Common Ground (113 page)

“Aw shucks,” said Lisa. “I don’t deserve that.”

“You’re right,” yelled Patti Rooney. Everybody laughed and clapped still harder.

“But I’ll take it,” Lisa said. “And there are lots of other people who deserve our thanks. During our three years at Charlestown High we’ve had the privilege of working with some of the finest people in the Town. We can offer them nothing but respect.”

Polite applause.

“But how,” Lisa asked, “can you respect Mr. Greatorex, the Geek?”

Laughter and boos.

“Page 943 of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary defines a geek as ‘a carnival performer.’ I ask you, how do you respect a man like that?”

Wild hilarity.

“Mr. Greatorex, the Geek, the Rhinestone Cowboy. We the senior class of Charlestown High say, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

A tumult of glass rapping, table pounding, foot stomping, and hand clapping until a beet-red Pat Greatorex stumbled forward to accept their tribute.

Then Joan Smith, the class secretary, rose to read the Prophecy: “Here we are, ladies and gentlemen, at the social event of the year. This is your big-mouth reporter, talking to you live from Charlestown High’s Class of ’77 Twentieth Reunion. I will be giving you a minute-to-minute update on some of our famous classmates as they come in. Some are arriving now, and the first
one in the door is the former Miss Carolyn Wrenn. Apparently she couldn’t find a babysitter because there are twelve little ones tailing her…. Floating in behind them is Sandy Payne, famous woman astronaut, better known as Space Woman…. I don’t believe my eyes, our next guest is Lisa McGoff, without Charlie or the other angels…. Speaking of famous couples, here comes NAACP Couple of the Year, Diane and Joe Strickland.”

Finally Kelly Gamby read the Class Will.

“To Susan Cooney, we leave a six-pack of Michelob and Mike Dolaher—and, on weekends, Frankie Kelly.

“To Joe Strickland, we leave a Snow White costume and a full-length mirror.

“To Stan Caiczynski, we leave his own version of the Polish national anthem.”

Most clauses were received with snickers or ribald laughter.

But when Kelly reached the next item, she turned to Eddie Irvin and said, “I hope you don’t take this as an insult.”

Dapper in a blue pants suit, Eddie smiled reassuringly.

“To Eddie Irvin,” Kelly said, “we leave a full-size mural of City Hall Plaza and his own American flag.”

With that, the class of ’77 rose nearly as one to give Eddie a prolonged ovation. Only a handful of seniors—among them the Rivases and the four blacks—remained sitting at their tables.

For weeks the ovation provoked intense debate in the faculty lounge. The small liberal coterie saw it as evidence that anti-black feeling was as strong as ever at Charlestown High, simply awaiting a new pretext to erupt. Others dismissed such fears, regarding the applause as noisy affection for the class joker who had gone through a trying year. Still others contended that it had little to do with Eddie at all, that it was a ritual expression of Townie solidarity, of Charlestown armed against the world.

Lisa had mixed feelings about it. Still fond of Eddie, she was glad to pay tribute to him, but she felt bad if the ovation had embarrassed Joe Strickland and the other blacks. For Lisa was beginning to gain some perspective on her situation, to understand how others saw her. For the first time, she was expressing interest in the world beyond her town. Only a few days after the senior banquet, Lisa and three classmates embarked on a week-long visit to Washington, D.C. Sponsored by a nationwide program called Close-Up, the trip was designed to acquaint high school students with the workings of their national government. Jerry Sullivan escorted the Townies, who converged on Washington with a hundred other youths from the Boston area, joining delegations from Detroit and Atlanta.

Most of the participants had never been in their nation’s capital before, but Lisa’s two Powder Keg expeditions had left her feeling like an old Washington hand. Her mood was markedly different this time. Storming Capitol Hill with her mother, she’d been consumed by righteous indignation at unresponsive
legislators and their bureaucratic allies. Since then, much of her anger had dissipated. Although she still regarded busing as an abomination, she was more interested now in understanding how such policies came into being and what could be done to reverse them.

For six days, the Close-Up delegations quizzed public figures all over town. The hundreds of students were divided into groups of seven, each with a secretary to pose questions and record the answers. Lisa became her group’s secretary and took an active role in questioning Massachusetts Congressmen John Moakley and Paul Tsongas, Hugh Wilhere, chairman of the National Commission on Law Enforcement and Social Justice, and Ralph Alvarez of the Environmental Policy Center.

To Lisa, the most interesting session was with William White, Jr., a black man who was assistant staff director of the Civil Rights Commission. A year earlier, she would have found it difficult to sit in the same room with such a man. Now she listened intently as he declared that school desegregation was “an indisputable national goal.” In some cities busing had been bitterly resisted, but it wasn’t going away. “Your fellow citizens across this land have showed that it can work. Even where it’s been difficult at first, desegregation sets off a process which leaves a strong, united people.”

Lisa raised her hand. “Isn’t busing the main reason that thousands of white families have deserted Boston’s public schools?” she asked.

Such considerations were irrelevant when basic constitutional rights were at stake, White insisted. But Lisa bored in. “You haven’t mentioned the word ‘forced,’ ” she said. “Don’t you realize that in most cases it isn’t racism, but the idea that government can force you out of your own school, out of your own town? There has to be some other way to get desegregation.” But Lisa noticed that the suburban kids seemed bored by the subject. It didn’t apply to them. They seemed so carefree, it made her mad to think that they were enjoying themselves while kids in the city—black and white—were going through all this racial crap.

It was time to move on, she thought, time to attend to other things. The first was college. Despite her extracurricular responsibilities, Lisa’s grades had held up well—A in biology, B+ in psychology, B+ in economics, C+ in English, C’s in algebra and physical education. But the college boards frightened her. Most teachers were so preoccupied with maintaining order in their classrooms they had little time to prepare seniors for the critical exams. Lisa was particularly worried about math, always her weakest subject. Luckily Pat Greatorex provided some last-minute tutorials and Lisa slipped by with respectable scores. In April she was accepted at Bunker Hill Community College, a new two-year institution across town.

The last month of school passed in a blur. On May 5, the seniors held their prom at Montvale Plaza, Lisa arriving on the arm of a dashing Chuckie Hayes (only four blacks showed up, led by Joe Strickland in a rented Rolls-Royce). A week later, all the Townie seniors—except the blacks—spent the day swimming
and playing softball at a resort in the Berkshires. There was a party somewhere in town every night, the boys drinking too heavily, the girls laughing a little too gaily, the class of ’77 trying hard to mask its nervousness.

As graduation day approached, Alice McGoff was torn by seemingly irreconcilable emotions. For years she had channeled her waking energies into the crusade against Arthur Garrity’s order. Morning after morning, she had trudged up Breed’s Hill, chanting her “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers,” flinging imprecations at the forces which occupied the heights. For Alice and her colleagues in Powder Keg, the high school which straddled the hill had become a potent symbol in their struggle, as much an emblem of the fight for self-determination as the granite obelisk which towered above it. At all costs, they urged, Charlestown High must resist judicial tyranny. Yet Alice had watched with mounting admiration as Lisa assumed leadership at the school, managing through force of personality to restore some vestige of solidarity and tradition. Her child was a determined young woman now, armed with the courage of her convictions. Some Powder Keg members might complain about Lisa’s role at the school, suggesting she had somehow sold out to the “probusers,” but Alice defended her, proclaiming a mother’s pride.

Then on June 2—five days before graduation—Alice woke up just after midnight with sharp pains in her chest. Billy drove her to Massachusetts General Hospital, where doctors concluded that she was suffering a gallbladder attack. The offending organ had to come out, they said, and the operation was scheduled for the morning of June 8, only hours after Lisa was to graduate.

“Okay,” said Alice, “take the damn thing out. On one condition: I’m going to my daughter’s graduation the night before.”

“Out of the question,” said the doctor.

“Listen,” Alice shot back. “My daughter has just gone through two years of busing. She’s the president of her class. She runs the show up there. I’m going to be at her graduation. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you!”

Finally the doctor shrugged. “It’s against every medical principle,” he said, “but do as you like.”

At 6:30 p.m. on June 7, Alice got dressed, signed out of the hospital, and hitched a ride with Billy to Hynes Auditorium in the Back Bay. When mother and daughter embraced in the lobby, Alice handed Lisa a single red rose, tied with a silver ribbon. “Anybody who graduates from high school under these circumstances,” she said, “deserves a rose.”

Lisa turned, tears glistening in her eyes, and led the class of ’77 up the aisle. She held the rose before her, a splash of magenta against her white gown. Taking her seat in the front row, she listened as Assistant Headmaster Bob Jarvis opened the school’s 129th graduation with a backward glance at the 35th. A brisk young administrator, often critical of Charlestown’s low standards, Jarvis struck a rueful note as he recalled that the 1873 ceremonies had included a Greek declaration entitled “Demosthenes and the Crown,” a Latin dialogue called “Aeneas and the Sibyl,” the song “Wake, Gentle Zephyr,” and a valedictory address on “The Value of Purpose in Life.”

Pragmatic as ever, Headmaster Bob Murphy recited the cautionary tale of Mary Ellen Barry, a Townie lass who had dropped out of high school in 1913. Now seventy-eight, she deeply regretted her childhood indiscretion. One day her daughter-in-law called to inquire if there was some way Mary Ellen could get her diploma. When the School Committee consented, Murphy and the Superintendent journeyed to her house in Braintree, “where that seventy-eight-year-old lady sat on her porch, enjoying one of the happiest and proudest moments of her life. I mention this to show you the value of a diploma. So when you receive yours today, cherish it and use it to the fullest of your ability.”

School Committeewoman Pixie Palladino, always the politician, paid handsome tribute to Charlestown’s “great tradition, exemplified by your Bunker Hill Day parade on Sunday next, which I will be pleased to attend.”

Patti Rooney, the valedictorian, spoke of her class’s tumultuous experience at Charlestown High, marked by “helicopters, newsmen, policemen, and buses, by fear and confusion.”

Finally it was Lisa’s turn. For more than a week she had labored over her speech, trying to distill the essence of her years at Charlestown High. Now, after Bob Jarvis introduced her as “a fine young lady, a very active young lady, a very responsible president of her class,” she scrambled up the steps toward the stage. Stumbling for a moment over her long rayon gown, she righted herself and lurched on toward the microphone, as applause crashed about her.

“Mrs. Palladino, Mr. Murphy, faculty, fellow graduates, parents and friends,” she began, her mouth so dry she could hardly get her tongue around the words.

“Tonight as I stand on this stage, looking out at all of you, memories of our years here seem unavoidable. As sophomores: the memory of coming to a new school, meeting new people, making new plans. As juniors, the memory of junior day, of class rings. Now as seniors, the memory of getting committees going, preparing for college.”

Lisa could see her mother, Billy, Danny, Kevin, and three of her aunts seated together in the family section. Alice smiled up at her, clearly fighting back her tears, as Lisa plunged on.

“We were having fun with all our activities—like the yearbook, the prom, the senior banquet. But we were also maturing, learning and growing. Now as graduates we still have far to go. We must take our places in society, and as adults we can no longer rely totally on parents and teachers to make our decisions.

“High school was more than fun. It was learning about life. It was learning to keep on going in spite of everything that happened. We will always have this knowledge as well as our memories to use as we venture into the world, into society filled with different people, different problems, and the great unknown.”

I
n the quiet moments before the first bell, Cassandra felt almost at home at Charlestown High. It was a tranquil time, that quarter hour after the buses arrived but before the Townies rushed up the stairs; a blessed respite in which to marshal her strength for the day ahead.

Room 415 was a narrow chamber, looking out through a row of cloudy windows toward the docks and cranes of the Mystic River shore. With its drab walls, cracked blackboard, and scarred wooden desks, it was hardly attractive. But in those early-morning hours, as the smoky light filtered off the river, bathing the desk where Jerry Sullivan sat sipping coffee from a chipped mug, it seemed a cozy enclave in a hostile world.

The only blacks assigned to Jerry’s homeroom, Cassandra and Curt Shepherd took quickly to the shambling teacher in his tweed jackets, button-down shirts, and shiny cordovans. As he swabbed the blackboard, beat clouds of chalky dust from the erasers, and thumbed his index cards, he kept up a stream of chatter with the two youngsters hunched before him. Spinning tales about the Harvard football team or the movie theater he managed in the summer on Martha’s Vineyard, he gentled them into the daily routine. And his rumbling voice, crooked smile, and prodigious bulk were profoundly reassuring to Cassandra.