Rocco, Il Padrone, Papa, Grandpa...

DEMISE: An American Tragedy

     A story of the 1990s by John M. Del Vecchio, to be released by Warriors Publishing Group September 2020.

* On this Fathers Day 2020: Best wishes to all fathers, grandfathers and great grandfathers, too, who have protected their families, and who… well… who are like Rocco…

Rocco, Il Padrone in the old sense, Papa, Grandpa: For decades he has protected the family, has focused on keeping the family’s foundation strong. He is a World War II vet — infantry on the march north through Italy — now a widower living with his son, Johnny, and son’s wife, Julia, plus three grandchildren and the family pet, Dog Corleone. In the post WW II years Rocco became a mason and contractor. Now 85 and enfeebled by age, he has set his task. Each morning after Johnny leaves for work and the kids for school, he descends into the basement of his son’s home and slowly yet systematically removes and replaces the bricks of its crumbling foundation — figuratively rebuilding the foundation of the family and that of the crumbling American culture of the late 1990s.

Rocco grasped the red brick, rocked it, forced it up, his old fingers momentarily straining then relaxing, straining then relaxing, oscillating the pressure against the crumbling mortar. Then side to side, patiently. Then forward a quarter inch and back, forward five sixteenths and back. Then he rested, withdrew his hand, laid his arm on his chest.

In 1912, the year of Rocco’s birth, the house on The Point on Lake Shore Drive in East Lake, which would become Johnny and Julia’s dream, was erected by Edward Hancock, owner of Hancock Lumber. The interior wood trim was chestnut and oak; the parquet floors patterned with mahogany, ebony and teak; the interior doors, cherry. Porches were adorned with copings and crowns, corbels, and cornices. From top to bottom the ma­terials and workmanship were of superior quality, except for the foundation. The foundation was red brick and mortar because Beatrice Hancock had liked the way it looked below the clapboard of a home she’d seen in South Carolina.

“You gotta problem down there.” Rocco had pulled Johnny aside on the day he’d moved in. “Johnny, you gotta problem.”

“What do you mean, Pop? What problem?”

“You gotta problem down there in the foundation.”

“What! What are you talking about?”

“Your foundation. It’s made of brick.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s made of bricks. A lot of the old Victorians around the lake have brick foundations. That’s the old Hancock style.”

“It’s crumbling.”

“It’s crumbling?!”

“Yeah.” Rocco nodded. “The mortar. It’s all dry. Crumbling. Falling apart. Some of the brick, too. Some are broken. Your whole house, the foundation is crumbling.”

“Oh, Pop! I’m sure it’s fine.”

“No. I been down there. With the boxes. You got sand all on the floor. From the mortar. Piles on the floor.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’ll get Jason to go down and sweep it up. When I made the workout area a few years back, I swept it all. And after the flooding.”

“Umm. Umm. Water: it leaches out the lime; leaves the sand. I pulled out some bricks. Just like that. Nothing holding ʼem.”

Johnny chuckled but he was not happy. “Don’t pull ʼem out, Pop. Okay?”

“I’m goina do some work down there.”

“Nah. Pop. I’ll have somebody come in and take care of it.”

“You let me do it. I want to. It’ll give me something to do.”

“How you goina do that, Pop?”

“Just a little. A little at a time. Todd can help. Jason can help. You get mortar…um, maybe ten bags for now…”

“You can’t do that. Not with your legs.”

“I’ll just scrape out the loose sand. Nice and clean. Put mortar back in. Reset the brick. Jason can bring the bags down.”

“Geez,” Johnny’d sighed. “I don’t think so.”

“Let me do this. I gotta do something.”

“God, Pop!” Johnny’d said. “Whatever! If that’s what you want.”

Now Rocco twisted, reached back in with an old screwdriver. He poked, scraped at the dry mortar. He had descended into the basement after watch­ing the morning Roman Catholic mass on Channel 49, on the small TV in his room. Each shuffling step had hurt, and with each he’d mumbled, Be not afraid. I go before you always. The refrain from the morning hymn.

The pain in his leg flared. He gasped silently, withdrew the screwdriver, sat still. An excruciating stabbing zing shot downward from the wound along his right shin, pierced his ankle, drove to his arch, his toes. He sucked in a shallow gulp of air, held it. Come fol-low Me, and I will give you rest.

Beneath the pangs there was a constant gnawing ache as if he were being tortured on some malicious medieval leg rack with a clockwork mechanism set as to methodically deliver knifing jabs within the constant pressure. If you stand before the pow’r of hell and death is at your side — Rocco did not say the words but thought them, heard them in his head — know that I am with you through it all. He made the sign of the cross, returned to the tool, squeezed the handle of the screwdriver, turned, stared at the one brick that he’d been attempting to loosen.

Generally the bricks directly below the sill at the top of the foundation, and those at the base of the walls, were in the worst condition — often cracked from the uneven weight they’d borne as the mortar around them had deteriorated. In five and a half months the old man had finished the north and most of the east side of the foundation, shoring the floor joists three at a time, then removing bricks one by one, carefully cleaning and stacking each, until the small section was clear and ready for brick-by-brick reassembly. Biweekly, sometimes more often, sometimes less, Todd (until he returned to school) or Jason had raised or lowered or moved the chair and stool upon which Rocco sat and propped his legs as he worked.

Seldom were grandfather and grandsons in the basement together. Sel­dom did they speak, though when they did it was harmonious.

“I gotta move down two feet.”

“Sure, Gramps,” Todd would say.

Or “Okay,” Jason would answer. “I’ll do it in the morning.”

“You know where I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Todd always spoke quickly to the elder Panuzio as if he were trying to speed up the old man. Jason spoke more deliberately but sometimes in adolescent code. “No problemo! I’ll fill the water pail, too. But first I gotta reinstall the ’ware on my fifty-six K, then my RAM-doubler so I can debug my new downloads. You need yer platform dropped, too?”

“Yes.” Rocco would nod. “And the step stool. And move your father’s weight bench and that bicycle contraption. What’s he need that for?”

By early September Jason had begun saying, “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe you got so much done!”

“We did so much together, eh?” Rocco had beamed. “Little by little.”

The pain eased. Again Rocco returned to the wall, pried. The brick tilted. More pressure. Nothing. He brought his arm back to his chest, rested. The trickling of water from Julia’s shower in the drainpipes sounded almost like a small brook in summer. Rocco sighed, looked at his bony hands, his flaccid arms. When he’d been 35, he’d weighed 185 pounds; now at 85 he was barely 135 pounds. And he’d shrunk from taller than five-seven to less than five-four. His heart beat erratically — the upper and lower limits were controlled by medication and a pacemaker. His blood pressure, his blood sugar, and his prostate gland were under the influence of various ex­trinsic chemicals. He wore glasses to read, glasses for inside distances, glasses for outside distances — and still he had difficulties with muscle twitching causing double vision. From the open sore on his legs to his eyes, he despised this bodily betrayal.

In each ear he inserted sound amplifiers, clarifiers. Sometimes the hearing aids didn’t work; sometimes they became overly sensitive. “For God’s sakes,” he’d once overheard Julia snap at Johnny. “He’s not five years old. He’s got to take responsibility for his care, too. You can’t do it all.”

“So what am I suppose to do?” Johnny’d snapped back. “Tell him not to go down there?”

“Yes. He can’t be going up and down those stairs. If he slips and falls and breaks a hip…Do you know what it’s going to be like caring for him?”

“I know. I know. I already talked to him.”

“What did he say?”

“Look, Julie-pie, I’m sure this is going to pass. He’s got nothing to do around here. This gives him something. It’s the one thing he knows. He’s been a builder for fifty years. It’s the one thing which keeps his mind off his health. And he’s got a bug up his butt about ‘Our Foundation.’ I’m sure in a few weeks he’ll forget all about it.”

“If he breaks his hip, I’m not taking care of him. You get somebody else to take care of him. Your brother could help more.”

“He’s not going to break — ”

“Ttaah! Maybe! That’s what’s keeping those leg ulcers from healing. He’s got to take responsibility for that. It affects all of us. Not just him.”

“I know. I know you’re right, but he’ll go stir-crazy sitting with his legs up. He was always strong. Always a doer. I’d go nuts, too, if I had to be in a chair all day.”

“And if he falls down the stairs and breaks his hip, he’ll be laid up in a bed for six months. He could go down there after the ulcers heal. At least he could wait until then.”

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll handle it, okay?”

“What if something happens while he’s down there and nobody’s home?”

Rocco’d heard it all, very clearly, and he’d thought, What if? How long does she think I’m goina last? What if something happens when I’m upstairs and nobody’s home? What if? What if I fix your foundation?

About the Author: John M. Del Vecchio is the author of five books, including two bestsellers with approximately 1.4 million copies sold, as well as hundreds of articles. He graduated from Lafayette College in 1969, was drafted and sent to Vietnam in 1970, where he served as a combat correspondent in the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile). In 1971, he was awarded a Bronze Star Medal for heroism in ground combat.

Fifty years ago today: I landed in this country...

In 1970 my field partner, Mark Gilreath (post Vietnam, the singer Marcus Leddy) introduced me to the song Boonie Rats. I included the song in The 13th Valley, which was published in 1982. The note in the original forward regarding the origins of Boonie Rats is erroneous. More on that in a moment.

The song begins: I landed in this country, one year of life to give, My only friend a weapon, My only prayer to live.

It is fifty years ago today, 13 June 1970, that I landed in Vietnam. To me, that calls for a celebration—at least a personal celebration. But it also call for a lot of reflection, a lot of memories, some regrets, some very deep sadness. Next verse and chorus:

I walked away from freedom and the life that I had known, I passed the weary faces of the others going home.

Boonie Rats, Boonie Rats. Scared but not alone, 300 days more or less, Then I’m going home.

Marcus wrote his own music to the song, recorded it, and sang it on a nationwide tour of backwater honky tonks and some pretty fine establishments. The original note in The 13th Valley states, “The words to the Boonierat Song in Chapter 7 were allegedly written by an M-60 machine gunner of the 101st under the double-canopy of the Ruong-Ruong Valley in the spring of 1970. He added music when his unit moved onto the Elephant Valley. In late October … The composer was allegedly killed in action.”

Marcus was one of perhaps two score of singers/composers who added their own music to Boonie Rats. Sometime around 1984 or 1985 Johnny Cash contacted me for permission to perform the song. I had to explain to him that I didn’t own it. We were treating it a a folk song. Singers were donating a portion of their income to veteran charities, as was I, in honor of their fellow troops who had not come home.

The first few days were hectic as I psyched my mind for war, I often got the feeling they’re trying to tie the score.

Some of the entertainers changed words, lines, to make the song fit their unit, or the occasion at which they were preforming. Of all the versions I heard, I always liked Marcus’ best. Together we attempted to chase down the true origin. For some time we believed the original composer was an ex-boonierat living in Maine, but the man said he didn’t remember writing it.

The air was hot and humid, The ground was hard and dry, Ten times I cursed my rucksack, And wished that I could die; I learned to look for danger, In the trees and on the ground, I learned to shake with terror, When I heard an AK round.

Several years ago I was invited to speak at the dedication of the John’s Creek, Georgia veteran memorial. And it was there that I received the attached audio, with The Boonie Rat Ballad sung, in 1970 in Vietnam, by the man who originally wrote the words and music. He is Ronald Jordan, and he served with Alpha Company, 1st of the 327th, 101st Airborne Division. I salute you Sir for all the pleasure the song has given me, and many others… now for nearly fifty years. If you listen to the end you’ll note that the song is dedicated to the City of San Mateo, California. San Mateo had adopted 1/327, and its residents sent care packages and letters to the soldiers of this battalion. Contrary to the current narrative, in 1970 not everyone was against the war.

Boonie Rats a legend, For now and times to come, Wherever there are soldiers, They’ll talk of what we’ve done.

They say there’ll always be a war, I hope they’re very wrong, To the Boonie Rats of Vietnam, I dedicate this song.

I wish Marcus had lived to learn the real story of The Boonie Rat Ballad. Hey Breeze, miss you man.

Memorial Day: Pawns or Patriots

[The following was delivered in Webster, MA on Memorial Day, 2015.]

I’d like to thank Jim Brinker, local veteran and author of West of Hue: Down the Yellow Brick Road, for inviting me to be here today; and thank all of you for allowing me to participate in honoring those who served, who sacrificed, who paid the ultimate price.

Emperor Minh Mang’s Palace, west of Hue, Vietnam: pillar detail

Memorial Day: It is a day to remember and to honor those Americans from long ago and from more recent times who paid the ultimate price—who paid with their lives, with their mortal existence—so that we may live as free citizens of this glorious nation,  and not as subjects of a regime.

To remember and to honor! How do we do that? How do we remember; what do we remember; and how should we behave so that our memories do indeed honor the fallen?

We seem to have short memories. Not just short, but shallow. Every day our memories are diluted with trivia as we are bombarded with gigabytes and terabytes of images and information about celebrity scandals, blips in the market, the newest and greatest gadget from Apple or Microsoft, or the most recent sale on cars, trucks, dishwashers or shoes.

We can barely recall last night’s news, but that makes little difference for it is soon be supplanted with tonight’s news. Seldom do we attempt to correlate items; seldom do we have the time or energy to check the validity or veracity of what is said.

So… Memorial Day… This day of remembrance…  this day to recall and to honor the fallen, this day to reflect upon the meaning of their sacrifice… Memorial Day… it becomes ever more important.

Yet amid the modern world’s massive assault upon our senses, even on Memorial Day, we tend to forget the perceptions and the reasons that were current at the time these men and women went to war.

That forgetfulness opens the door for politicians or political advocacy groups to tell us that we went to war without reason, or under false pretense. Some infer--if they do not overtly state--that the troops who fought were pawns in unwinnable conflicts; dupes in immoral conflicts; someone’s lackey used to enhance the personal power or wealth of others.

When we don’t recall history, we doubt ourselves, and that opens us up to accepting each new story… each new revelation… as fact. We then turn against those who sent our sons or daughters, our brothers or sisters, our mothers or fathers into harm’s way. And of the dead… though we may remember them as individuals, and though we may honor their courage… our forgetfulness allows us consider their lives as having been wasted, their sacrifices in vain.

What’s tripe!

As Jim mentioned, I served with the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile) in Vietnam. The examples I’m about to use are related to that American engagement. Some of you might wish to extrapolate to more current conflicts, perhaps to the liberation of Kuwait, the fall of Ramadi, or to the slaughter of the Yazidi.

Over the past 35 years I have spoken in perhaps a hundred classrooms. A common question, particularly from younger students, has been, “Did you kill anyone?” My answer has always been: “You’re asking the wrong question. You should be asking, ‘Did I save anyone’s life?’ or ‘Did the soldiers with whom I served save lives?’”

We’ve all been told that the war was unwinnable; that we backed the wrong side; that our troops committed unending atrocities and “killed anything that moved.” Worse, we’re told that we went to war to protect French Imperialism, or so Lady Bird Johnson’s transportation company could make lucrative profits. If these accusations are true, what does that say about the deaths of 58,000 of our brothers and sisters? What does it say about the sacrifice made by so many?

Let’s back up and recall some of the basic events as they were unfolding.  With the defeat of Japan at the end of World War II, France reasserted control over its former colonies in Southeast Asia. From 1945 to 1954 they battled the Viet Minh… mostly in the northern areas of Vietnam known as Tonkin. Some recent textbooks tell us that the United States paid 80% of the cost of that war—and that we thusly supported French Imperialism.

In reality, the United States paid 0% of those war costs from 1945 to mid-1950; and did not begin to pay until after China fell to Mao’s communist forces in 1949, and after Red China invaded the Vietnamese island of Hainan in early 1950. These events happened on the heels of much of Eastern Europe falling under the dominance of Soviet communism; yet even then our role was limited. By the time Dien Bien Phu fell in 1954, America had become involved… but our actual piece of the war budget against the Viet Minh amounted to approximately 8% -- not 80%!

One might ask, “Doesn’t that still prove that the U.S. backed the return of colonialism?” The answer is, “No.” That’s not what we were backing; nor is that what the French were seeking. Indeed, in Cambodia where there was no significant communist insurgency, France granted that nation de jure independence in 1949, and complete independence in 1953. Only the battle against communist tyranny kept that from happening in Vietnam.

Do you recall—a decade later—repeatedly being told that America escalated the war? Why would we do that? Perhaps you know… perhaps not…  that in 1959, five years before the Marines hit the beaches at Da Nang, Hanoi’s politburo essentially declared war against the South by ordering the establishment of three infiltration routes to carry men and materiel from the north into the south. The routes were labeled 559, 759 and 959 for the month and year of their inception. Route 559, or May 1959, became the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail.

Hanoi infiltrating agents began a terror campaign designed to disrupt the budding and burgeoning social and economic order in the Republic of Vietnam—that is, South Vietnam. In 1960, northern terrorists murdered approximate 100 South Vietnamese official—school teachers, hamlet elders, young village entrepreneurs—each month. These assassinations grew to 1,000 per month by 1962—12,000 murders and “disappearances” in a nation of approximately 11 million people in one year! That would be the equivalent of terrorist murdering 350,000 Americans in 2015. That was the terror campaign America opposed; that was the basic situation which convinced Presidents Eisenhower and Kennedy to send the first advisors and first troops.

Communist atrocities accelerated in ’63 and ’64, yet the story we usually hear of those years questions the veracity of a single incident in August 1964—the attack on the American ship, the C. Turner Joy in the Gulf of Tonkin… as if, somehow, that was the only justification for further engagement!

Infiltration route 559, the Ho Chi Minh trail, was strategic to the communist war effort. Early allied efforts were not enough to stop the flow of insurgent troops and supplies. This route—a complex of interlacing mountain roads and trails—ran down from the North, crossed the DMZ at scores of points, then entered the jungled mountains of our A. O., our area of operation, known as I Corps. The trail continued down through the broad and treacherous A Shau Valley, and south into the Central Highlands.  Jim and I, and thousands of Americans, fought here. Our mission in these sparsely-inhabited mountains was to find, engage and disrupt this heavily-armed, infiltrating force; and thereby to stop the terrorism and provide security for the civilian population in the densely populated lowlands.

That mission—from the time of the first Special Forces camp at Ta Bat, through the battles of Lang Vei, Khe Sanh, Dong Ap Bai (Hamburger Hill), Ripcord, and Lom Son 719… that mission—taken on by both American and South Vietnamese forces—despite tremendous hardship and significant loss of life—was highly successful. Every year communist forces had to escalate their efforts in order to keep up their terrorist attacks. Each year the Republic of Viet Nam grew stronger.

Some little known facts and figures: Following the 1968 Communist Tet Offensive, the South Vietnamese citizenry, previously untrusted by their government, was armed by their government. Over the next three years, while US forces were reduced by 58%, communist terror attacks (assassinations, abductions and bombings) on villages and hamlets dropped 30%, small-unit attacks dropped 41%, and battalion-size attacks dropped 98%! Armed citizens were the crucial factor.

At the same time, rice production increased by nearly 10%, war related civilian injuries dropped 55%, and enemy-soldier defections increased to the highest levels of the war. Armed, the South Viet Namese citizenry became an effective force in protecting themselves and their property from an organized terror campaign. Do you recall ever being told any of this? Do you know that more than 200,000 North Vietnamese soldiers defected to the South?

How do we remember and honor our dead if we don’t know what these men did; why they fought; what was the cause; who was the enemy, and why did we oppose that enemy? Let me also mention that knowledge—truthful knowledge, not politically correct propaganda—is a miracle elixir… It lifts the spirits, and ameliorates the suffering of PTSD.

But as it happened, by late 1968 our national focus shifted? In the defense of the civilian population from communist terrorism, and in the pursuit of freedom, errors and abuses had been made. Our national attention turned to these errors and abuses, and freedom and the defense of the defenseless were no longer in our sight.

Critics of the War in Vietnam called all American tactics into question. You may recall Ted Kennedy condemning U.S. military operations below the DMZ, in I Corps, in the A Shau valley, at Dong Ap Bia, and at Ripcord. Seemingly he had forgotten that terrorists were infiltrating via these very routes.

His focus, along with that of much of the media, had shifted. Recall the My Lai massacre where American troops killed some 300 South Vietnamese civilians. From exposure of that incident in 1969, to 1972, 473 nightly TV news stories—nearly 10% of all news coverage of the war from 1962 to 1975—focused on that one atrocity—yet not a single story was aired about the 6000 communist assassinations of South Vietnamese non-military, government personnel in 1970 alone! What did that skewed reportage do to the American psyche?! What did it to the image of American troops who served and who were still serving in Vietnam? How did it paint veterans of that conflict, how did it paint those who paid the ultimate price, for decades thereafter?

 If we perceive American troops as barbarians—as undisciplined baby killers or drug addicts; or if we are ignorant of the foes atrocious acts and ultimate aims—can we say we have kept faith with those who fell?

Errors and abuses were addressed. American ground forces were withdrawn by early 1972. The armed southern population carried the bulk of their own local defense, yet America’s focus remained on “American atrocities.”

This shift in the political momentum led to the abandonment of our allies, and the people of Southeast Asia. The abandonment can be inferred by economic support. The US budget for the war, adjusted for inflation, fell by over 95% from 1969 to 1974. Weapons and ammo in the South became relatively scarce. By comparison, Communist economic support for the North Vietnamese Army increased by 400%.

With highly limited funds the Army of The Republic of Vietnam was not able to keep up the fight in western I Corps, below the DMZ, down through the A Shau Valley and south into the Central Highlands. By 1974 Communist forces had rebuilt the roads and trails of Route 559, and had established oil and gas pipelines from the north all the way to Song Be city in the south.

The final communist offensive which toppled the Saigon government employed 500 Soviet tanks, 400 long-range artillery pieces and over 18,000 military trucks moving an army of 400,000 troops down through this corridor, through western I Corps, past Ripcord and Dong Ap Bia, through the A Shau Valley, and south. 400,000 troops!

U.S. abandonment of the South Vietnam lead directly to 70,000 executions in the first 90 days of communist control; to the death of millions in Cambodia, to a half million Boat People fleeing the new oppression—many of those dying at sea; to more than a million people being incarcerated in gulag re-education camps; and to the communist ethnic cleansing of Laos.

Do you recall my asking students to change their question. Did we save lives? The answer is yes. Our presence, our efforts, our sacrifices, saved millions of lives. And that’s the point. That’s what made the effort and the sacrifice not in vain.

To Remember and to honor means knowing these things. It means remaining vigilant when pundits and propagandists are stressing the errors or abuses that we, as a nation, have committed; yet simultaneously omitting the good, the honorable and the valorous that we accomplished. Even worse, is when they ignore the evil which we opposed.

So… on this Memorial Day, what we remember, how we remember, and how we act and react is important. There is no honor in remembering falsehoods; no honor in manipulating history for political or economic gain. And we cannot and do not honor our fallen by believing they were pawns.

Lastly, may I suggest, if you truly want to honor our dead, be the kind of person, the kind of citizen, the kind of American, worthy of their sacrifices.

Marcia Radkowski's class, East Lake High School

DEMISE: An American Tragedy

     A story of the 1990s by John M. Del Vecchio, to be released by Warriors Publishing Group September 2020.

 The following scene takes place very early in the school year. New teacher, Marcia Radkowski, is attempting to dramatically engage her English class.

 “’…Endemic to human nature is the carnivorous, lecherous self, which must be balanced against our need for meaning. Recognizing both the flesh and the soul, the need of one, the quest of the other…’ We’re going to be talking about this all year in relationship to all the works that we read.”

Unbeknownst to Miss Radkowski her classroom holds innocent, and not-so-innocent, victims and assailants.

“‘But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!’” Miss Radkowski paused her reading of Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Katie Fitzpatrick, Kim Sanchez, half a dozen other students, sat rapt. Another half-dozen listened politely. Peter Badoglio and Miro Sarrazin stared, captivated, smitten. A few fidgeted. Jason Panuzio’s eyes were cast to the windows. The rain had passed, the sky had cleared to white cotton puffs tumbling on azure silk, but the view of the practice field showed muddy patches before both goals and at the center circle.

“‘But so much the more shall I tomorrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much shall I think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.’” Marcia Radkowski smiled. She stood in the classroom, her long arms wrapped about her, low, one hand on her waist, the other to the opposite elbow. Her shoulders were forward, her head back. She spoke qui­etly, almost in a whisper. Jason brought his eyes back to her. She was barely five years older than most of her students, only three years older than the one senior taking the course to make up needed credits. “Does it speak to you…Jason?”

He had not understood the words, had barely heard her at all. He had been concentrating on her shoulders and neck, thinking she had a great neck, wonderful shoulders and collarbones and…

“Jason?”

“Huh?”

“Jason.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s so much remorse.” As Miss Radkowski spoke, she drew first one hand across in a graceful arc, then the other—the gesture of an actress, a dancer, or an English teacher. “He’s so pitiful.” Her face fell to frown. “He’s so in love with Rosalind.” Her arms crossed. She brought them gently to her chest; her delicate fingers touched her collarbones, accentuated her neck. Peter sighed a bit too loudly. Miro stifled a laugh. Marcia spun; her broom­stick skirt twirled, hugged her slender frame, then unwound, swished.

“Ah, that’s Rosalind’s speech, isn’t it?”

“No-ooh, Jason. It’s Orlando’s. Or perhaps it’s Jason’s. Read the rest of Orlando’s part.”

“Out loud?!”

“Yes. Aloud. And, umm, Kim, you read Rosalind’s. Jason, start with Orlando’s last sentence.”

Jason blushed, looked down, stared at the page. From next to him Mar­tina Watts sneered, murmured, “Next page. Line forty-eight.”

“Thanks,” he whispered. Then, stilted: “Ah…‘By so much the more…shall I tomorrow be, ah…at the height of heart-heaviness…” Marcia moved toward him, her hands circling before her, scooping, at­tempting to draw him out; then cupping up, motioning for him to stand. As he finished the line, her hands rose in a flourish, lifting Kim Sanchez from her seat.

“‘Why, then, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?’”

Marcia Radkowski returned to Jason. Her hazel eyes dazzled; her deeply tanned skin fairly glowed; her light brown hair, short and flyaway, accen­tuated her vivaciousness. This was her second year teaching freshman, and now junior, English. In this class alone, Peter Badoglio, Miro Sarrazin, and Jeff Kurjiaka had crushes on her; Miro and Jeff often faking swoons at soccer practice, calling her The Dream Goddess, Miss Starry Eyes, or Sweet Lips Radko. Even Jason held his breath when she spun or bowed or came to class in one of her sleeveless cotton knit sweaters. Had it not been for Kim San­chez—in Jason’s mind equally beautiful: darker eyes, longer, straighter, darker hair; shorter; bustier—he too would have sat all period in rictal agog infatuation. But he could not do that in front of Kim. Nor could he stare at Kim before Miss Radkowski.

“Ah…‘I can live no longer by thinking,’” Jason read flatly.

Without coaxing Kim answered, “‘I will weary you then no longer with idle talking—’”

Amanda Esposito broke in. “Miss Radkowski, isn’t it kind of ridiculous that Orlando doesn’t recognize her? I mean, really! Like at Halloween, just because somebody’s in costume doesn’t mean you don’t know who they are.”

Marcia settled back. Jason and Kim remained standing, their books be­fore them, their eyes furtively finding the other’s. “Do you think disguises are possible?” The teacher raised the question to the entire class.

“That’s not the point,” Martina Watts injected. She was irritated by the disruption. “Shakespeare say that the way it was. Accept it, girl, and let’s get on.”

“Martina,” Miss Radkowski said gently, “it is a valid question. I’m sur­prised no one raised it earlier. We’re almost at the end of the play.”

“This is the part—” Kim paused, cocked her head slightly “—where Rosalind talks with…here, ‘conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable.’ I think she learned the art of disguise.”

“I think she a bitch,” Martina blurted. She did not look up but spoke as if addressing her desktop. “One connivin bitch. Why can’t she be up front wit im? I don’t understand why people can’t be straight wit each other.”

“Hmm.” Marcia nodded. “Can anyone defend Rosalind’s actions?”

“Like back in Ack Three,” Martina spoke out. “Where she talkin to the farm slut. ‘He’s fallen in love with your foulness…’ She think she so-ooh good.”

“It all turns out,” Katie Fitzpatrick said. “I think she was just protecting herself.”

“Um-hmm.” Marcia nodded again.

No one else offered an opinion. Switching to a businesslike walk, Marcia retreated to her desk. “We have only a few minutes left. Thad, Jeff, sit back. Kim, Jason, you may sit. On the way out I want each of you to pick up a copy of Call of the Wild. Read it this week or this weekend.”

“We read that in sixth grade,” Jeff called out.

“I promise you, then, it will be more meaningful this time,” Marcia countered. “There’s a sheet with it. ‘Endemic to human nature is the car­nivorous, lecherous self—’” her words were now quick, louder than during the heart of class discussion, an attempt to hold her students through the period’s last minute “‘—which must be balanced against our need for mean­ing.’ You’ll find this on the bottom of the page. ‘Recognizing both the flesh and the soul, the need of the one, the quest of the other…’ We’re going to be talking about this all year in relationship to all the works we read.”

Ciara's Soliloquy

DEMISE: An American Tragedy

By: John M Del Vecchio

“… Contrition, confession, restitution, absolution, and reconciliation …”

A story of the 1990s: to be released by Warriors Publishing Group September 2020.

Illustration by Artist Gerry Kissell.

The following scene is from the chapter titled East Lake High School, Room 127, Thursday, 17 November, 8:40 P.M. Previously at this town council meeting town and school officials have discussed “controlling teen behavior,” a request for a school-wide camera surveillance and recording system, and the suspension of all interscholastic athletic activities including The Elk’s participation in the state soccer tournament. Below is Guidance Counselor Ciara DeLauro’s response to the plans.

Again the discussion became pointed. Police Chief Flanagan and Officer Ledbetter both offered objections to the surveillance system. Principal Ro­senwald and Vice Principal Dutchussy stated it was necessary if rape, assault, murder, and smoking were to be prevented. In the end the discussion was inconclusive. “Now — ” Dr. Schoemer’s eyes flicked about the room, came to rest on his gavel “ — we will hear public comment. I will ask you to restrict your comments to three minutes.”

“Enough time — ” Mr. Hawkins rose as he spoke out unrecognized “ — to ensure zero understanding.”

“Order.” Dr. Schoemer rapped his gavel. “Mr. Hawkins, if the com­ments are pertinent and progress the point, I will allow the speaker to con­tinue.”

For nearly an hour, speaker after speaker rose, advanced to the floor microphone. Nearly half either expressed their concerns for their own chil­dren’s safety, denounced other town youth as irresponsible, pleaded for a stronger security system and pledged their support for a town special budget request, or denounced the expenditure as unnecessary, as a waste of taxpayer money. More than half had no comment with regard to the security issue, were there solely to plead with the board to allow the games to continue. Finally, Ciara DeLauro reached the mike.

She identified herself, then began, “Mr. Chairman, Chief Flanagan, members of the school board, East Lakers. Shame on you. Shame on you for thinking what you think of your sons and daughters. Shame on you for thinking what you think of your students. Shame on you for proposing — out of your fear — a policy, a procedure or a system of control. Yes, tragedies have happened here. Yes, there is the potential for additional tragedy. Yet only a few short weeks ago, one of our brightest students — the victim of the most abhorrent and ultimate crime — spoke to us, and gave us a format for examining problems and projecting policy ramifications — before they are decreed into existence.”

In the seats Julia nudged Jason. “She’s talking about Aaron,” Julia whis­pered. “She’s such a smart woman.”

“Shame on us,” Ciara DeLauro continued. Her voice was calm, yet she radiated a tremendous energy. “If we turn our school into a prison, should we be surprised if our students act like inmates? If we replace student ac­countability with surveillance, should we not expect more irresponsibility? We have only to look across beautiful Lake Wampahwaug. Has violence within the city school system abated since that system instituted prisonlike policies? Or has it increased? Or has it simply moved off campus to other areas? Has the quality of education risen, stayed the same, or fallen? Is better behavior produced by creating an educational environment which treats all students as untrustworthy individuals, or by creating one in which every student is presumed innocent and only individual students who have proven themselves untrustworthy are so treated?

“My Dear East Lakers — ” Schoemer was about to bang that her time was up, but Police Chief Flanagan gently grabbed his wrist. Ciara continued, “ — the problem with increased security is that it sows the seeds of an enclave mentality; of an us-versus-them perception; of sanctioned polarization — whether it be men from women, blacks from whites, cities from towns, the wealthy from the needy, workers from employers, citizens from their gov­ernment or students from their community. The perceptions of polarization created by surveillance, valid or invalid, may create new, or accentuate ex­isting, polarizations. When polarization increases, there is a corresponding increase in violence. When violence increases, there is a corresponding in­crease in polarization. This is a cyclical process which may be propelled by an overzealous rush to protect — by a paranoia without malice. Yet in the long run, increased security may make our children more, not less, vulnerable to violence.”

Julia popped up from her seat. “Here! Here!” she shouted. She clapped her hands three times, sat. In the chair next to her Jason slouched lower, covered his face with his hands. Under his hands he was smiling.

Ciara acknowledged with a slight nod, went on. “If total-school surveillance and armed patrols are not the answer,” she continued, “what is? How do we maintain a quality learning environment while ensuring the safety of our children? Isn’t that the primary question? I believe the course of action most likely to achieve our goals is one which builds on the strengths of our teachers and our students, not one which limits their interactions, denies their accountability, or removes from them the need to discipline themselves — here, at school, or anywhere.

“Shame on us all. Have we forgotten not only the quality of mercy, but also the power of mercy? The power of forgiveness?

“A student, a product of this school system, who was murdered has told us, ‘Behavior is consistent with self-image and world view.’ What self-image will these students internalize if they must endure continuous surveillance? What self-image will these players internalize if they are punished by not being allowed to compete? How will they view the adult world that sur­rounds them? What will be their ensuing behaviors?” Ciara paused. She noted that Charlene Rosenwald was doodling, that Dr. Schoemer was jotting an occasional note, that Chief Flanagan was concentrating on her every word.

In the audience, heads that had been nodding all evening snapped up, jolted at the word “players.” A murmur arose. Mrs. DeLauro could challenge the powers that be! She could lead the charge! Dr. Rosenwald eyed the audience with suspicion.

“All self-images,” Ciara went on, “are comprised of positives and nega­tives. Punishment tends to increase one’s identity with the negative. Because of this, punishment may actually increase the frequency of negative behavior. Can you visualize this? We may punish until self-image, and thus behavior, is dominated by negative characteristics. Is this where we are heading?” Again Ciara paused. Now she looked directly into Dr. Schoemer’s eyes, then into Dr. Rosenwald’s. “Every one of us exhibits a variety of excesses and extremes. Sometimes we are too strict with our children. Sometimes too lenient. Sometimes families and schools and teams demand so much that unseen stresses inside a student drive him or her to be sick, or drive him or her into aberrant or violent or illegal behavior. Other times we don’t ask enough, and our low expectations are met, and the child is set on a life path of underachievement and nonfulfillment.

“We don’t always know — ” Ciara shook her head “ — do we? We as adults, as teachers, as counselors, as administrators, don’t always do the right thing. Sometimes we are less than exact. All we can do is have a set of guiding principles — the right intentions — an attitude and process in place which allows us, when we see an individual foundering, approaching an extreme, to make an adjustment and try again.”

Ciara turned to the audience of mostly parents and students. “My belief in the process of contrition, confession, restitution, absolution, and recon­ciliation is well known in this school, in my church and in this town. The reason why it works is that contrition and confession break one from iden­tifying with the negative characteristics within one’s self-image; one no longer needs to match the ‘evil’ behaviors dictated by a debased self-image. Restitution removes guilt and restores positive self-image. It produces ab­solution within the self, and when that is produced, the individual should be reconciled with his or her society. Nothing else has ever worked!”

Ciara returned to those seated at and behind the conference table. “For these reasons, Councilman Hume, Dr. Schoemer, Dr. Rosenwald, East Lak­ers, I would first like to see the proposal for this very expensive, ill-advised, and invasive surveillance system tabled forever. Secondly, I would like to see our Elks beat the britches off Avon tomorrow night.”