The Good Book

This past week, I received word
that my high school Dean
died in a tragic car accident.

He taught and coached there for 20 years,
4 of which I was there to experience.

I didn’t play any high school sports,
I never had him as a teacher,
and I was a good christian boy
for 3 and half out of my 4 years there,
so I successfully evaded the dean’s office,
with the exception of the one occasion
in which I almost compromised everything.

In my senior year, after 4 years
of very typical high school degradation
and serving as the butt of a lot of kids’ jokes,
I lost my cool just before heading into 9th period.

The words, “HUNTER IS A FUCKING PUSSY,”
caused something in my brain to misfire,
and I stormed down the hallway towards the
sound of the voice that delivered the insult.

I didn’t stop swinging until someone pulled me off of him.

Now, in a strict catholic high school,
where you served detention
if someone caught you with the button of your collar open,
underneath the knot of your tie,
pummeling someone in one of the hallways
was a little more than frowned upon.

I spent 3 and a half years in
a blue and gold tie, a grey blazer, slacks, and penny loafers,
at a Marianist college prep high school that believed in Jesus,
but not elective classes, leaving the premises for lunch,
or creativity (unless it was used to praise Jesus).

So, as far as I was concerned, I had just pissed it all away.

The school believed that you represented
the morals and ethics they instilled in you,
on Saturday and Sunday too,
even though you were no longer donning that snazzy uniform.

For example, in my sophomore year,
the administration received word that
one of their students was a in a bit of a brawl
at a party over the weekend.
So, they suspended him on Monday.

I was out, for sure.
There was no way I’d talk my way out of this one.

Solosky called me to his desk,
and in a disinterested, unenthusiastic tone, he said,
“Alright, when did this whole thing start?”

He clicked around on his computer,
staring at the screen to the left as he asked me.

“Honestly? About 4 years ago, Mr. Solosky,”
as I trembled.

His eyes shifted from the screen to me,
and although he didn’t verbalize it,
I heard him say,
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

I don’t blame him.
Imagine the crap he had to put up with.

Now, I was a complete recluse in high school,
but I had an affinity for literature and religion.
Between those two things and music,
I kept out of trouble and held an exemplary reputation,
aside from that swollen face and nosebleed I had just caused
the student who was now sitting in a chair in the adjacent room.

“Mr. Solosky, I know you know this kid’s track record,
and I know you don’t really know me. You can look
me up on your computer.”

I told him I was one of the kids who hands out Jesus every Sunday.
I didn’t have to remind him of the bruised kid’s track record.
He was a menace to the administration.

Solosky didn’t think about it much.
He clicked around on the computer for a bit.
Maybe he was looking at my record,
but he could have been playing solitaire too.

He was an intimidating man, but a jovial man.
He was one of those guys that made you ask yourself,
“How the hell are you that happy all the time?”
He was one of a select few, out of the teachers there,
who exemplified the teachings, morals, and ethics of the establishment,
while still maintaining this quality about him that made you
want to grab a beer with him.
That’s a special quality to possess surrounded by such rigid structure.

Solosky looked at me and said,
“Alright. Well, listen. You’re gonna have to at least serve a detention.
I can’t give him a detention and not give you one.”

I said, solemnly,
while secretly exhaling
a massive sigh of relief,
“That’s fine with me.”

Even though Solosky was high up in the ranks,
I know even he had someone to answer to.
My school maintained it’s reputation because they never went soft,
like the other schools.
They didn’t care if you were an A+ student.
If you’re shirt was untucked, you were in trouble.
Old school practices, unadjusted for a modern society.

On that day,
Solosky chose to ignore the book.
He did not adhere to the code.
He let me slide.

There are some police officers who are giving you a speeding ticket,
regardless if your uncle is a detective,
regardless if your wife’s water just broke in the backseat,
regardless of any circumstance,
because your speedometer read 56 and the sign says 55.

It takes a defiant man.
It takes a confident man.
It takes a brave man,
to not only ignore the book from time to time,
but to know when to ignore it.

That was one of the most important lessons
that I didn’t know I was learning at the time.

Mr. Solosky,
although I only had one memorable moment with you in your life,
in that moment, you could have changed the rest of mine.

Thank you.
May you rest in peace.