The Seminarian

The Seminarian

I went to a Catholic grade school that sat directly across a cattle slaughter house.  We would watch cattle parade down Pearl Street while we laughed and frolicked at recess.  Even then, death was lurking somewhere just beneath our consciousness.  Religion was very powerful back in the late fifties and early sixties.  The cold war was brewing like hot chocolate.  The Cuban missile crisis drove thousands to weekday masses. 

There was another crisis threatening Catholics.  My brother and I used to play hide and seek with Linda in our cellar.  I was twelve and she was eleven.  I’d turn around and they would hide, and then I’d turn out the light. I’d search around in the dark and I would find Linda and my hands and arms would explore every inch of Linda.  The closest feeling she gave me was when I slapped a wet mop over the florescent light above the mirror in the bathroom.  Since I was a Catholic and the 60’s sexual revolution was taken over every baby boomer, young nuns and old priests would preach that masturbation was a sin; lustful thoughts would lead us to Hell; and please, don’t look down at a girl’s polished shoes.

There was a constant tension that brought out the worst in my parents. They became abusive alcoholics and I had to get out.  I had to get away from them before my spirit was crushed between despair and hopelessness.  The day I graduated from St. Joe’s, I told my parents I was joining the seminary.

My parents drove me up to Hollidaysburg.  It was a beautiful place.  Sturdy maple trees guarded the entrance.  There were tall stone slabs on each side of the asphalt drive way that held black steel gates that stood open but looked almost like prison gates.  Highland Hall, constructed with dark gray bricks, stood three stories high with a concrete porch in the center that was covered with a flat redwood roof. The second floor had a six inch ledge running across the entire building.

We were shown our rooms and were given our black habits with a tunic top. A rope with three navy- styled knots served as our belt. The knots signified our vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.  Little did I know that these vows would almost destroy me.

One of my duties was to empty the trash and I was amazed at all the whiskey bottles in the priests’ garbage. Celibacy sure took its toll on them, I guess.  I saved the drops from each bottle and once every month I had a one ounce shot.  But it was my first encounter with gays that bothers me even today.  I was walking with a senior with Buddy Holly glasses, brilliant blond hair, and a piggish face.  He tried to kiss me and touch me.  Instinctively, I punched him in the mouth.  I guess I realized then that a lot of young seminarians came here to escape or come out of the closet.  And they gladly surrendered to an almost penal atmosphere.  As Franciscan serfs we gave up worldly possessions as well as our precious freedom to develop into mature adults.

It was also my job to burn the remains of the Biology class.  Frogs were the specialty.  It’s the main reason I never developed a taste for frog legs, pig’s feet, or lamb tongues.  As I was gazing into the flames; certainly a contrast to the heavenly chanting of the priests at prayer; I was suddenly blasted out of my frog meditation by a snowball that smacked the back of my head.  I looked around and saw no one, but as soon as I turned back to the incinerator, I was smacked again.  This time I heard the melodious sound of a girl’s laughter.  She was standing there with a grin. ; a thin legged beautiful creature in a deep blue ski jacket and a baseball hat. “Hi,” she said.  I threw one at her and we went back and forth a few times.  She laughed again, and said, “See you,” and left me there with my mouth open and snow slowly slipping down my black habit. The next day we talked at the iron gate and I told her I would see her the next night and to meet me at the entrance of the Seminary.

So many conflicts were raging inside me.  I have never had that feeling that I had that day. I never felt that tingling glow when I touched her hand.  But I was a seminarian.  Who would understand?  Who could I talk to?

That night, I opened my second floor window while my roommates watched, and I crawled out on the ledge.  “What are you doing?” they asked.  “I’m escaping”, I replied.  Just to my left on the ledge was a terra cotta drain pipe attached to the wall with metal cleats.  I shimmied down the drain and snuck out through the gate.  It was snowing and I spotted her coming down the avenue.  She hurried up to meet me and held my hand.  A snow flake tickled her nose and I felt the warm tingle that flows from your head to your toes from just the feel of her hand in mine:  the glow of young innocent love.  I knew right then, I could never be a priest.  We walked hand in hand along the Presbyterian streets of Hollidaysburg. We vowed to meet the next night.  I never even asked her for her name.

When I returned, I had a hard time getting back up to the ledge.  I kept slipping on the metal cleats.  When I dragged myself up on the ledge, I saw that the room lights were on and the Proctor was standing in the center of the room waiting for me. I was caught. There was no escaping.  I lied and told him I just went out for a walk.  But it didn’t matter what I told him.  I disobeyed the rules and I must be punished. It is one thing for a fourteen old boy to live away from home and battle homesickness; but there is a sense of evil when a priest would gleefully banish me from my fellow seminarians. He told every seminarian that they were forbidden to associate with me. I ate by myself; I studied by myself; and I prayed by myself.  I was alone and cut off. I was angry and bitter. I called my mother hoping for some solace, but she said that she was disappointed in me.  She told me to stick it out.

One day I was on the football field watching the others play.  No one looked at me. The girl with no name was gone. I’m sure she thought that I ditched her, but I wasn’t allowed near the gate.

Then I heard “Hey Rich catch.”  “You’ll get in trouble,” I said.  Jed replied.  “I don’t care.  We’re supposed to love each other like brothers.”  And as Jed opened up to me, soon they all did.  It was a revolution; a seminarian revolt. Finally, the Proctor relented and lifted my sentence.  But the damage had been done. The mood seemed to change.  There was no longer a strong religious hold on us.  No longer were we docile and sheep-led.  No longer did we bow down to their rules and regulations.  Gays were no longer tolerated and priests were no longer trusted.

When I first heard the Beatles sing “I want to hold your hand,” I wanted that freedom back.  I wanted to feel the tingle of her hand again and again. I wanted to flirt, to court, to date.  I wanted to know what females looked liked, and smelled like, and felt like. I wanted the freedom to become who I am and perhaps, fall in love.

  I left Highland Hall after my sophomore year in 1962. There were 112 High School seminaries in the country then.  In 1968, Highland Hall closed for good.  There are now, only seven high school seminaries left in the United Sates. Why:  because sexual development should not be denied to innocent young high school boys.  This can only lead to loneliness, confusion, and in some cases, abuse.

When I came home, I just wanted to go to a coed high school.  Instead, out of contempt, my mother sent me to Central Catholic; a high school for only boys and disgruntled Brothers.  Oh well, here we go again.