High School Nightmare

Attending Catholic high school was one of the most horrible and depressing experiences of my life. I never look back on it with any joy. Why I never transferred is a mystery to me as I look back upon those four years of utter nonsense. I certainly did not learn much, graduating with an average grade of 70 and almost flunking out because I had a very hard time with math, getting a 65 in geometry, the furthest I ever got in mathematics. If it weren’t for English, which I always earned 90s in, my overall average would have been even lower.

My days at Bishop Ryan High School were preposterous, starting as a freshman on orientation day that set the stage for what I consider to be the worst four-years of my life.

First off, in my case, the school was located in a primarily Polish neighborhood, making it rife with squabbles for an outspoken Italian kid who brought salami and pepperoni sandwiches to lunch every day.  Regardless, for the most part, we did get along, but there were surely pockets of hatred aimed at Italian Americans and vice versa, aimed at my fellow students whom I had no problem calling “Dumb Pollocks.”   

Starting on freshman orientation day, I was bullied by a punk sitting behind me during a mass ceremony held in the school gym.

“Hey Wop,” came out of the bully who pushed my metal chair into my back as we kneeled on the gym floor during the concentration part of the mass. “Dumb Dago.”

I turned about twenty shades of red and wish, in hindsight to this day, that I would have pounded this stupid Polish kid into the floor right during that sacred moment of the Catholic mass. Instead I was afraid – a relatively weak 14-year-old who was not in the least capable of physically defending himself, living in rivaling city neighborhood macho, fight cultures and tribes. That was the first indication I should have left and gone to the public high school, but without good reason I stayed. There were a good number of similar incidents over my entire high school experience.

Retrogression
There aren’t many academic experiences that I can remember from my high school days, except for one that stands out quite vividly.

“Retrogression” - this word came out of the mouth of Father Innocent, a Franciscan priest who took a very keen interest in his students. This was one of the few good moments in my relationship with Franciscans.

“Retrogression, Lorenzo,” he emphasized loudly with a fist pounding on the middle of my desk as I sat in the front desk of the third row of our freshmen history class, directly in front of the good father. My alphabetical order placed me in that spot, otherwise in those classes where you could choose your seat; I always went for the last desk in the last row, preferably as close as possible to a window, where I fantasized about the possibility of jumping out and running away to freedom.

“Retrogression, Lorenzo, do you know what that means?”

I had no idea. In fact, I thought it had a positive connotation.

“It’s the opposite of progress, Lorenzo,” Father Innocent said with great force, pounding my desk a second time. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” I responded in the same dutiful manner and respect I had been taught to show Franciscan priests and nuns at all times.

Turns out my entire four years at Bishop Ryan High School were retrogressive. I did not attend my junior or senior proms. I almost did not get my diploma on graduation day because I did not have a tie on. The complaints about high school are numerous and onerous. I was in the 1971 graduating class, which was the last one before closing down, but there’s no record of that in the 1971 yearbook because of some weird snafu about not selling yearbook patrons, so my senior picture is not in the yearbook. 

My grades were so poor that I did not get accepted into Buffalo State College and instead went to community college, but not for too long, which is another interesting story.