I AM proud to say that I am married to a man who hated school.

From his very first day at St. Michael’s Catholic School in Chester, Pennsylvania, where he was one of 74 in his class, A. Wood hated it. He went to first grade without any of the preliminaries. No day care. No nursery school. No kindergarten. None of the cinder-block experiences that kill the spirit of defiance before first grade. He spent the first six years of his life un-institutionalized. He was “Tony” to his four siblings, parents and other relatives in his working class neighborhood.

Here is his description of his first day of school:

That first morning that I checked into my minimum-security prison, I walked to school with my three brothers. We were in the company of my mother, for the only time in my memory.

Only “publicans” went to kindergarten. Catholic school kids were not subject to blackboard tyranny until first grade. We had no introduction to school or its alleged benefits, such as learning the alphabet and the Arabic number system. The only thing I had in the way of preparation was a vinyl pencil box given to me by a deaf-and-dumb neighbor. As a testament to neighborhood insensitivity, we knew her only as “Deafy.”

My first surprise was learning that my name was “Anthony.” I saw it in print, written in magic marker on a cardboard strip and sealed in cellophane.

I was in a room with 71 other first graders whom I had never seen in my life. The room smelled of disinfectant and rotting bananas. I proceeded to talk to the girl sitting next to me.

“Anthony,” and this was the first time anyone had addressed me as such, “We don’t talk in here.” So pronounced Sister Joseph Beatrice of the Sisters of St. Joseph. The nuns wore shoe-length black woolen habits adorned with a starched, circular bib; a sash, and a crucifix and rosary with wooden beads the size of jellybeans. Their severe, starched headpieces appeared hammered into their foreheads. They were attached to the habit with stiff ear-flaps that they said gave them super-hearing.

Since I was enjoined from talking, I began to move from side to side in my desk chair.

“Anthony,” said Sister Joseph Beatrice, “We don’t move in here.” I’m thinking, okay, so what do we do in here.

The three hours between the start of school and the lunch bell were interminable. My brothers and I were among about half the pupils who lived close enough to go home for lunch, and I couldn’t wait for my first unsupervised furlough.

We ate our lunch. I then walked upstairs and got in my bed. We were due back at school at 12:45. At approximately 12:35, my mother hollered upstairs that it was time to go. I didn’t budge. My brothers didn’t bother waiting and returned to school without incident. I suspect they knew something about my character and were wary of getting involved. If so, I don’t hold that against them; I would even classify the decision as wise.

At 12:40, my mother said, “Come on, boy. It’s time to go.” I didn’t move.

At 12:45, I heard the school bell. I heard nothing further from my mother.

At approximately 12:50, my cousin Jack Doyle was standing over my bed. Jack was an eighth-grader, a safety, the biggest, strongest kid in my neighborhood.

“Let’s go,” is all he said.

He picked me up and wrapped my body around his neck like a stole and carried me the two blocks to school. I did all in my feeble powers to gouge out his eyes.

Jack, uninjured, deposited me in the classroom. Sister Joseph Beatrice accepted the entire incident unresentfully. My classmates, perhaps identifying with a resister who was acting out their own feelings, appeared to view the entire episode as something that one should expect on a first day of school. There was no pretense in those days of making school “fun.” It was a job to do.

Next thing I knew, my college career was over, all too soon.

As for Jack, he has resumed his career in eternity, and wherever he is, I hope he forgives me.

See more Tales of Chester here.

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