caroleannmoleti

I am a firm believer in the Jungian concept of synchronicity. It was no coincidence that the publication of "Endless Possibilities," which chronicles the host of feelings dredged up by attending a grammar school reunion in 2005, coincided with attending the All Class Reunion of St Frances de Chantal Grammar School, Bronx, New York on October 10, 2009.

This excerpt of my memoir examines a time in my life when I struggled with what I wanted to do, now that I was all grown up. At the age of seven, I decided to become a nurse. A year or so ago, as burned out as a lump of charcoal, I would sometimes scream at the mirror "You must have been out of your mind!"

All that collided big time as I faced my grammar school buddies, in 2005 and 2009, with whom I spent eight years of my life-the years when one goes from childhood to adolescence and remains brimming with the sense of endless possibilities. Jeez, we lived through the assassination of JFK and RFK together. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated the night before our Confirmation. Will you ever forget Sr. Mary Gertrude getting the T.V. on so we could watch the Mets win the World Series and the fans rolling up the sod to take home as souvenirs? She was one of the cooler nuns, I must say.

A special shout out to Marianne, George and John S., who have cameos in this piece. And Sr. Lucille, I saw you at Mass on October 10th but missed saying hello and getting yelled at again. If you surf the net, you can hit reply and chew me out for all the world to see.

Thanks to all the members of the Class of ’71, no matter where you are, for being such an important part of my life. Kenny, Richard, John H., Gary, George--we’ve met up from time to time at odd places-liquor stores, Bickford’s Pancake House in Rhode Island on the way to the Cape, Lamaze classes. I will never forget my tomboy self carousing in the back of the classroom when the nuns used to put me in the middle of you all, thinking a girl would calm you down. Thanks for teaching me how to play handball with a "Spauldeen" against a brick wall before they rang that goddamn brass bell for morning line-up.

Marianne, Karen Ann, I had this moment of nostalgia the other night, standing on top of what used to be the hopscotch court, thinking about how we used to pull bobby-pins out of our hair and clip them together since they didn’t roll out of the boxes like pebbles when we tossed them. Remember how we used to hold our skirts down when we hopped and bent over to retrieve them so the nuns didn’t whack us on the ass with yardsticks for being indecent?

During those jump rope sessions, too. Damn, I never got the hang of Double Dutch and my feet still get tangled up when doing fast ballet combinations-but that’s the subject of "The Dance Class," also in This Path. I’ll post some of that next week.

Shit, you guys still call me Carole Ann (or "Ca" which must be a Bronx thing because some of my patients do that, too) though the rest of the modern world generally shortens it for ease and convenience.

If anyone wants an autographed copy of This Path, including two of my essays, ping me back and I’ll get it to you right away. There are class pictures from the fourth and seventh grade at facebook.com/cmoleti. 

 

The night seemed full of endless possibilities, like life thirty-five years ago. I stood in the lobby of the posh Marina Del Rey at the 75^th anniversary of the Saint Frances de Chantal grammar school, Bronx, New York. The '50s vintage dress that called to me at an antique show fit like it had been custom made. I thought I looked pretty good with the gray dyed out and six pounds lighter than last year. Those anti-wrinkle creams seemed to work. They sure cost enough. 

I never attended a high school reunion but instead was drawn way back to my grammar school days. I remember only a few names and faces, most notably, Marianne. We don't see each other often, but just like tuning into a soap opera you haven't watched in years, we easily pick up the story line and move on.

I waited for Marianne, watching the lights of the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge glimmer like tiny beacons over cold, dark Long Island Sound.  I moved across the bridge to Queens seventeen years ago. I still work the streets of the Bronx but death, distance, or the ravages of time have broken all ties to friends and family. Alone, mesmerized by the tinkling fountain, I held back tears remembering when this neighborhood was an innocent idealist's only view of the world.

The cell phone bleated. "Sorry, I'll be there in a minute, got stuck in traffic." Marianne rushed in from the parking lot and gave me a hug. "You look fantastic."

We studied the collage of old class pictures. Marianne picked me out: the girl with a headband and hair in a pony tail, tights, uniform dress with a bow tie, and a big smile. We sipped drinks, nibbled hors'd'oeuvres, and found the "Class of 1971" table. 

John, one of the two "boys" who had been my close friends, smiled when he saw me. "Hi, Carole Ann. You haven't changed a bit." 

Sister Mary Lucille, at least eighty, peered at me and waved a gnarled, bony finger. "You're one of the Moleti girls, and none of you took French." Nuns never give up.

"That's right, Sister," I said, "but Spanish serves me well."            

George suggested we take the few surviving sisters for a boat ride in the dark and dump them overboard to get even for all those bruises. We laughed, reminisced, and tears flowed on my way home in the pouring rain as I crooned Streisand's tune "The Way We Were."

 

©Carole Ann Moleti, 2009. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission of the author.

 

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