Let this be a lesson. Keep up with your assignments and you won’t have to guess. And for goodness sake, if you don’t know an answer, say so! If I’d called on you, Mr. McCaffrey, that would have been different, but why volunteer if you’re just guessing? It’s a waste of everybody’s time.
“One more thing. I will assume that all of you can read and write. Your skills will improve, we will work on the essay, the short story and so on, but I assume you bring the basics to this class. You may be seated, Mr. McCaffrey.”
Brother Robert opened the text. “Most of our readings you’ll be seeing for the first time. Now then, by tomorrow you will understand that Beowolf is the only surviving Old English heroic epic, the greatest poetic achievement of Anglo-Saxon times. Curiously, the poem is set in Denmark and England is not mentioned at all. Who can tell us what other English masterpiece is set in Denmark?”
This time nobody ventured an answer.
The Brother smiled. “This year we will pay a visit to Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Remember the name. Shakespeare, William Shakespeare.” He wrote it on the board. “You’ll be hearing a lot of him. Now, as to epic poetry – first, the definition.”
Nearing nine-twenty, Brother Robert shut the text and came around his desk, leaning against it with his elbows. “As we finish today, gentlemen, a piece of friendly advice. La Salle is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You are responsible for assignments, you may be tested without warning and I expect order and attention at all times. In return, I will treat you as the young Christian gentlemen you are supposed to be. Is that clear?”
We nodded.
“After a short break I will depart, and another teacher will take my place. At nine-thirty Brother Adalbert will begin your instruction in Christian Doctrine. Now, I have for each of you a copy of your