(IN PROGRESS)
No memoir of ours can be complete without some mention of this man. Sure enough, another priest, a sorry excuse for a man, unsexed and unloved, except maybe by his mom.
The SJ part is a reference to the Society of Jesus, to which he belonged, having been ordained a priest by the Roman church. This is called Holy Orders, one of the sacraments, of which the Roman church tells us there are seven. During this ritual, the priest-to-be throws himself on the floor, prone, his face on the cold marble, and makes his vows to the Church, pledging chastity (right), obedience (possibly) and poverty (that’s rich).
We would not recommend joining the Society of Jesus, nor would we ever seek the society of Jesus. Only he knows what goes on behind the closed doors of their Jesuit dormitories, and in their hearts and groins. And you don’t want to know. We can’t say we were ever buggered by one of them, but they manage to fuck you in other ways. Priests, especially the Irish-American variety with which we are familiar, are much like cops: they just want to be loved. It really bugs them when you are indifferent to them, or don’t follow the rules, however surreptitiously. In fact, it makes them psychopathic (which we maintain they are to begin with. Who in his right mind would choose such a life?). Ah, but these fellows are Jesuits. As such, they are too smart to come at you head on (unlike the police psychopath). They bide their time, waiting for the right opportunity to deliver their “don’t get mad, get even” attack. You would think that a man of god would behave more civilly. They are men of god, aren’t they?
These are emphatically not the people you want to confess your sins to. They will hold it against you if you foolishly confess something they don’t want to hear about, like your fantasies about burning them at the stake. The noble Jesuit Inquisitors know what’s at stake, after all. A venial sin perhaps. Or about dreaming of fucking the shit out of Sister Beatifica of the convent up the road. Gotta be a mortal sin, that one. But she’s such a gorgeous dish. What if she has terrible legs, shaped like a horseshoe? And you can’t tell about her tits inside the black get-up. Or if you just give up in the confessional one day, exasperated at having to maintain this faux religiosity, and tell the powerful whiff of acid and alcohol on the other side of the screen that this is all horseshit. So if you’re like us (rabid anti-clerical under-age atheist), you have to fake it or get out. We were too young and naive to realize that we could get out. We were scared, so we stayed. Big mistake. Did we mention there were no girls in this school?
The other part, the Father part, was always a mystery to us. This clown is not our father, spiritual or otherwise. Respect and authority doesn’t come with the name; it has to be earned, after all.
Finally, the name. What’s with the two first names? That’s akin to the Protestants with the two last names, like Taylor Wheeler, say. In both cases, they are interchangeable, like Henry Charles or Wheeler Taylor.
These are minor quibbles, but they are fun to pick at, like a scab on a wound.
Charles Henry taught Latin during our four years of high school in San Francisco. He also ran the public speaking/debating activities. We must immodestly state here that we were the best student at Saint Ignatius High School. Truly. But a little background first. After our freshman year, we were classified according to academic performance. A through G. The A’s were the dumbest, the G’s were the smart kids. For example, 2G was the smart sophomore class, 3A was the junior stupid class, and so forth. So in this enlightened system (they claim they’re the best educators) the smart kids, the nerds, were set up as targets for the morons in the A classes. We referred to them as the Animals. It didn’t take that much effort to get into the G (smartest) classes. There were six classes in each grade below the G class. This means that there was a significant range of inferior performance (to put it kindly) below us. The A classes were your typical, garden-variety thug, Irish bully boys mostly. In fact, the whole fucking school must have been 90% Irish.
So we were smart; we were also pretty, as well as a good athlete (swimming). But, alas, not Irish. All this must have caused much consternation in the general student population, not to mention among the Jesuits, most of whom were Irish too. And then at the end of my high school career I had the temerity to be accepted to Yale. Oh boy, they weren’t going to let us get away with that!
Among the hollow men at St. Ignatius high school, he was the most hollow. Who else would choose such a life: no women, maybe the occasional fellow priest, or just settling for an occasional hand job. Or if you are really ambitious, small children of either sex. In any case, such a man would soon come to resent his students. Smart, talented, great athletes, good looking, going on to achieve great things in their lives. Marriage, children, a bright and varied future, professional achievement. And here you are, stuck in this miserable, shabby classroom, forever. Get angry, get even.
Jesuit low-lifes
They love to hang out with rich people
