From Company Man: My Jesuit Life, 1950-1968:

Teacher I was again, making a splash, but I had great things on my mind, not realizing I had great things already in hand.  Off I went next door, to the U. of Illinois campus, when I should have just held my ground and the neighborhood, having appointed myself ambassador to the projects.

I went knocking on doors across the street in the high-rise.  I walked down Roosevelt Road and into the low-rise buildings that were also part of ABLA Homes—Abbott, Brooks, Loomis, Addams—getting to know people, becoming a familiar face.

THE STREET   Down Roosevelt a few blocks, past the projects to the west, was the storefront headquarters of the West Side Organization, more or less headed by an ex-con named Chester Robinson and funded in part, probably large part, by the Union Church of Hinsdale.

Yes, upscale suburban Hinsdale.  Rev. Bob Strom, the quintessential white liberal Protestant activist who brought Union Church into the civil rights revolution, was the connection. Friendly, good-looking, the size of a linebacker, he had his apostolate, as it were, among the black downtrodden.

The WSO storefront office hosted meetings and other gatherings.  I was welcome as a useful idiot if nothing else.  It became one of my ports of call.   I was on or near the cutting edge.  It’s what the activist priest did.  I was engaged, relevant, and open-minded.  Apart from all that, I was getting an education in what was going on in American cities.

I’d sit in a meeting at WSO while Robinson cracked wise about how the white people who came around were smiling all the time or ogled black women.  I listened to the angry rhetoric.  I came calling at night after riots and found Chester, Rev. Strom, and friends partying with food I had cadged for the needy from the Ignatius kitchen—and smoking something pungent while they were at it.  Very interesting, all of it, contributory to my ongoing inoculation to the appeal of the civil rights professional.

THE BOARD ROOM   In those days I was also on the board of the Interreligious Council on Urban Affairs (IRCUA), where Msgr. Jack Egan was the Catholic linchpin-figure and co-organizer.  He and his friend Rev. Edgar Chandler, of the Church Federation of Greater Chicago, had started it with the help of a rabbi who had dropped out by the time I showed up.

His place was taken by Rabbi Robert Marx, who filled out the American triumvirate delineated by Will Herberg in 1955—Protestant, Catholic, and Jew.   We met downtown, at the Church Federation offices on Michigan Avenue.  We were presumed urban-problems specialists from then-mainstream denominations.  Among us was a distinguished geographer from U. of Chicago named Harold M. Mayer, a paunchy, dumpy-looking man in his early 50s, who shook his head as the “race problem” was discussed as solvable, indicating that he saw no solution.  But he was one voice.  For the most part, hope was springing.

Lew Kreinberg was there for the Jewish Council on Urban Affairs.  He worked in Lawndale with Father Dan Mallette, pastor of St. Agatha parish, and other mostly young priests and citizens.  Lew’s wife had their child at Cook County hospital, of which I was informed by Tom Gaudette, a Catholic-parish-based community organizer who lived in Chicago’s Beverly neighborhood.

Gaudette and Kreinberg were two different kinds of radical.   Gaudette had no use for what he considered the aimless, hands-on, theoretical-leftist Kreinberg approach.  He reported this baby-delivery item to me as reflecting badly on Kreinberg, who had grown up in (also upscale) Highland Park.

Kreinberg apparently took it in stride, being of the people as he saw it and committed to breaking from the middle-class mode.  Gaudette, on the other hand, parish- and institution-oriented in his work, saw no benefit to anyone in living like the people he wanted to help.

THE MONSIGNOR   Jack Egan had recruited me for the IRCUA.  I had met him in one of my early-‘60s summers in Chicago while a theologian.  My classmate Pat Henry and I, the two of us working at settlement houses between years of theology, had gone to meet him at his office on Superior Street near the cathedral.

It was in a converted three-story stone front residence with big windows looking out on Superior.  Jack saw us after his nap; he was taking one daily since his heart attack, suffered months earlier while with Edgar Chandler, who had called for help.

In his office at one point with Pat and me, he stood looking out of the big window while enunciating somewhat melodramatically his vision for the city.  Pat and I looked at each other.  We weren’t used to such a display.

Years later, after Jack had made one of his sweeping forays into the city room, Royko came over to my desk.  Impressed, he likened Egan to the Bing Crosby priest-character in “Going My Way.”

So he was, if you add a touch of irascibility that popped up now and then.  Winnie and I went to his 40th-anniversary ordination celebration at a beer hall near Cermak Road, Sauer’s, as did the Callahans and Sullivans, Oak Park couples, with whom we gathered afterwards.

Gene Callahan had been executive director of the Chicago Conference on Religion and Race, formed after a 1963 gathering, and later was an Oak Park village trustee.  He had been close to Egan and had named one of his sons after him.  But they had drifted apart at the time of this 40th anniversary, in 1973.  Gene went anyhow and afterwards marvelled at how resentment melted.

Later, Jack put in a word for me at the Daily News and may have had more than anyone else to do with my getting my job there.  But in the ‘65–’67 period, he was part of my wandering from what I now consider would have been a more reliable path.  He wanted me on his side, and I profited in a number of ways from joining his team, but my best bet would have been to go Jesuit in all I did, clinging to everything Jesuit and tending to my spiritual life.  Or so it seems 45 years later.

ASKING PERMISSION   Not that I went off on my own in my projects.  I tested my initiatives, as it were, putting my ideas to various superiors along the way.  In the summer of ‘66, for instance, I drove down to Mississippi to march with James Meredith, who had been shot while marching but had recovered.

The provincial, John Connery, gave the go-ahead, remarking in his laid-back fashion that I was riding a hobby horse.

But in no way was I harrassed for it or for other out-of-the-way ventures.  My classmate Pat Boyle said something to the effect that I’d make a good point man for the province in these matters, because I could be counted on not to do something stupid.  Another Jesuit said much the same thing.

Indeed, as an activist priest, I was fairly conservative, doing my best to dot i’s and cross t’s. I took a day to decide to go to Mississippi, for one thing, astonishing a young nominally Lutheran hotshot who worked with us on organizing high-rise residents.  This fellow, full of misguided enthusiasm, told a young black man he shouldn’t trust whites, for instance, he himself being white.  His was an impulse-driven approach.  Mine wasn’t.

— More to come . . .

From Company Man: My Jesuit Life, 1950-1968:

With a twist, in which MIKE ROYKO GETS A STORY   One of our disagreements in the teacher’s conference was with what I’d written on something son Bill had handed in.  He had defended his point of view when the assignment had been to report what had been said or written—a sort of exercise in objectivity.  Viewpoints were what we traded in class, which in Bill’s case was all white.

I had set up certain rules for our discussions, as never to say “nigger.”  Opinions flew hot and heavy.  But in some writing assignments, I had ruled them out.  “Give me what the man said, not what you think,” I had written on Bill’s paper.

The mayor missed or ignored my point ,and as they left, turned to shake hands, and in a show of sarcasm said, “I’ll tell him [Bill] he’s to give you back just what’s in the book!”

Then they were gone, the driver holding the door open.   Adrenalin pumping, I left the building by the back door and headed into the yard for some walking around.

Next day I filled the rector in on it.  He didn’t say much, but I think he appreciated my holding back and in general putting up with the situation as it developed.

A few years later, I told Daily News columnist Mike Royko about the whole business, and he put it in Boss, his book about Daley, in the part about Daley’s attitudes towards blacks.  Mrs. Daley tried to get a Bridgeport supermarket not to stock it, which Royko duly publicized in his column.  But a few years after that, doing a story about Ignatius, I talked to a student carrying his paperback copy of Boss, which he was reading as a class assignment.

Bill Daley and most of his classmates, realizing I meant business with my assignments, did all right the rest of the semester.  There were no more meetings with the Daleys.  But at year’s end, when I was up on the altar with other priests at a baccalaureate mass, the mayor came down the aisle for communion, our eyes met, and in his was no benevolence.  I had crossed him, and he hadn’t forgot.

Years later, Royko wrote in the copy of Boss he autographed for me, “He knows it was you [who told about the parlor conference].  Beware!”

JESUITS REACT   Meanwhile, before the year was out, 1965–66, I had done my best to swing my white students around.  The only sign I had that I did so was the comment in a semester-end paper by one of them that before the class he had joined others of his neighborhood in driving into nearby black neighborhoods to find a black and beat him up.  Now he wouldn’t be doing that any more.

From my colleagues I got various reactions, mostly along lines of age.  A Jesuit religion teacher who emphasized the inner life for his students, vs. my emphasis on behavior, told me he was doing more for the race problem than I was.  I did not argue with him, at a loss as to how either of us would know.

A lay teacher whom I knew better than most from his years in the Jesuits, cut me off one day as an extremist for some position I had taken in class.  I had gotten defensive, at that, falling into the old loss-of-perspective trap, as in failing to justify the black kid flashing a knife at whites on an “L” train, for which indeed there was none.

However, it comes to mind as I write this how differently a young black kid decades later looked at me passing him on the sidewalk a block or so from our residence. I was on two crutches after knee surgery, and the kid had a softened look when he saw the crutches, whereas passing me on other occasions, he looked at me as an enemy.

We had that in Oak Park, suspicion to burn by blacks. Not all, of course, but not a surprise when we encounter it. Never the same experience in our now ten years on the city’s northwest side, which is rich with diversity.

The Ignatius principal was in general not happy with how things went, on one occasion demonstrating his disapproval in another context, breaking into my classroom one afternoon—while I was there—to tell my students to be quiet.  The door to the classroom, down the hall from his office, was open, and I was reading from Catcher in the Rye for a once-weekly Creative Writing class, and the boys were roaring.  The students reacted well, reading the interference as uncalled for.  I told Bob Koch about it.  I considered him on my side, or at least sympathetic with my position.  He was certainly one I could level with, even when he boiled over at me, as he did once.

I was eating my steak in the two-story fourth-and-fifth-floor grand library turned rec room on a feast day.  My various neighborhood activities were in his craw, and he crossed the room, which was full of Jesuits, to upbraid me, I forget about what in particular.  But he was a straight guy whom I could put off in relaxed fashion with “Now’s not the time I want to argue about that, Bob,” at which he went back to his steak.

This was an aberration.   We had barbecued on the fire escape, by the way, a stone’s throw from the projects.  It was probably July 31, St. Ignatius Day, and all in all, the kind of nice experience, sitting and chewing the fat with the brethren, that endured as a fond memory, even with the rector pissed off at me.

He wasn’t someone I could hold a grudge against anyhow.  In fact, I’d have to class him with Mike English of Loyola Academy and John McGrail of the juniorate and Bob Harvanek of West Baden, later province head of schooling and after that provincial, and as men I had as superiors or teachers whom it is a pleasure to remember after these many years—each a man in whom bullshit had no place.

As the 1965–66 academic year had wound to a close, a lay teacher whom I had known when he was a student in my year at Ignatius in 1957–58, thought I should ask out of the whole religion-social problems business and teach English.

It was not a bad idea, not least because the content of religion-social problems was nonexistent.  In how many ways was I to urge my students to do right?  After a while at it, I would be reduced to spitting out data that made my point.

Decades later, it occurred to me that I’d have been better off teaching the course out of literature, assigning novels, essays, and even poetry for its combination of rhetoric and insight.  On the other hand, at a 50th-anniversary reunion of the Loyola class I taught in the ‘50s, I heard from one of them that our field trips to the black South Side were life-changers.

In any case, I chose another route out of my situation, unfortunately.  I went back to school.   This made no sense.  Caught up in an imaginary power game—wanting power so I could “make a difference”—I decided I should be a sociologist, because “knowledge is power.”

What I was doing planning how much power I could gain—to do lots of good, of course—is one of the mysteries of the ‘60s.  I had joined as an 18-year-old as if coming home to a divine certainty.  Sixteen years later, a thoroughgoing creature of my time, I was just another influence-seeker—to do lots of good, of course.

My first year as a priest-teacher had gone well, all things considered.  I had people mad at me, including the principal, but there was nothing terminal about that.  In fact, years later he and I met at a reunion and shook hands and were glad to see each other.

So people were mad at me.  It was nothing I couldn’t handle.  Nothing others couldn’t handle either, as far as I could see.  The student newspaper played me up as Ignatian of the Year or something like it, in honor apparently of my having made a splash.

— Yet more to come . . .

From Company Man: My Jesuit Life, 1950-1968:

In the first class meeting for one of my sections (on Religion/social problems), after I announced that we’d be reading Crisis in Black and White and talking about race, one of the students, Bill Daley, the mayor’s youngest son, came up and asked where I’d grown up.  I said “in the Austin & Madison area.”

I didn’t say Oak Park, which would have been only half right anyway, because Chicago’s Austin area was part of our neighborhood, but neither did I want to locate myself in suburbia.  He had read the book that summer, I learned later.  So had his mother, or at least she knew about its part that told of their Bridgeport neighborhood rising to expel blacks who unwisely moved in there.

The book was “nothing but newspaper stories,” she told the principal later in one of her irate phone calls that gave him stomach aches in the coming weeks.  “Are they?” he asked me.  I told him no, but even then, years before I had joined the newspaper business, I saw no condemnation in that if it were true.  I trusted newspapers.

Running out of things to say to my restless students, I got a small budget for speakers.  One of them, a black guy from the Mayor’s office, was given a hard time by students.  Bill Daley, defensive, complained to me in a written report on the session for not interfering.  I wrote back in essence that it had been a judgment call, that generally I tried not to interfere with discussion.

Another speaker, a young black guy experienced in teaching Catholic high school boys, was far better at engaging the students.  He sent me out of the classroom for his talk, which ended with Bill and him yelling at each other, I heard from other students.  The guy was dynamic and knew what he was doing, however.  Months later, when I had him back for another appearance, I saw him and Bill talking after class in friendly fashion.

But the guy apparently used “hell” or “damn” or both in my classroom, and that gave Mrs. D. her opening for yet another stomach-churning complaint to the principal.  The rector, Bob Koch, who was very patient with me amid all this, told me about her complaints, but never with so much as an admonition.

A MAYORAL CONFERENCE   Mid-term came around, and time for parent-teacher conferences.  Bob Koch asked if I’d be willing to meet the mayor separately.  The mayor and Mrs. had waited their turn in previous years for such conferences (for an older brother), but this time the discussion was expected to get tense, and so privacy was in order.  I said fine.

There was an element here of not bucking City Hall, what with the school being in an urban renewal area where land was being given or sold cheap to worthy institutions.  What’s more, the school was somewhat on the bubble financially, or very much on the bubble—I was not on the inside of such matters—and I felt responsible.   So I called up City Hall and left my name and number.

That night the Mrs. called from the Bridgeport home.  I said that with the mayor being so busy and all, maybe he and she could come (with Bill) to their conference at some time of their choosing.  “Just a minute,” she said, then came back on. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said.

I greeted the three, plus driver, who waited outside the parlor, at the Roosevelt Road front door.  We went into the nearby parlor, across from the elevator.  For the next half hour, the city might have been sliding into Lake Michigan, for all the mayor seemed to care.  I had his whole attention, and needless to say, he had mine.

I opened with “I think I know why you’re upset,” but the Daleys were having none of it. “You’re the one who called the meeting!” said Richard J.  Oh.  No niceties here: these parents were pissed, I was the enemy of the hour.

Bill had done poorly in some tests, I told them.  “What tests?” asked the mayor.  Oh.  It was challenge time.  I excused myself and took the elevator up to my 4th-floor garret, retrieved the tests, and brought them down and showed them.

One was about the California labor organizer Cesar Chavez and the braceros, from an article in America magazine.  Both were standard reference points in the circles I was reading in and touch points in a social problems/religion course.

“What’s a bracero?” the mayor asked.  I told him—a migrant worker in California.  Not good enough.  He spoke in flat tones, only his mouth moving.  None of my explanations satisfied him as we went through other subject matter of the course.    He was out to discredit me, I realized, before the son, who sat saying nothing.  It was standard for the son to accompany parents to conferences.

I don’t recall being surprised to see him—this in contrast to the dozens, I am tempted to say hundreds, of teacher conferences my wife and I attended for our six kids over 27 years in grade, junior high, and high school, when the son or daughter did not come along.

Neither did Mrs. Daley say anything.  She certainly was not embarrassed, as my mother would have been if my father were pressing an issue with some heat.  She was wholly in his corner.  The mayor spoke for both.   He had one substantive objection.  “What does this have to do with religion?”  He said it was unlike any religion teaching he had ever heard of.  I believed him.

So there I was, no good at the half measure and having pretty much decided that social justice was the be-all and end-all of religious practice, and I had the mayor of Chicago challenging the notion.

Not bad, when you get down to it, for witnessing to one’s belief in a high place.    Not that I made the most of the opportunity.  I had no stomach for an argument and gave the soft answer.  At one point my gorge rose and I was about to respond in kind.  But this would not have done the school any good.  Besides, I was presumably trying to be Christian about it, and so I let the gorge deflate.

The mayor turned to Bill at one point, admonishing him to work hard or something like it.  And another time, maybe three-quarters through, he said something construable as compliment, “Well, you believe in what you’re teaching,” he said, conceding to me briefly the courage of my convictions.  This remained with me inexplicable in view of how strange it all must have looked to him.

— More to come . . .

Fr. Simon back and our church got him! He had returned some months ago to his African homeland. Kenya, that is, whose missionaries to the U.S. are helping us get around our shortage of priests.

I’m still a priest, by the way, though not practicing since I left the Jesuits after 18 years in ‘68, later asking for laicization from the pope via Vatican officials, among thousands asking for it in those days of turmoil . . .

As such, “defrocked,” as the Daily News city hall man, the inimitable Jay McMullen, referred to me when introducing me to Mayor Daley’s spokesman later that year, when just before the presidential election I had hired on as religion reporter. The Daley man was taken aback and said nothing.

McMullen was a many-sided, outspoken, smart guy, later to marry Chicago’s mayor-to-be, with whom he settled in as a married man. Ran into him later on a Loop street, we chatted, he asked what I was doing in those early ex-Daily News days, suggested I get in touch, indicating I might have work with him. I didn’t.

Other day I bought new boots from Target, which had them sent from an out-of-state location and which at first I liked very much, trying them inside. Alas, the good in-house experience never got my approval in that a zipper on a boot’s side turned out unacceptably recalcitrant and I sent it back, got payment restored on the spot.

Have been going routinely to A-zon (A for Ama, of course), but am likely now on occasion to hit the Target button. Later if I do, will tell about it.

People at church, yes! Pious as all get-out, let me tell you. Far more so, I must say, than at our Oak Park churches, where avant-garde liberalism was a take-for-granted factor and so-called Novus Ordo, new way of doing mass, reigned experimentally, as in a so-called family mass in the gymnasium of one of the village’s four RC churches, where going for Communion, standing, of course, the man — not a priest, of course — required that I say my name before he’d hand over the Eucharist!

Speaking of Oak Park, in which I grew up and where the love of my life and I raised our six perfect offspring, the other day is worth mentioning a headline and story in its local paper, Wednesday Journal, that unfortunately demonstrates the village’s uproariously leftist character:

Driver fatally shoots themselves after crashing into Pace bus in Oak Park,

featuring one of the more obvious and ridiculous — I’d say laughable but for the horror it reports — violations of common sense and stunning sample of say-not-gender-admitting practice in our time!

“A driver fatally shot themselves after crashing into a Pace bus in Oak Park, leaving more than a dozen others injured,” the story went on, showing it not an editor’s inglorious headlining,

And:

“The driver was travelling south on Harlem Avenue when they ran a red light at Lake Street.”

And:

“The driver then took out a gun and shot themselves in the head. They were pronounced dead on the scene, according to the village.”

Ouch, ouch, ouch. Saints preserve us from such damage to the English language!!!

From Company Man: My Jesuit Life, 1950-1968:

Leaving tertianship, I asked to spend the summer at a writers’ house in Evanston, Canisius House, a block or so from the lake.  The man in charge was Rev. John Amberg, who headed Loyola U. Press.  He welcomed me, hanging my picture on the wall with other writers.

Such a deal it was.  I had nothing to do but write.  During the previous summer, at the U. of Iowa writers workshop, I’d got a fair amount of fiction written and a “B” from my teacher, novelist Vance Bourjaily.  I had a novel to write.

But having nothing else to do was not a good formula for me.  I found myself lolling on the beach a few steps away and otherwise hanging about.  So in a few weeks I was off to Ignatius, where I was to teach in the fall, and my picture was off the wall at Canisius House.  It was an omen.  In my remaining three years in the Society, I was to move three times.

SUMMER AT ST. IGNATIUS   At Ignatius I settled down to some writing, not of a novel but journalism.  A summer enrichment program was in full sway at the school.  Jack Arnold and other scholastics had organized a program for neighborhood boys who otherwise would never darken the school’s doors.  I tagged along with them and wrote that up.  It became a cover story later in a national Catholic magazine.  Ditto for one I wrote on the summer’s civil rights agitation.

For the latter I tagged along with a Newsweek intern whom bureau chief Hal Bruno introduced me to.  I’d got to know Bruno through my brother Paul, who headed the Chicago ad office.  Bruno thought a lot of Paul, noting for instance how he treated the black shoeshine boy who came up to the office.  Some gave him a hard time, picking on him for laughs, but not Paul, who treated the guy well.

Bruno was a good guy.  It was interesting sitting in his office talking about the job he was doing.  The magazine had done a major story on crime in the cities but had to wait for a cover picture showing a white criminal.  It took a while, and the story was put on hold.  Bruno did not sympathize with this 1965 correctness, but the news industry was already minding its p’s and q’s in the matter.  Dishonesty was replacing hostility to blacks—then still “colored” or “Negroes,” of course.

He had two interns that summer.  One was sluffing off his responsibility to learn the city.  He was good enough to do what was asked of him—write reports for filing to New York.  But he wouldn’t read up on Chicago.  The other did.

It was with him I attended a rally in a Winnetka park where Studs Terkel was m.c. and spoke of “waiting for Godot” with reference to waiting for the main speaker, Martin Luther King, who was late.   I ran into Ed Rooney of the Daily News on this occasion.  He was friendly but noted that I was not marching or protesting but writing about it, this with a glimmer of criticism, as if a real priest marched.  All in all, it was a great time.  I wandered around with notepad doing what reporters do.  I loved it.

FULL-TIME TEACHING   But the time came, in the fall, to go to work full time.  I had discussed this with my old teacher, Fr. Bob Harvanek, who was province director of studies, going over possibilities with him as to my employment after tertianship.  I had my “teaching master’s” in English. I hesitated.  But Fr. Bob told me that in the last ten years only three priests had gone from tertianship directly to teaching in a high school in the Chicago Province, which had four high schools.

In other words, the thriving high school network was understaffed as to young priests, which was a measure of the foolishness then abroad among us.  There we were with this proven “apostolate” as we used the term, our high school work, and greener pastures were beckoning our younger men.

I was shocked at that and decided I should go back to high school.  How strange that I would have hesitated: when I’d started theology, all I’d wanted was to do just that.  Back to Ignatius I would go.

Come September, I was back in the classroom, teaching “religion-slash-social problems” to seniors.  It wasn’t my idea, though in view of my interest in social problems, I was a natural for it.  Rather, the principal, a few years my senior in the Society, assigned me to it, though without any instructions that I recall.  Not that I was looking for any.

Each senior-class religion section met three days a week.  (My Dominican-run Fenwick had 5-day religion classes, for what that’s worth.) Another young priest taught the marriage course, also for three days.  We each had our sections for a semester, three sections each.  So by year’s end, each had taught six out of seven seniors.  The prolific textbook author and renowned Mark Link (a story in himself) had the 4-A seniors.

BLACK AND WHITE   I jumped in with both feet, tackling race relations as our first social problem and assigning a 1964 book, Crisis in Black and White, by Charles Silberman.  There was no point in being abstract about it, I figured, though even abstractions set my white students’ teeth on edge.  For instance, I also assigned a pastoral letter from the U.S. bishops on racial justice which got them even more upset than Silberman.

I had one or two black students per class.  In one class, I had none. One of the blacks, son of Chicago public school administrators, was a basketballer, a big, good-looking guy, easy-going and his own man, and a student fans’ favorite.  He told me once that there were guys in his section who would do him in if they got him in a dark alley, however.  He was quite Chicago in his understanding of how things work.  He also took a good-looking white girl to the senior prom, sure of himself as ever.

When I took him down the street to meet the local organizer-agitators at what they called the West Side Organization, I was treated by them as God’s gift.  One of them, known as a tough guy and an ex-con, shook my hand warmly.  I had delivered a sort of Barack Obama and was justifying the school’s presence in the neighborhood.  The young man never went back, however, as far as I know.  He was too shrewd to be drawn in by the Roosevelt Road con men, ex-con or otherwise.

Another black student, a son and nephew of Pullman car porters, told me at the start of the term that he would be watching me closely as to how I handled black issues, which was nervy of him.  I did not think so at the time, however, and took it as a challenge.  Of special concern to him was that I might name successful blacks only in sports and entertainment.

On another occasion, not related to this caveat but still serving to relieve me of stereotypical notions, he noted that his family would drive many blocks into white neighborhoods to get the kind of pastry they liked.

He later joined the mostly white junior Catholic Interracial Council, a dozen or so kids for whom I became a sort of chaplain.

Much later he wrote for Muhammad Speaks, the black Muslim newspaper—without becoming a Muslim.

And he informed me when I ran into him years later on an “L” platform, that the military draft was a “paper tiger” which he had avoided easily.

— more to come —

From Company Man: My Jesuit Life, 1950-1968:

One of the more memorable New Englanders at St. Robert’s Hall was the perceptive and funny Hugh Riley, a liturgy expert who’d studied in Germany.  He was a species of Boston Irish that I appreciated.  I got a pretty close look at the breed in my month’s “probation” (within a probation) in a Roxbury parish.

Roxbury was billed as black and slum, but compared to Chicago it looked pretty good to me, and I walked around it and got around the city in general, for instance taking the subway at night to attend a lecture at Boston U. by John Silber, who was to become its president.

My wife and I were to visit BU many years later as father of a student, for early visits.  Later the family came for his graduation—a lively affair in the heart of town.

My month in Roxbury, at St. John-St. Hugh parish, was a stimulating, welcome relief from rustic Pomfret, with all its stone-wall fences.  My duties were churchly—mass-saying, preaching, hearing confessions, rectory-sitting on Sunday night when the four priests on staff went elsewhere.  Not much else, as I recall, but I filled in gaps with my customary running about.

As on the West Side at Ignatius, I moved around the neighborhood, zeroing in on the civil rights nodes, including a storefront on main-drag Bluehill Avenue.  What the St. John-St. Hugh pastor, an assertive, outspoken type, didn’t know about my meanderings wouldn’t hurt him, I decided.  But I chose to mention it at dinner, suggesting the use by these civil-righters of unused space at St. John-St. Hugh.

“Those people are communists,” bellowed the pastor, a wiry, sharp-eyed man in his 50s, shouting me down.  After that I kept my counsel.  Hugh Riley followed me in the Roxbury probation, which he enjoyed immensely.  But he reported back to me that the rectory staff considered me a communist and felt excluded from my comings and goings.  I was secretive, in other words, and they were hurt, Riley reported genially.  But you could have bowled me over with a goose quill by telling me they cared.

In any case, I had pulled back defensively, writing them off, and they knew it.   Not all.  One of them was unlike the rest.  Not just in being black—this was Harry Furblur, the first black priest for the archdiocese—but in his being ordained just two years earlier than I and thinking like me.

I could tell from his book shelf.  He had books I wanted to read.  Another of the staff, ordained just two years before Harry, had detective novels.  Temperament and habit partly accounted for this, but also our seminary upbringing.    Two years made a huge difference in the early 60s.

If you had studied theology during Vatican II, you became sharply aware of reform and revolution.  Jesuit theology faculties were generally with the flow.  At least they paid attention, some avidly, though as is often the case, it didn’t matter where they stood.

So the likes of Harry Furblur and me had perked up and stocked up with new books and ideas, and that made a big difference.  Years later we corresponded.  He had left the priesthood and married, as had I.  Nice guy, he was my friend in the rectory, though with his own work as assistant pastor he had hands full and did not accompany me in my rounds.

The parish housekeeper and cook lived in an upper floor of the rectory.  One was young, good-looking, and of a manner called “saucy” in 18th-century novels.  I was given a room near the stairway, and when the stairway light went on, as she was ascending for the night, I knew it.  In fact, I think I had a switch in my room for the stairs.  Hmmm.  The mind and imagination raced.  It was not the sort of thing you ran into in Jesuit houses.  Nor in most rectories, I suppose.

The neighborhood, hardly a black ghetto, was such that nobody paid attention if you walked the streets in your cassock.  I’d do so on my way to St. Hugh’s for early-morning mass, walking from St. John’s, where the rectory was.  It had been a mostly Catholic neighborhood.  Among the black newcomers were far fewer Catholics, of course.  Habits were dying hard, however, and not just in what a priest wore on the street.

The city was the usual cauldron of interracial cookery.  An Episcopal canon (monsignor, Catholics would say) was leading the charge for integration.  His name was mud in the rectory, where the crusty pastor set the tone, as when he would yell out when a fellow priest with a middle eastern name whom they all knew called, “Ask him if he’s making any rugs these days.”

It was a sort of rough humor, but it showed who was ruling the roost.  The Irish hadn’t bit and clawed and cajoled their way up from greenhorn status for nothing.  Of course the biting and clawing era was long gone.

So my education continued.  (Was I a latter-day Henry Adams?)  At least I was seeking it.  Sitting in the rectory did not appeal to me, except when I was placed in charge of things on Sunday night and sat with my steak and bourbon in front of the TV set, happy as a clam.  I was there to cover the phone, which never rang while I was there.    Just as well maybe, because of my funny way of speaking.

I had reason on one occasion to call police about something important, I forget what, and got a lesson in regional pronunciation.  Identifying myself as Father Bowman at St. John’s rectory, I was done in by my short “o,” which came out a flat “a.”  “Saint Jan’s?” the dispatcher asked, until I spelled it for him.

A funny-sounding Cincinnatian had told me in the first week of novitiate, “I like your accent.”  So in Boston.  However, and this is odd, many times I sounded, even in Boston, like a New Englander.  People told me that.  Some said I sounded like a Kennedy.  But I’d never been east of Ohio.

It had to be the attention I’d given to my speech over the years of training, not just as to stuttering but also as to projection and pronunciation, opening my mouth wide, bringing the sound up from down deep, etc., per instruction by Willie F. Ryan at Milford and Jack Williams and Tony Peterman at Baden, all speech teachers, whose role in a Jesuit house of training was important and I think underestimated.

Stay with me, there’s more to come . . .

From Company Man: My Jesuit Life, 1950-1968:

Tertianship was sometimes explained as the third probation, after the 1st week of novitiate (the first) and two-year novitiate itself (the second).  This was 10 months in relative seclusion, a la novitiate days, in a rural or far-suburban setting.  Two other Chicagoans and I chose Pomfret, Connecticut, over Parma, a Cleveland suburb.  We wanted to travel, I guess, though one of us had been in New England for several years, working incognito at an investment firm in Boston, the better to manage province funds in years to come.

The Jesuits had many ventures going, educational and otherwise, and many members to take care of, as in sickness and old age.  Much money was to be required.  My tertian classmate had trained to be a reliable handler of that money.

We lived in one of those big buildings that fell into Jesuits’ hands in the 30s, when depression undercut owners’ ability to keep them up and live in them.  It was St. Robert’s Hall, named for Robert Bellarmine (1542–1621), one of the early Jesuits, an apologist and defender of the faith—a smart guy and a decent one too, who managed a degree of civility in the midst of acrimonious times, when wars of religion were being waged on battlefield and campus.  And in publishing houses, where Bellarmine wielded a big pen.

St. Robert’s Hall had its big house and grounds, including pool and tennis courts.  I dove into its not yet emptied pool one autumn day and found it bracing.  The estate was fine indeed, with big trees and wide grassy spaces.  But more attractive were the surrounding winding country roads where the walker could see for himself the kind of stone wall that Robert Frost said is unloved by something.  He did not make his case with me.  I loved those walls.

The walks were standard for us.  If as an 80-year-old I [did] a lot of walking, it had much to do with what I did as a countryside-dwelling Jesuit.  They put us outside the city in those days, in pursuit of seclusion.  We found ourselves surrounded by nature.  At Milford I’d stop while walking to see the red-winged blackbird swoop, for instance.  In 1964 at Pomfret, 30 miles west of Providence, R.I., we had room to wander, as during the Long Retreat, our second 30-day run through the Spiritual Exercises.  I know not what others found in this exercise, which I was practicing just 14 Octobers after my first, but I found it an endurance contest and nothing more.

For one thing, it was “dry” prayer time, as we called periods when in meditation nothing held the attention or, more to the point, fed a sense of well-being.  I had neither “consolation,” as we used the term, nor sense of strengthening resolve.  What had absorbed my attention at 18 at Milford under the novice master Bernie Wernert now escaped me.  I’d skip meditations, just walking around the countryside trying to get my head together or at least stay calm.  Ordained only 16 months, I was committed to the Jesuits and priesthood and was looking forward to my “apostolate,” as we said then. But in general I was distracted and on edge.

My prayer life had pretty much evaporated.  Later I told a shrink of my plight, and he registered astonishment, as if to wonder what I had going for myself if not that.  I had no sense of where I was heading, except to heaven, I hoped, when I died.  This I took for a bad sign.  Another scholastic, who entered the society a year after I did and had everything going for him—looks, savoir faire, social standing, a great smile, athletic and musical talent—said at one point with his million-dollar smile, that he couldn’t wait to die.  He left instead, well ahead of ordination, and later died.

“Do you want to be a utility infielder?” George Murray asked me in my room at Baden one day.  The issue was focus.  I remained (to a fault) open to possibilities.  The world beckoned, but I stood like the philosopher’s ass, unable to choose a path, starving to death.

Staying busy was important, but I had to stay busy building something.  John Hardon made writing a top priority for me.  Father Bill Mountain, giving the scholastics and me, not yet finally vowed, a three-day retreat at Ignatius, during the school year no less, made the same point, urging me to demand time off or somehow make time for writing.  There had to be a way to beat this game.  I was groping.

The kindly old tertian instructor and 30-day retreat master, a survivor of decades of goldfish-bowl life in the society, had adapted to his environment.  But he was literate and fluent and intelligent and not overblown.  He didn’t take himself too seriously; I could take him seriously.  If tertianship was a problem, he did not exacerbate it.   Neither did my two Chicago Province friends.  One had trained at an investment house, as I noted.

Working where he would not be recognized—considered important at the time—he had used a cover story.  He was a man of consummate discretion and could pull it off.  That was behind him, and he was now a tertian.  He was unique among us in that he had some notion of finance.

We were shown a movie that in true movie-industry fashion mocked business and finance, in this case the Italian stock exchange.  None of us gave a hoot about this, but in post-screening discussion, the once undercover Jesuit took vigorous exception to the depiction as inaccurate and scurrilous.  He was a solid guy as to his Jesuit identity and a good companion for these months.

AVANT GARDE VS. PEW-SITTER CATHOLIC   Another tertian, of neither Chicago nor New England province, later taught theology in Chicago.  With him in due time, I had sharp disagreement that epitomized the learned theologian vs. pew-sitting layman gap, stemming apparently from one of those wink-and-nod issues that never reach the pulpit.

It happened in the late 80s, when a colleague of his at Loyola, a layman in the philosophy department, was making waves with his claim that Jesus did not rise from the dead.  My friend and I discussed it on the telephone, I in our kitchen in our house in Oak Park.  Growing impatient with his fine points demonstrating uncertainty in the matter, I finally said, Look, either Jesus rose or he didn’t.  To which he unfortunately (and shockingly) responded that we should not “play the logic game.”

I couldn’t take this, especially from a Jesuit, and our conversation ended abruptly.    My friend was thriving on a theology faculty, while I was doing the same as paterfamilias, and the twain were not meeting.  Question is, how common was such a twain-splitting among Catholics of the late 20th century?  More common than is mentioned, it seemed to me.

On the same topic, another Jesuit contemporary told me at a social gathering that it did not matter to him if Jesus had risen from the dead.  This from a hard-working contributor to Jesuits and church.  He did not want to play the logic game either, it appeared.  But neither would say that from the pulpit.  It would have made a headline in the newspaper I worked on, I guarantee you.

— So it went for Jesuits and others during those days of change, change, the world was changing and the church we had grown up in too. More to come of this story . . .

Ice did it, not disability on your’s truly’s part, no sirree. People flocked to help, two men and a woman. Treacherous curb area. Balance not an issue, no sirree.

Yet and still . . .

A look at a Sunday mass few years ago, sermon started 9:48, ended 10:10!

Considered writing organizer of liturgy about it. Instead decided to love this preacher and forget about it.

It’s my strategy these days. When irritated, think good of the irritator, whom God loves, and so should I!

Thing is, am I on speaking terms with God? Therein lies a tale. It’s crucial. Ask when did you last speak to Him? He’s at your beck and call, you know.

He is our friend. Talk to Him, He’s listening.

Egad, get on it, you fool.

Egad?

Try this:

English has a raft of ‘minced oaths’ to take the place of swear words for the sake of politeness. We still use words like darn, ruddy, and flippin’ ‘eck.

Egad, as well as zounds, ‘sblood, struth, gadzooks, etc. are from Elizabethan times, when plays contained plenty of swearing, but in 1606 all oaths on stage were banned. [!]

You want to go further on this? Be my guest.

A minced oath is a euphemistic expression formed by deliberately changing the spelling of, or replacing, part of a profane, blasphemous, or taboo word or phrase to remove the original term’s objectionable characteristics.

Also, a new term can be created from scratch. The goal is to create a new term that expresses the same emotions but does not carry the same offensive denotative meaning. An example is “gosh” for “God“,^[1] or fudge for fuck.^[2]

Many languages have such expressions. In the English language, nearly all profanities have minced variants.^[3]

I did not know that.

Back to mass. I asked myself, did I not, do we want a special way of reading Scripture aloud at mass?

Yes and no, for starters. Yes because the mass is a prayer, for one thing — much more than that, of course — and the reader instinctively adopts a tone that reflects this.

So it is that readers at mass, people who volunteer for that role, adopt the tone.

Or seem to.

Me, faced with a long passage from Old Testament greats, I am tempted to announce to my audience, buckle up, everybody.

Or faced with Epistle passages whose translator did the best he or she could but still the audience is faced with complicated, complex passages which as an English teacher ages ago I might have asked the class to paraphrase and see what they came up with and discuss it.

That is to say, if they took a shot at solving the problem presented by the passage, they would be ready to talk about it.

Well for lots of reasons, none of that’s gonna happen. My audience at a weekday mass will be entirely on the receiving end, which is why I read the passage as if it’s a hot story. Not too hot, of course.

Not going to dramatize it but to spit it out as a good story, something engaging, you know, emphasizing all that needs it, spelling it out as if listeners were not a captive audience, but people who will stop what they are doing and listen.

Let the religious element speak for itself. If the prophet is reading the riot act to his audiences, deliver it to your audience with the vigour it deserves, delivering it with gusto, driving it home as something they are likely to remember.

As for you readers, assuming there are at least two of you, see you at church — and not “if the windows are clean,” as we Catholic wise guys and gals would put it in the 40’s in old Oak Park.