Memories from Assumption: The Assumption Boys Choir & Christmas

Despite my poor academics, all was not lost at Assumption Catholic School, because God blessed me with a creative side.  I discovered I had a plausible gift for art, writing and singing.  I joined the Assumption Boys Choir and sang with them until I graduated from eighth grade and usually received an A or B in the subject of art or singing.

The Assumption Boys Choir was a wonderful experience.  Sister Marius was an enthusiastic music teacher who brought out the best in all of us.  Roger and I both sang in the choir.  He was also an altar boy, but I couldn’t perform the duties because I was prone to nose bleeds when I bent over to pray.

I remember my early years as a soprano and growing into an alto even though I was convinced I should have been a tenor.  It was not unusual for boys in my age group to feign difficulty singing as a soprano or alto.  Only the younger boys were sopranos and some of us wanted to be considered the veterans of the choir, so we tried our best to convince Sister Marius that we should be tenors; men, as it were.  I don’t recall if I ever made tenor, but by golly, I should have because I did my best to sound like a man.

Every Christmas, the Boys Choir would join the Adult Choir to sing at midnight Mass.  This was a family event because Rog and I were in the Boys Choir and Mom was in the Adult Choir.  It was the one time of the year Rog and I were allowed to stay up late.  The church was decorated in bright red and green Christmas colors and adorned with lots and lots of candles.  To the right or left of the altar was a nativity scene, surrounded by fresh cut evergreens whose fragrance filled the church.  For Christmas, the choir traded their black cassocks for red, covered with a white surplice.  When the organist began to play a religious Christmas hymn, we entered the church from the lobby.  As we filed two abreast down the center aisle, we would sing a Christmas hymn.  The Knights of Columbus stood at attention on either side of the isle wearing a feathered hat (chapeau), cape and sword.  The Adult Choir remained in the balcony of the church, along with other musicians.  The musicians consisted of the organist and a horn section of trumpeters.  The smell of evergreens, incense and candles accented the atmosphere. The pageantry was beautiful, wonderful and so exciting, because it was after all, Christmas Eve.

After mass, we would walk out into the cold Minnesota night.  Some nights it seemed as if I could see a zillion stars in the sky.  The cold, crisp night air and absence of any clouds or smog made for an incredibly beautiful sight. I was a seriously devoted Catholic and was absolutely convinced that Jesus was somewhere very near.  It was always so very cold and sometimes there would be a light snow falling to greet us.  If one was fortunate enough to be the first to leave the church, they were greeted with serene silence.  There was a brief suspension of time where one could reflect on the purpose of the evening; to digest the meaning of Christmas and the birth of Jesus.  It was a miniscule capsule of time to feel your soul, but within minutes the rest of the congregation made its way outside and the peacefulness was crushed by the start of automobile engines and people wishing one another a Merry Christmas.

Those were simple times for this young boy, when my belief was absolute and without question.  I talked to God quite often.  I never recalled getting any answers, but I was convinced He heard everything I said.  To this day, I have never experienced the serenity and peacefulness that I always felt when participating in midnight Mass at Christmas.

Memories from Assumption: You Stupid! You Stupid!

I attended Assumption Catholic School in Richfield, MN.  At the time, Assumption taught kindergarten through eighth grade and I began attending school at Assumption in 1^st grade.  I found school difficult and did especially poor in arithmetic and other logic-related studies.

My mind would wander during subjects that held no relevance or interest to me.  Arithmetic was at the top of the list of subjects that did not interest me.  I was so far behind in multiplication and would consistently score a “D” or “F” on any test.  I was embarrassed every time the teacher called on me in class, because I never, ever knew the answer to the question.  I would simply stare back at the teacher until she realized how clueless I was and moved on to another student who knew the answer.

During one particular session (I believe I was in 3^rd grade) I was at the chalkboard with other students trying to solve a multiplication problem.  The other students quickly solved their problems and would return to their seats and then another student would take their turn at the chalkboard.   Student after student came to the chalkboard, completed their problem and returned to their seat, while I continued to just stare at the multiplication problem.   I tried to look as if I were pondering the problem before committing to writing my answer, but in truth, it was as if I were staring at a foreign language.

I have no idea how long I stood in front of my problem, but eventually the teacher began to yell at me and tap the top of my head with her index finger.  I was very embarrassed as she berated me in front of the class.  “You stupid!  You stupid!  Do the problem!” she yelled.  As she continued to yell at me, I became distressed and began to cry.  A thousand thoughts swirled through my mind as she continued to humiliate me.  I wanted to hide, for I knew my classmates were watching the entire episode waiting to see what would happen next.

I glanced to my left and saw the classroom door, which led out into the hallway.  There was my escape!  I convinced myself if I could reach the door and run like the dickens down the hallway, she wouldn’t be quick enough to catch me.  I glanced at the chalkboard and lifted my hand as if to miraculously solve the problem.  The teacher began to walk away from me.  The diversion worked.  Humiliated and angry, I bolted like a trapped animal from the classroom.  Once in the hallway, I turned right and ran with all my might toward the end of the hallway and then took another right to the stairs.  It seemed as if I flew up the stairs and my feet scarcely touched the steps.  When I reached the top of the stairwell, I pushed open the heavy school doors and disappeared out to the parking lot.  As I approached the Rectory, I said a quick prayer for no priests or teachers to be standing around.  I sprinted past the Rectory and headed towards home a few miles away.  Freedom!

As I ran east on 76^th Street, I instinctively hid from every car I saw; convinced it contained a posse from the school sent to hunt me down.  When I arrived home, my mother was surprised to see me.  In tears and gasping for breath, I told her how the teacher had humiliated me in front of the class by tapping my head with her finger and calling me “stupid.”  I swore that I would never go back.  Ever!  Someone from the school soon called to explain what had occurred.  Mom assured them I had arrived home safely and she would personally bring me to school the following day for a meeting with the principal.  True to her word, mom drove me to school the very next day.

Now, Catholic schools were not known for their sympathy or empathy.  The next day, I appeared before the principal, Sister Joseph I believe, in her office.  She was a very stern and strict nun and made it clear from the very beginning what I had done was wrong and I would be required to stand before my class and apologize.  At that point, I decided it would be best to just keep quiet and do what I was told.  My mom and the principal talked about providing extra help for my dismal academics and then mom went home.

It was a very long and lonely walk down the hallway, and Sister Joseph walked very close by my side.  Perhaps she wanted to be within striking distance if I changed my mind and decided to bolt.  When I arrived at my classroom, Sister Joseph stood me in front of my classmates and said I had something to say.  I sobbingly told them how sorry I was for running out of the classroom.  Can you imagine what it was like to have approximately 35 sets of eyes staring at you while you pour your heart out with an apology?  I’m sure I was only in front of the class for a few minutes, but it seemed like hours.

When I finally finished with my apology, I took a few steps toward my desk and wondered how I would make it through the day.  It occurred to me I had just completed one of the most difficult tasks I had ever attempted and thought, well, at least it couldn’t get any worse; I was wrong.

Sister Joseph stopped me from returning to my desk and said I had to apologize to the class next door.  “Why?” I protested through my tears.  She told me when I ran out of the classroom, I slammed our class door with such force it disturbed the students in the other classroom.  I tried to argue against this new charge, but was immediately overruled and silenced.

Sister Joseph paraded me to the class next door and once again, I stood in front of a classroom of students and apologized.  My emotions changed from embarrassment to anger and resentment. It was a devastating event, which would remain with me forever.  It is incredible, funny, or sad to think how seemingly insignificant events (in the overall scheme of things) in one’s life can have such a powerful and lasting impact.

How powerful?  In 2013, I did a search on the Internet and found a classmate of mine, Steve Mullvain.  Steve and I went to school together from 1^st grade through high school.  His journey in life took him to Georgia and I wrote to him to say hello and see how life had treated him.  After the usual polite responses, he then asked if I remembered running out of arithmetic class.  

We were both 61-years-old and he still remembered that incident.

Sometimes