You Have to Wonder Why
somewhere in the
decade of the seventies
when you went back
after the short spell away
for growing tall and filling out
the first thing you noticed
was how small
the classroom desks
appeared to be
compared to what
you remembered
the uncomfortable chairs
the seats that lift
the forgotten pen marks
and carvings underneath
how the walls
printed in your memories
as colorful and bright
stood silent
chipped and cracked
in need of a
fresh coat of
unleaded paint
the longer you stood
in the cloistered space
the more the rooms
began to shrink
shut down
squeeze out
the last breath
of stale air you were
unconsciously holding in
you began to see
how crowded it
must have been with
all the faces from a past
you never wanted to remember
but now did
you asked yourself
where did they go
how did they end up
the girl who always seemed so sad
the ones who brought the lice
the smelly boy who stuttered when he spoke
the truant who got thrown out
what horrors did they carry
what lessons did they tote
in their worn book bags
you wondered for a moment
if they ever thought of you
though even then
you rarely thought of them
you glanced around
at graded crayon drawings
pinned to the cork boards
the endless canvas of black slates
the chalk dust everywhere
powdering the erasers and
spilling on the floor
the flag at the head of the class
the marker-stained warnings
hung near the plastered ceilings
the crucifix above each door
began to sense the hidden
cords and wires that bound
the narrow words and numbers
that a conclave of archbishops
not long before decided
had to be taught for
good christian men to have
the worldview to survive
but you knew then
what you know now
that the pedagogy
if you could call it that
just kept you in line
and so you saluted
what you believed
was your final goodbye
walked one last time
down the worn granite steps
of the parochial school
you most days had to climb
the school where
you were enrolled and
where your parents and
their parents before them
had attended without a thought
in the shadow of the adjacent church
you winced then smiled
at the sudden realization
that you were lucky
to have made it out alive
vowed to yourself
not to play the fool
to send your kids someday
somewhere else to school
and so you have to wonder why
that half a lifetime later
you are still forking over
the tithe and the tuition
your rudderless conviction
washed over by salty waves
of family and convenience
and not knowing how to do it better
your youngest on the bus
in a uniform woven from
the fabric of another costume
you did not have the balls to wear