In January of 1956, at the start of the second semester of fifth grade, we made a new friend, one who hailed from Europe. Chris Manfre sat in the auditorium with us, waiting to be assigned to classes, looking like a stranger in a strange land. He differed from us in that, as a newly arrived immigrant from Italy, he did not understand much English. I can still see Vic Luksic holding up his regulation school neckwear and repeating “tie” for Chris several thousand times, in his version of a Rosetta Stone lesson. He did the same with “collar,” while tugging at his shirt top. At that point, Chris probably wondered if his parents had made a serious mistake in opting to come to America.
It is a testimony to Chris (and to the entire school environment as well) that he graduated as class valedictorian. Along the way, I recall his mom and dad setting up folding chairs and tables in their Welles Street home in order to provide an authentic Italian spaghetti and meatballs dinner for his friends. Besides quickly learning to speak like an American teenager, he also coined a new slang word for us. I don’t remember the exact origin of the word, nor was it ever spelled out, but phonetically it sounded like “Fredazae,” a term we used similarly to “Aloha,” when we met up or took our leave. It translated into “Watch the ice,” as I recall.
As freshmen, the guys lived in fear of some upperclassmen with hazing on their minds. For me the worst gauntlet to be run involved “the burner,” a brick structure located just outside the left rear steps of the auditorium, and used to burn trash in an EPA-less era. Whenever there was snow on the ground, and we had a first period choral music class in the auditorium, you could smell anxiety in the air. Those of us who had second period across the schoolyard in the separate building above the cafeteria had to exit through those doors and down those steps. Try as we might to backtrack and leave via the school’s side steps, we were always re-directed toward potential doom.
Upper class boys lounged there smoking cigarettes between classes, and watched pale freshman boys walk through their ranks. They reminded me of leopards I’d seen in a National Geographic television program lazing in tree branches, deciding which zebra in the herd moving past them was choice enough to be brought down. We all tried not to walk too quickly (“What’s your hurry, kid?”) or too slowly (“I guess he doesn’t care if he’s late for class”). Most importantly, we stared straight ahead like scared zombies, avoiding eye contact (“What are you lookin’ at?”).
Inevitably, one or two of us were detained (to run was to be waited for after school, a far more undesirable outcome), and told to stand against the side of the burner. Then we would be informed of the rules of the game: “We’re going to throw ice balls against the wall to see which one of us can splat a fastball closest to your head. If you move your head, we’ll just have to start over.” After interminable minutes of splintering ice balls that landed next to our clenched teeth and tightly-shut eyes, we were dismissed and sent to our next class. The object, of course, was to evoke tears and/or bladder dysfunction, but making us late for class was minimally acceptable as well.
After my memorable time against that wall, I entered Sister Mark’s class a few minutes late. When she demanded an explanation for my tardiness, like any other freshman boy in a similar circumstance, I automatically responded, “No excuse, Sister,” and took detention without complaint. While I can’t say with certainty that such activities weren’t frequent when we attained senior status, I can’t recall it being systemic. If that’s true, it speaks to the character of the class, and I’d like to believe that.
Jim Lynch, Fleetwood, is a retired English teacher. Read Part 3 next issue.