Tag Archives: Christian Brothers

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On a recent visit to see my parents, the conversation turned to stories of how they enforced discipline with their three children.

Being the oldest, naturally, I was subjected to the worst of it.

Spatulas. Belts. Shoes.

They were all weapons of ass destruction.

They were used when I was being mouthy or disrespectful, which as I recall, was often.

But as much as my parents were enforcers of discipline, they were no match for the nuns, Christian brothers and lay teachers who made up the staff of the Catholic schools of my youth.

I recall my second-grade teacher who had “the lightning rod,” a steel ruler that was as thick as it was inflexible.

Another teacher used to grind his school ring into your skull.

I attended an all-boys Catholic high school in the Bronx where faculty members were liberal in doling out punishment and enforcing discipline.

For freshman algebra, I had Brother Tin, a Christian brother who stood about 4-foot nothing.

But his stature belied his speed.

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I don’t recall why, but one day a classmate, Mike Wasilewski,  who stood about 6-foot-2, got in trouble and was called to the front of the classroom.

In his heavily accented English, Brother Tin said: “Wasilewski, take off your glasses.”

I never saw Brother Tin’s hands even leave his sides but I vividly recall Wasilewski’s  head recoiling from the sharp, loud smack he took across his face.

But perhaps the most memorable story came on an afternoon while we waited outside a locked classroom and were gathered in the hallway.

This one student, Mike, was recounting a story to a buddy and it was laced with F bombs.

“F bomb this and F bomb that…”

Unfortunately for him, he did not realize that the office of our assistant principal, Ron Patnosh, was scant feet away.

Patnosh

And his door was open. And he was inside. Listening.

The next thing I knew Patnosh materialized as if he were an apparition.

“Where do you think you are?! Do you think you are out on the streets?! How dare you talk that way!”

As he shouted at the F bomber, each sentence was punctuated with a loud smack across the kid’s kisser.

I just stood there doe-eyed like Buckwheat from the Little Rascals.

All of this reminds me of the story of the incorrigible kid whose dad is going nuts dealing with his son’s misbehavior at school.

At public school, the kid is a disaster academically and routinely gets suspended.

The dad tries to enroll his son in a private school but the results are the same.

In desperation, the dad decides to send his son to Catholic school.

Lo and behold, the kid straightens up, discipline complaints from teachers disappear and his grades soar.

One night the dad sits the son down and asks: “After all of the trouble and anguish you put me through, why now did you decide to behave in school?”

The son replied: “Dad, I walked in the classroom and took one look at that guy nailed on the cross, and I knew they meant business!”

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Instigator-In-Chief: The PG-13 Version

The stories you are about to read are true. No names have been changed because there’s no one innocent here.

My childhood friend Pedro has been a lifetime instigator-in-chief.

From the time I met him nearly 40 years ago, Pedro has been blessed with a cherub’s face that projects such a guilt-less “Who me?” vibe that he could be armed to the teeth like Rambo and the TSA would wave him through airport security in a nanosecond.

Hence the shit he’s been able to pull off over the years, with me often as his foil.

We went to a Catholic all-boys high school run by the Christian Brothers. It was customary at the start of each class to seek the blessing of our patron saint.

So the teacher would say: “St. John Baptist de La Salle …”
And the refrain from the class would be: “…pray for us.”

In our senior AP English class, Pedro recruited a handful of classmates, and the refrain became: “…pray for Chris.”

In a roomful of 20 baritone voices, it was hard to precisely pick up that something was amiss, but Mr. Larkin would pause and raise one eyebrow before moving on.

College was no better.

We shared a class with what we came to dub “Professor Boredom,” a hawk-nosed windbag of a lit professor. During one excruciatingly tedious lecture, Pedro wrote in the margins of my notebook “OK, who farted?”

What ensued was a heaving of my shoulders and a convulsion as I tried to contain explosive laughter at his inappropriate but well-timed comment.

Subway rides were also an adventure, though I was an active accomplice in these improvised scenes.

Pedro would be at the Astor Place station waiting for the train, and I’d come up, loudly confronting him:

“Yo! You’re the dude who took my wallet!” He’d loudly deny it.

I’d put down my bag preparing for a faux fight as wary passengers, New York-like, just watched.

Then we’d pretend that we suddenly recognized each other, hug and engage in happy buddy banter.

The other scenario had me bumping into him in a crowded subway car, pretending we hadn’t seen each other in ages and carrying on a loud conversation as we got caught up about our wives, kids and careers.

That one dissolved, though, when I inquired of Pedro about the dark glasses he was wearing. His two-word straight-faced reply caused me to shatter our charade: “Hunting accident.”

Yes, more heaving, more convulsing.

He’s still at it, you know.

A few years ago, we’re at a gala fundraiser for our high school.

The speaker is extolling our late, much-respected principal, Brother Andrew. It was a solemn moment, reverence heavy in the air.

Cue Pedro.

The speaker: “Brother Andrew touched many of our lives.”

Pedro (sitting next to me with our wives and a table-full of guests, leans into me and whispers): “Brother Andrew touched me. (Pause) And I liked it.”

What future trouble will Pedro get me into?

There’s no telling, so I ask this of you:

Pray for Chris.