Random Notes From the Road- Day One

I'm sitting in Newark (Liberty) waiting for breakfast and my flight to Chicago. I'll be checking in periodically as I journey to Chicago to help with a retreat for volunteers at St. John Bosco Parish.

Hobbits Revisited

I took a break from retreat prep to scratch an itch of sorts. I saw the Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey in the much debated high frame rate format. I had a mixed reaction to it. It was hardly the unmitigated disaster some have made it out to be, but it is still a novelty. I agree with Matt Atchity of Rotten Tomatoes and What the Flick that if Peter Jackson was going to experiment he should have done it on a lesser project.

From a technical stand point, the problems I found with the standard projection really had to do with the fact that The Hobbit was meant to be seen at 48 fps, and transferring it to 24 frames is similar to showing a wide screen movie on an old LD, small screen TV. Much of the detail is lost and images become obscured. To make another comparison, it's kind of like listening to a symphony on a mono transistor radio.

That said, should the movie have been made this way to begin with? Like I wrote, it's a mixed bag. The scenes with Gollum are truly frightening, and the final confrontation was better for the high clarity. But other times the action looked like it was ripped from a video game. Sometimes this shift between hyper real and super fake happened within the same scene.

In the end this use of high frame rate was a bit of a misguided move. This is a sweeping epic that deserves a big screen presentation, but the intended viewing experience makes this too much of an uneven ride. While even the standard format has its problems, I'd stick with it until the movie guys figure out what they're doing in 48 fps.

We're almost ready to board. More when I get to Chi-town.

Sorry for the Delay

I've had trouble accessing my blogger account the last couple of days, so I haven't been able to post anything.  The problem seems to have resolved itself,  so I'll have something up in the next day or two.

Bill Gallo (1922-2011)

It was with more than a touch of sadness that I read of the passing of New York Daily News sports cartoonist and columnist Bill Gallo this week.  His unique take on the contemporary sports scene was often humorous, sometimes biting and occasionally touching, as the situation warranted.  Whatever the case, he always hit the right note.

For me his iconic image will always be the cartoon he did when Thurman Munson, the Yankee captain, died in a plane crash in 1979; just two silhouetted boys walking away from home plate, downcast and despondent, not having the heart to play ball that particular day. Over head Munson is looking down behind the veil, gone but not forgotten.  That particular piece helped me, as a twelve year old, come to know that there is a time for everything; a time to morn as well as a time to play, and we shouldn't deny ourselves either one.  This and other Gallo favorites can be seen on the Daily News site.

Mr. Gallo, who lived in Yonkers, was an occasional visitor to my father's fruit and vegetable store in Bronxville.  I wish I could tell some great story of pearls of wisdom he imparted on me, but I was too shy as a kid and stuck to the business of weighing his tomatoes and making change.  My father, more naturally outgoing, was the one for small talk, and Mr. Gallo was always gracious. 

So, our prayers go out for a true New York original, and his family.  Sports in this town will never be the same.

Hospicio Cabañas

Cabañas Cultural Center, from the court yard. Photo by the author

During my recent trip to Guadalajara, Mexico I took some time to visit a few of the cultural attractions they have there.  Jalisco is the birthplace of many of the things we associate with Mexico, like Mariachi music, much of the traditional folk dances, such as the Hat Dance and, of course, tequila.  One of the main attractions is the Cabañas Cultural Center, housed in an eighteenth century building that used to be an orphanage.  On the ceiling of the main hall are murals by one of Mexico's most famous twentieth century painters Jose Clemente Orozco.  He, along with Diego Rivera and David Alfaro Siqueros are considered the "Big Three" Mexican muralists of the last century.  All three were politically minded, using their work to promote the ideals of Mexican Revolution.

Diego Rivera's mural in the National Palace, Mexico City

When we think of the birth and spread of communist or Marxist movements in the 1900's our minds usually turn to Russia first.  But Mexico's has been called the first "progressive" revolution in history, and while I'm not sure the revolutionary leaders ever called themselves "Marxist" or communist, the goals were very similar to those of the Soviets: redistribution of land, government control of certain key industries, like oil, and the creation of a radically secular state and society.  In Rivera's paintings we can clearly see the Marxist influences as well a strong anti-clericalism.  He is very enthusiastic in his support of the Revolution and it's aims.  Man, without reference to God or encumbered by religion, is the controller of the universe, and the revolution will rid Mexico of the old imperialist and capitalist oppressors.  There is a worker's paradise ahead if the people have the courage to grasp it, and the evil forces of the West don't suppress it.

Man, Controller of the Universe, Diego Rivera

In Orazco's work there is a greater caution about the whole thing.  He seems less optimistic, and some of his paintings seem downright pessimistic.  The images appeared to me as grotesque and oppressive.  I took them as criticizing industrial capitalism in general, but I was to find out his point was somewhat more subtle than that. My raw impression, knowing next to nothing about him or his art when I walked in the place, was that the old culture has been thrown out, but what has really replaced it?  The Cabañas was a Church sponsored orphanage, a grand structure named for the Catholic bishop who founded it.  On the official website no references are made to its past religious affiliation.  Even though the people are overwhelmingly Catholic the government and cultural elites still want to act like Catholicism played no positive role in the cultural development of the nation.  Like many post Enlightenment European historians, they glorify pagan antiquity (in this case the pre-Colombian period) and post Revolutionary times, but act as if what came between was a dark age.  In reality, what is left are cultural expressions devoid of real beauty or grace.  When humanity is separated from the source of its life it can never be truly glorified.  What we are left with are charactatures of reality.  Human beings can only be seen as cogs in the machine of life, with no individual destiny or purpose apart from the group. 

One of Orozco's murals from the Cabañas. Photo by the author

The Man of Fire. Photo by the author

As I found out later Orozco was trying to show Man as being devoured and torn apart by the encroachments of progress. The center painting, one of his most famous, shows the self sacrificing artistic man through whom salvation will come.  To my naked, admittedly uninformed eyes, I saw the suffering, but could not see any hope.

Return to Santa Cruz de Las Huertas Part One

I'm back in the USA now but will continue the recap of the trip I made over the weekend to Mexico.

My original idea was to give a day by day account of my return to Guadalajara as it was happening so the experience could be delivered as fresh as possible.  But things got busy, and at a certain point it made more sense to simply let it go, enjoy the moment and recount it once I got back to the States.  So here I am back in the U.S. of A so let the the debriefing begin.  I'm not proceeding chronologically because the highlight of the trip, the main reason I went, happened in the last two nights; my return to the parish and colonia of Santa Cruz de las Huertas, and I want to get those reflections down before they begin to fade.

Sta Cruz, back in the day

When I think of my time in Mexico, or when I talk about it to others about it Santa Cruz is what my mind returns to the most.  The three years I served there stands as a defining time in my life.  It is where I came to understand that no matter where obedience leads me serving the Hispanic community will have some place in my work.  Even my stay at Salesian High this last time around saw me offering Masses and other religious services in Spanish most weekends.  I would not be the priest I am today without the preparation I received at Santa Cruz de las Huertas.

First, a little background, and please forgive any chronological inaccuracies when talking about the parish's history. Most of this I picked up from talking to people in the community, not by any formal research.

The history of Mexico is complex, and I won't get into the details here, but from the time of President Benito Juarez (1806-1872) successive Mexican governments became increasingly anti-clerical.  The 1917 constitution, written after long years of civil war, contained several articles designed to curtail the rights of the Church.  These provisions were spottily enforced until the presidency of Plutarco Elias Calles (1877-1948), who strictly enforced the constitution as written and added his own anti-religious legislation to the mix, known as the "Calles Laws."   Things came to a head between 1926 and 1929 when there was a counter-revolutionary uprising in Mexico known as the Cristero War.  The Cristeros were Catholics who saw themselves as fighting for Christ, though the Mexican bishops as a body never publicly supported armed violence (they called for economic boycotts and even suspended Church services to protest the laws).  Church property was confiscated, priests were arrested and some executed, most famously Blessed Miguel Pro in 1927. Guadalajara, in the west-central state of Jalisco, was a center of Catholic resistance.

Santa Cruz de las Huertas (Holy Cross of the Orchards), in Tonalá, Jalisco was one of those Church buildings confiscated by the government.  The bell tower was torn down, the facade defaced and the interior painted over and turned into a horse stable.  One story I heard had summery executions of Cristeros taking place along the front wall of the church.  When the parish was closed I don't exactly know, but it probably happened sometime between 1926 and 1935 (even though a truce was negotiated in 1929, an active persecution of the Church continued until about 1940).  It was finally returned to the Archdiocese of Guadalajara in about 1975 and, from what I understand, reestablished as a parish in the mid 1990's, just before my arrival in Mexico.

On Saturday Eric and I went to Lake Chapala, which is a story unto itself, and when we returned we snuck by the parish on the way to dinner with the Gomez family.   To my surprise there is a new bell tower and roof, and the inside is done over in a simple but pretty floral design.  The previous pastor was having work done on the church when he discovered that the original paint job had been covered over, and the new work replicates the old.  The body of the church still has some of the scars left by the Revolution, but it's still very much that quaint little church I remember.

Sta Cruz, 2011

By happy chance we ran into Nacho and Cuqui, who were kids when I was here last, but are now married with children of their own.  We also saw Mari, who was widowed a few yeas back, and whose home I ate in on many occations.  Nacho and Cuqui knew we were in the area, Mari didn't, and was properly surprised.  "Que milagro!" (it's a miracle!) was a phrase we heard more than once on the trip.

We then made our way up to the Gomez home for a posole dinner.  Posole is a soup of sorts made with large kernels of corn with a chicken leg or thigh thrown in, covered with lettuce, onions and radishes.  Avacado and squeezed lime are also an option.  It dates back to pre-Columbian days and is a sign thast Eric and I were considered special guests.  Yes, you could say we were posole worthy.

The Gomez's  were one of the first families I met when I got to Santa Cruz, and their home was a frequent destination for after apostolate meals.  Some things had changed; two of their daughters are out of the house, one living with her husband and three children in Las Vegas.  But the hospitality was the same.  One thing people kept mentioning was how happy they were that we remembered them, and remembered Santa Cruz.  I guess I felt the same way, in reverse.  There were new faces about, but also plenty of old ones, and as we made our way through the streets it wasn't uncommon for people to nudge each other and point asking, with shy grins, if they didn't know who these two strangers were.

Ode to the Taco Mexicano

TLAQUEPAQUE, JAL, MX—When we last left off our story, your intrepid wanderers were hungry.  As we’ve already established, the main meal of the day here is at around two or three in the afternoon, so at about eight at night you need a little something to tide you over until breakfast the next morning.  This is where the taco comes in.  This is by no means the only dish served at cena, but it is my favorite.  Tacos are not just eaten at night either; it serves as a late breakfast, afternoon pick me up and late night snack—anytime is the right time for this little meat, cilantro and onion delight.

The key is to find the right place, of course.  Tacarías, or taco stands, can be found on almost every corner, but one must be choosey in picking the spot to chow down at.   There are more upscale places, like Tacos Providencia (that has very good tacos, some say the best in the city), that is housed in an actual building, with some of the trappings of a typical diner and appears to be following the health code.  But what’s the fun in that? You want to keep it real.  You want to hit the street.  You also want to avoid dysentery.  And I’ve got news for you, the locals do also.  If you see a taco stand and no one is at it, other than a lonely little guy with a sad, frustrated look, cleaver in hand, chopping away earnestly at the meat on his little wood chopping block, meat that no one will ever eat, stay away.  The odds are people got sick there and the word has gotten out.  If right on the opposite corner there is a stand with people standing ten deep to get at the carnal goodness awaiting them, step on line.  I’m sure the wait will be worth the wait.

Now there is one caveat to all this.  As is typical with me, I took formal Spanish lessons as I was ending my stay here in 2001 (long story).  The school I went to had flyers for the students alerting them to the dangers of eating food from street venders, especially tacos.  When I protested to my profesora that tacos were practically a food group unto themselves, she replied, “Oh, Tom, you’ve been here for three years. Your system is use to it.  These poor guys will get sick as dogs!” I dispute that a little, because my first week in Guadalajara in 1998 I ate at a taco stand in an abandoned lot from a guy who had his hibachi set up on the tailgate of a 1972 Ford Country Squire station wagon.  No worries, as the Aussies say.  But if you do have a weak constitution, or have never really tested the outer limits of you gastrointestinal system’s tolerances, stick to the diner.

Fr. Eric credits me with showing him the little gem that is El Rancho Blanco.  I’m not sure if that’s apocryphal, but Francisco Oriel, AKA Oso (Bear), who was the deacon in charge of my small group at the time, showed me the place one evening when he took the group out for supper.   Oso was, and I’m assuming still is, the king of the drive thru.  His dream was to be assigned to Piedras Negras, which is just across the border from Eagle Pass, Texas because there was a Wendy’s on the U.S. side.  He knew every burger joint in Guadalajara, as well as taco stand.  In fact he could locate any type of sidewalk venders you could think of: deep fried hotdogs mixed with French fries in paper bowl, churos, elote (corn on the cob smothered in cream and chili powder) tamales, tortas ahogadas (literally “drowned sandwich,” a hero of sorts, made with pork and submerged in a hot sauce that will make you beg for mercy).  Ah, I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.  I do believe Oso favored me a bit, because he usually included me in his clandestine late night trips to satisfy whatever craving he was having (What-A-Burger was his favorite spot). But, as usual, I digress.

Upon returning to Mexico a trip to Rancho Blanco was high on the priority list.  So after a day of hopping buses and running around town, we came back to the residence, cleaned up and made our way down through the Parian.  Rancho Blanco isn’t the hardest place to find, it’s pretty much a straight shot down one of the main street in Tlaquepaque.  But you have to go past the tourist area and into the neighborhood, a place most foreigners never wander.  The street at that point is not very well lit, and you do have to watch your step a bit.  But once you hit the karate school you know that you’re almost there.

Rancho Blanco is a small store front operation with a table and benches on the sidewalk, and a counter and table inside.  The portable grill and work station, about the size of a hotdog cart, is just inside the entrance.  Many times these places are on the sidewalk with a roped off area filled with pick nick tables.  Sometimes there is a counter around the stand itself. 

Anyway, Fr. Eric and I sat down at the outside table, just by the entrance and the waitress stepped up to take our order.  She was trying to suppress a laugh, because, I guess, she couldn’t figure out what we were doing there.  She talked slowly, correctly identifying us as Norteamericanos, but when we shot back our order, knowing the meat and trimmings we wanted without a pause her eyes lit up a bit.  I’m a suadero and chorizo man, myself; don’t forget the cilantro and onions.  And yea, bring he salsa roja, por favor. 

Within a few minutes, they arrive.  A plate of silver dollar pancake size tortillas filled with the meat of your choice.  Suadero is a cut of beef, that in many places can be gristly, but here is always lean. Chorizo is a red sausage, great with eggs.  On the table are placed clay jars of beans, extra onions, small bowls of red and green sauce (yes, hot, both of them) and limes.  I’m strictly a red sauce man, but many put the beans on top and maybe squeeze a little lime over the top, before putting on the salsa.  Ahh, heaven.   The tortillas are doubled up, and if you leave the bottom one they charge you less on subsequent orders.

Remember, you never order just one serving.  The first round is to test things out, trying different meats; bistec, cerebra, lengua, al pastor, whatever.  Then you zero in on what you like for the second and third rounds.  After finishing the first round of six tacos, I waved to the waitress who made the international sign for bringing the check, waving an invisible pen at an invisible pad.  When I told her that I didn’t want the check, but more tacos, she gave that wide eyed look again and said “de verdad?” (Really?)

Well, to make a short story long, we ate and were more than satisfied.  Back in the day I could have done a dozen blindfolded and fifteen, no problem.  But prudence made me stop with ten.  Many times the memories we have are greater than the reality, but I can say the tacos at Rancho  Blanco were as good as I remember them. 

Guadalajara, Day One

Just a bit of background for my faithful readers.  After my first year of theology study in preparation for priestly ordination, spent in Columbus, Ohio, I, along with two of my confrere, were sent to the Instituto Teologico Salesiano in Tlaquepaque, Mexico to study.  I spent three years in Mexico, between ’98 and ’01, and at our height we had eight American students in the community, along with Fr. Eric Wyckoff who was on staff. I came back once, in October 2001, as a “baby” priest to celebrate my ordination with the folks here. Fr. Eric is back on staff, after a stop in Rome to finish is scripture studies.  Now I’m back for a visit after all this time, and sharing my experience with you all.  I hope you enjoy. I'm having trouble uploading pictures right now, and I'll get them posted as soon as I can.

TLAQUEPAQUE, JAL, MX –The first full day of my return to Old Mexico was spent hitting some of the old places I used to go back in the day.  First stop was down town Tlaquepaque, to an area we always called the Parian, even though that’s the name of what purports to be the largest bar in the world.  The Largest Rip Off the Gringo Joint in the Greater Guadalajara Area is more like it.  If you do find yourself in this quaint little corner of the world there are far better places to eat and relax, like El Rio San Pedro or El Patio, located in the few blocks around the center square; places where the food is fantastic, and you won’t be taken advantage of.

Tlaquepaque is the indigenous name for this suburb of Guadalajara, which mean “place above clay land.” San Pedro is it’s “Christian name,” and locals often refer to it by its shorter designation.  They’ll run the two together (San Pedro Tlaquepaque) if they think you might get confused with other places, like San Pedro Vaticano (OK, maybe not with that San Pedro).

So after Padre Eric and myself made the rounds of the shops, we went back to the theologate for midday prayers and comida. This is the main meal of the day, and I must say the food has improved since I was here last.  Breakfast and cena, which is the light evening meal, were always pretty good, but the main meal was often found wanting.  As is the custom for Salesians visiting other Salesian houses, this was the moment I delivered some libations to the director of the community, Fr. Jesús, who in turn poured it forth for all the brethren assembled.

After lunch it was off to the Guadalajara, and trips to the Cathedral and some Catholic book stores.  It was my first time on a Guadalajara bus since 2001, but it was like I never left.  It’s six pesos now (roughly fifty cents) compared to three back in the day.  But with the weak peso the actual increase isn’t nearly that much.

I had forgotten what it was like to be stared at by a bus load of people as if I was, like a foreigner, or something.  Now, I pass for Latino quite often, or at least as long as I keep my mouth shut.  They usually don’t think I’m Mexican, but they’ll ask if I’m from Argentina or Costa Rica or something like that.  When Eric and I are together, or the lot of us piled on the bus back in the 90’s, there is no mistaking that we were from El Norte. So it was yesterday; a lady sitting alone, a couple of little girls, a teenage boy, all gawking at us (men, for some reason, are more subtle about it).  Then we open our mouths, English fills the air and the jig is up.  Sometimes someone will come up to us and try to impress us with their broken English they learned from watching the latest Bruce Willis move (these are usually men, being less subtle).  Since we always assume the next words after “hello, how are you,” and "are you Americans" is going to be, “do you have ten pesos,” we shoot an annoyed  look back or move to another part of the bus.

There are also street musicians that come on the bus and play a few songs on the guitar and pass the hat.  They might stay on for a stop or two, and the drivers let them on for free.  One time there was a man with a beat up boom box singing along to a cassette tape of ranchero music, poorly.  I was going to give him five pesos just to stop.  Other times it’s women or little girl dressed in traditional, but threadbare clothing or men with one arm simply begging.  In Guadalajara they either hop from bus to bus or stake out a spot under the colonnades.  In Quito, Ecuador the children will follow you for blocks, sometimes just to beg, other times to shine your shoes. 

This is not to make light of the situation.  Educational and economic opportunities that we take for granted in the States simply do not exist here.  The issue of immigration policy in the US needs to be debated, and I’m not sure either side has a monopoly on truth and morality (personally I’m for tightening the boarders but against wholesale deportations, for reasons I’ll get into at a later date).  But we shouldn’t wonder why so many people want to cross rivers and deserts to get to into the United States, and nothing gets me madder than branding people criminals who simply want to feed their families. I mean, didn’t anyone out there read Les Misérables. But I digress…      

Once we hit the main places we wanted to see we made a side trip to a large church just off the beaten path, El Templo de Expiatorio.  It’s a neo-gothic structure, plain by local standards, but I think it’s even prettier than the Cathedral because of its simplicity.  To be fair, they’ve done a lot of work on the Cathedral since I was here last, as well as the parish church in San Pedro.  There is scaffolding in the sanctuary of the Cathedral that tells me the face lift isn’t over.

We returned home, washed up, went to prayers with the Salesian community and then headed out again on a mission to find tacos, but not just any tacos.  We sought El Rancho Blanco.  To my Facebook followers I promised an account of this trip, but it will need to wait a bit.  It deserves its own post, so a little patience and it will be here.       

Landed Safe

TLAQUEPAQUE, JAL, MX-I got in yesterday afternoon, safe and sound.  Fr. Eric picked me up at the airport, which has undergone quite a face lift since the last I was here.  The facade is different but the routine is  the same; go through imigration and then customs.  I wear clerical clothing when I travel (not all priest do), so I take for granted that people know what it means.  I get to the customs station, and one of the lovely ladies working the counter asked what I do for a living.  When I identified myself as a priest she acted surprised, like I was incognito or something.  I felt like saying, "No, I'm really not.  This is a Naru shirt. I'm here for the Relive The 60's Con."  Because of the anti-clerical laws here priests couldn't legally wear clerical clothing publicaly until about ten years ago.  But I mean all the priests on the telanovelas are in Roman collars, so I figured she should have been able to figure it out.

For having been gone ten years, the place hasn't changed that much.  The numbers in the theologate are down, which is one big differance.  This in spite of the combining of the Guadalajara and Mexico City communities.  I always had the sense that some of the social trends hit down here fifteen to twenty years behind us in the States, so that the vocation plunge the Salesians took in the late eighties, early ninties is effecting them now (very unscientific opinion, I admit).  But the spirit among the men seems good, and as the weekend goes on I'll fill you all in on more.  I'm especially looking forward to my visit to my old parish on be writing more before then.  I just heard the bell that means it's breakfast time.  Hasta later.

Random Notes, 2/4/11

Egypt
It's hard not to get caught up in the events of the past week.  In many ways it reminds me of the fall of the Berlin Wall, in the sense that things are moving so quickly that it's difficult to keep track of things and understand their meaning.  It's also similar to he events of 1989 in that the unrest in Egypt is a part of a wider movement that began in Tunisia and seems to be picking up in Yemen. Where it will stop no one can guess.  The big difference, of course, is that the fall of the Eastern Block came about through the efforts of a democratic movement resulting in the fall of dictatorships and the rise of free nations.  What will happen in the Middle East is far from certain.  Iran, all those years ago, deposed a dictator but replaced him with a repressive theocracy.  We may all agree that Hosni Mubarak is no friend of liberty, but is his immediate ouster the best course for Egypt and the wider Middle East, and for the world at large?    

The Church generally does not support revolutionary movements, for the reason that they are usually violent, bloody and leave the country in question worse than before.  There are also other reasons that have to do with the Church's traditional views on earthly authority and its origins in Heaven.  But more recent pronouncements on the subject have tended to focus on humanitarian concerns.  This does not mean that the Church opposes changes in government and civil structures.  It's all in the way that it comes about.  It is well known that Pope John Paul II worked behind the scenes, as well as in front of the crowds, for the fall of communism in Europe.  But what he was advocating was change from within, done in a peaceful, just manner. Of course that "change from within" also included the personal conversion of the individuals who make up the body politic.  He opposed the revolutionary movements in Latin America because they were violent, with some even using the Gospel to advocate violence.  He knew that all the communist rebels were going to do was replace one oppressive regime with another.

I hope this is not the case in Egypt, but my hope is not strong.

I've begun to read a short work on the book of Revelation, and while it is timely to the topics of today, I'll wait before moving my reflections of world events into that direction.

On A Lighter Note: A Strange Coincidence

It was pointed out to me that since we are in the year 2011 there will be a lot of fun with dates and playing with numbers, like January 1 could be written 1/1/11 and in November we'll have 11/1/11 as well as the granddaddy of them all 11/11/11.  Not that I'm into numerology and such things, try this little trick at home:

Take the last two digits of the year you were born and add it to the age you will turn during this calender year, and see what it comes out to.  It should come out to the same number for anyone born in the last century. 

New Jersey's School Holidays

The New Jersey Department of Education just released a list of over a hundred and twenty religious holidays that a student could be excused from school for.  It represents a "minimum list" of holidays, and individual schools boards can add to it as they see fit.  All the major religions are there and even some not so major; even Wicca (are you a good witch or a bad witch?).  But clearly we have a problem.  Catholic feasts like the Immaculate Conception are lumped together under a generic "Christian" label.  Even the Orthodox get a separate mention for the Dormition of the Theotokos, which corresponds to the Assumption.  I mean, why should the Baptists get a day off for a holiday they don't even believe in?  (Nothing against Baptists, I love them dearly) Why should they ride on our coattails?  I mean, you don't see us taking Reformation Day off, do you?  The ACLU is going to hear about this! (OK, maybe not.)

Generations Have Longed to See What You See

I do not have the words to express how I feel right now.  There have been literally generations of Salesian High School students who dreamed of seeing a new gym on our New Rochelle campus.  And today The Br. Jim Wiegand  Athletic Center was officially opened for business.

The old gym earned it's name; built in 1927 it's the oldest gymnasium in New Rochelle and one of the oldest in Westchester County.  It's a great old building, and for eighty plus years gave us a real home court advantage; the legendary pillars set in bounds, the impossibility of attempting a three point shot from the wings, and the balcony that seemed to put the fans right over court.  When the place was packed it rocked, and visiting teams didn't know where to turn.  There are some intangibles that will be lost by moving over to the new house, but it's more than worth it.  And we're not saying goodbye to the old gym, it'll still be used for PE classes, the spring play, the band and other events, I'm sure.  But now Salesian High has a new facility worthy of our State Champion hoops team and City Championship volleyball squad, as well as a room dedicated to wrestling. 

I left this morning nice and early.  The last couple of times I needed to be in New Rochelle for something I got stuck at the GW Bridge for over two hours and either missed my commitment or was ridiculously late, and I did not want to miss any of this.

I rolled in about 8:00 AM and it was like I never left. Fr. Jim Mulloy was at his post at the North Stairwell, I made my rounds of the homerooms like I used to.  The boys gave me a great reception, as did the teachers.  When I'm here at the parish I'm very focused on what I'm doing.  Being pastor can be like being on a treadmill, and in a way there's no time to reflect over the past and take stock.  In coming back I saw how much I do miss the boys, and the place.  Salesaian High was where my vocation came into focus and where I met people who changed my life, from the friends I made, the Salesians and lay teachers who taught me back in the day, to later on the SDBs and teachers I lived and worked with in practical training and these last three years.  I've been blessed.  

The boys were sent over to the gym, while a group of alumni and guests waited outside.  Br. Jim Wiegand , Salesian's basketball coach between 1961 and 1980, who the new athletic center is named for was on hand, along with his sister.  Br. Jim is a legend himself, having influenced generations of player, who talk of him as a father figure.  After Bishop Dennis Sullivan blessed a statue of St. Joseph that stands outside and a plaque to Br. Jim, he cut the ribbon at the front door and in we went. 

The ceremony was beautiful, and there were two speakers who stood out.  Mike Breen '79 (yes, that Mike Breen) spoke of Br. Jim and how they were always prepared for the game because of their coach's constant drilling and scouting of the other team.  But most of all the discipline and attention to the detail prepared them for life.  Br. Jim spoke fondly of his Salesian vocation, and that he and his sister (a Dominican nun) obviously do not have children of their own, but they know that their family name will live on.  He called the naming of the gym after him a tribute to his parents as much as to him.  It was a moving moment.

I would be amiss if I didn't mention the person who made this happen; Fr. Pat Angelucci.  Like I wrote at the beginning, generations have longed to see this day.  A new gym for Salesian High has been a dream for at least 50 years.  But Fr. Pat made the dream a reality, and it wasn't easy.  Over the two years this project was in the works there were more obstacles than most people realize.  Fr. Pat suffered for this project, and I'm not being dramatic.  He had a look of satisfaction on his face today that was beyond words.  I'm sure there are still details that need to be attended to, but it was the look of a man who, after an arduous journey, could finally say mission complete.  He gave a great gift to the Salesian province, but I know for him what's more important is it's a great gift for his beloved Alma Mater.

Reflections on 9/11

Yesterday (Friday, September 10), I was in my office doing data entry for today’s baptisms (the most tedious work imaginable; the data entry, not the baptisms). The doldrums were broken by the sound of a plane. This is not so unusual since we’re probably 2 miles from Newark Airport. It’s that this baby was flying low and moving fast. It was a jet fighter, (I understand that there may have been two) and it made four passes in about a five minute span. I didn’t see it, but Fr. Rich did and we got a call from our secretary’s husband who saw them from his back yard, just a few blocks away. One of our parishioners has connections in the Elizabeth PD so he gave a call. They knew what was up, but they weren’t talking.

The first time the plane passed overhead, the moment I realized that this wasn’t simply a jumbo jet making its approach but was a plane of war on patrol a feeling of dread came over me in a way I haven’t felt for a very long time. On 9/11 all those years ago I felt numb, but in the days and months that followed I felt this creeping sense of disquiet, like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. That subsided by the following spring, but then just after the first anniversary of the attacks I was in Chicago settling in to my new assignment when the terror level was raised to what ever color represents it’s time to put your head between your legs and kiss it goodbye. New York was armed camp, from what we could tell from the cable news stations, so the director, our financial administrator and I sat down to discuss what to do if a dirty bomb went off in the Loop. We concluded that we were close enough to down town that there probably wasn’t much we could do to save ourselves and the men in our community if the worst happened. We made sure we had enough canned food and bottled water and hoped for the best. My feelings those times mirrored what I felt growing up during the Cold War. I didn’t live through the Cuban Missile Crisis or anything like that, but there was an awareness that nuclear war was a real possibility. I certainly didn’t live in constant fear during those years, but there was a sense of the fragileness of life and that the future was far from assured. These were the feelings that came back to me for that brief moment yesterday morning.

In the end it is faith that sustains me in those moments. This is not to say that being a priest or a Christian will save me from hardships or tragedy, but that if I am doing what I am supposed to do right now, I have no need to fear, even if that something is as tedious as plugging names and addresses into a spreadsheet. Life is unpredictable, even without the threat of terrorism and nuclear war. We just have to live now, as if it’s our last day; live to the fullest this life that is a gift from God. We remember today those who died nine years ago. We pray for them and for their families that still struggle with pain and grief. But the greatest memorial we can give them is to remember that life is short and fragile, so we need to live every moment, not in fear, but in love.