Brian's Piece

Picture Day

Have you ever wished you could have about five seconds of your life back, so that you could undo some profoundly unwise action?  I have on many occasions, and today I will share one of them with you.

                  As many of you are aware, I am a product of Catholic grammar school, which is basically a medium-security day prison for the pre-adolescent set.  As such, there were many things expected of all:  hands folded across the desk at all times when not otherwise engaged, no talking unless directed to do so by a nun, no gum chewing under any circumstances (don’t even ask!), and, if you were a boy, always wear a necktie.  One day in sixth grade, I saw a chance to memorialize an act of defiance so profound, the mere thought of it would have reduced a lesser child to a state of blubbering catatonia.  Actually, come to think of it, blubbering catatonia fairly aptly describes much of the behavior I either witnessed or engaged in during my schooling.

                  Anyway, it was picture day, when we were rolled fresh-scrubbed out the door in our Sunday bests for that annual dance with posterity and its chief prize:  the photo that will forever say ‘This is what perfection looks like in grade whatever.’  On picture day, we students disappeared one by one behind a large screen which hid us from all prying eyes while the portrait was snapped.  It was the fall of 1970, and student radicals were everywhere.  Here at last was my chance to thumb my nose at authority, to strike a blow for the oppressed masses, to stick it to the man!  As I ducked behind the screen, I removed my necktie.  The photographer, if he even noticed, didn’t say a word.  The shutter clicked; the tie was quickly replaced; I had gotten away clean…or so I thought.

                  About three weeks later the pictures came in – in big envelopes with cellophane windows that showed most of the enclosed portrait.  Curses!  I forgot about that detail!  Sure enough, when she got to mine, Sister Mary Coleman of the Order of the Sisters of Mercy (an appellation I often saw as evidence that God has a bizarre sense of humor) stopped dead in her tracks.

                  “Mr. Walsh,” she said, an icy tone creeping into her old-world brogue, “what is the meaning of THIS?”  And with that, she held up my picture for all to see, in all my mop-topped, bucktoothed, tieless glory.  My heart sank.  There were audible gasps as the inevitable yardstick swung my way.

                  Life could get no worse, I thought, until one girl piped up, “His head is shaped like a light bulb!”  In my suddenly empty world, I had no comeback for her.   How could I?  She was right.  The entire class roared with approving laughter.  Nerd, jock, jerk, brown-noser, and best friend, even the girl in the third row I kind of had a crush on, all were convulsed with glee at my expense.  Meanwhile, Sr. Mary Coleman, OSM, let the talking aloud go without any form of reprimand.  It seems that humiliation is good for the soul, and she was all for letting my eternal, spiritual self get healthy.

                  Had I created a moment to remember?  Ah yes, but not the one I had intended.