Gum For Everyone
Martin Higgins
When Sister Seamus Eileen noticed that I was chewing gum, she ended her punctuation lesson with a question.
“Mr. Higgins, you do know the rule, do you not?”
I stopped chewing and swallowed my gum.
Of course, I knew the rule. Of course, every sixth-grader at St. Boniface school knew that chewing gum in class was outlawed for three hard and fast reasons.
First, chewing is a socially disrespectful habit, a personal insult to everyone around you, especially if your mouth is open or you are making sounds.
Second, it indicates that one is not paying attention during precious school hours.
Third, and, most importantly, it is selfishly lording over others around you something they do not have - while you enjoy a base, cowlike habit.
That may be something Sister Seamus gleaned while thumbing through Saint Augustine’s Soliloquies.
However, that last misdemeanor was the logical basis for her most incisive question.
“Young man, did you bring enough for everyone?”
My classmates sat immobile, mute. I felt the indictment and reflexively thought, But, Sister… no one ever has enough for everyone! This simple observation set me on a course that would change my life.
I began by buying half a dozen packs of gum. Those thirty pieces easily would cover my class of twenty-eight boys and girls. I now had a perfect comeback tucked into my pencil box. Perfectly legal, but precarious, given the mercurial nature of an old Dominican nun.
I had second thoughts about instigating an unprompted confrontation, then, serendipity!
Brian Cantamessa returned from our postprandial schoolyard bedlam blowing and cracking what must have been a goodly wad of Bazooka gum. He let out a loud pop in the hallway and proceeded to stride into the classroom doorway where he bumped face-to-face into Sister’s wimple.
“Mister Cantamessa? Do you have enough for everyone?” she snarled.
Brian froze and others held their breath, awaiting the inevitable.
This was my moment!
Perhaps if someone did have enough, we could all enjoy a few moments of chewing, together, in a spirit of convivial, Christian confraternity!
I was gambling with disaster, but it was worth a try. Wasn’t it? I blurted:
“I have enough for all of us, Sister. And a piece for you too!” I proclaimed, although a trace too cheerfully as it faded into the resonance of the hallway, sounding more like a snide wisecrack than a Christian entreaty.
A darkness descended on us all as Seamus pulled us into the Main Office by our pinched ears. There, we would suffer some version of summary justice at the aged hands of our Principal, Sister Veinard Marie.
Veinard is French slang meaning, “Lucky Devil.” Hoo-boy!
As we waited, expecting a telephone call to our parents, a perfunctory verbal dress-down, and surely a haphazardly cobbled homily combining respect, the need for sacrifice, and unschooled dentistry warnings.
In worst-case scoldings, there might be a hodgepodge parable about the suffering of some obscure saint who worked with lepers, was fatally festooned with arrows, suffered mightily at the hands of Satan, or got hazed by savaged Pagan revelers. Thus, Catholics prove their undying love of God.
Brian turned to me and whispered. “Look out, you’re now a hero.” He said, nodding thoughtfully, wide eyes downcast, eyebrows arched.
“No kidding. You’re golden.”
I was stunned, thinking, Okay. Yesterday, Brian didn’t have the first good word to say to me. Now I’m a hero? What gives?
Veinard ran the gamut of warnings and scorn but decided not to burden our parents with a phone call. This concession made it easier to hear her rant about Saint Philomena.
She cleared her throat and began, “This reminds me of the trials and tribulations of Saint Philomena, a princess of Greece who promised her virginity to Jesus but was martyred by the emperor Diocletian! She refused him and he had her imprisoned for 37 days, then had her skin whipped off, and the angels healed her! Then she was tied to an anchor and thrown into the Tiber River, and the angels saved her again! Then archers shot arrows at her, and the angels made the arrows turn back on the archers and kill them! Finally, the Emperor just had her head cut off. That’s how much she respected her vow. Respect!”
We sat, fogged by the image deluge.
“And you know what?” she added.
We droned, “No, Sister.”
“With her head cut off, she was immediately in the arms of Jesus. So, NO ANGELS!”
Cantamessa bowed his head and whispered to me, “No gum either.”
I bit my tongue to block my surging laughter.
After her horror show harangue, Veinard wrapped up our requisite chiding and interrogation. We were instructed to remain in the office until the dismissal bell before heading back to get our schoolbooks.
Two hours later, the bell clanged and we shuffled back to our classroom.
When we arrived, Sister Seamus was wrapping up the class homework assignment. She glanced at us, dispassionately, as we entered.
“You two can get the assignment from one of your classmates. I’m finished with both of you for today.” She pointed back out the door, “January, February, MARCH!”
We led the class as they streamed out to the schoolyard and bicycle racks. Brian started laughing and popped a couple of pieces of gum into his mouth. A few guys were clapping him on the back for being so defiant. His tough-guy clique was full of jollity.
“Atta’ boy!” one said. Another added, “Blow one, Bry!”
Brian kept chewing and held up his index finger for patience – signaling the gum was not yet blowable. He waved his other hand for the class to gather around me and him.
“I thought Seamus was going to blow her top!” he bellowed around the wad of chew, “Here’s the champ!” he added as he put his arm on my shoulder. “He’s the wise guy with the mouth… and he’s got the goods!”
For an instant, I didn’t understand what he meant. Then I dug into my pencil box, fished out the packs, and started handing out sticks of gum. Guys reached out, waiting to grab their spearmint symbols of our rebellion. Grinning girls, polite and gracious, joined the growing crowd and were just as eager. As fast as I could unwrap a pack and fan out the sticks they disappeared into the horde. Another pack, another pack, more smiles, and laughter.
We all chewed in defiance of the Dominican Dictum.
The girls laughed and smiled at me. I shivered. Dear Lord! At barely twelve years old, I first saw their eyes sparkling; their smiles sending thrills through me. My friend, Ann DeMaria looked at me and her eyes flashed for an instant. I carry that gorgeous face in my memory to this day.
Brian’s hand on my shoulder was not holding a sword, regardless, his gesture knighted me where I stood.
Just as I had marveled at the moment of communion when I served as an Altar Boy, I witnessed an ordinary group of people become a flock, form a sodality, and share an identity. And all this, simply because they had listened to sacred words and received a taste of redemption with the Eucharist or, there in the schoolyard, a stick of Wrigley’s.
In my humble situation, an unintended wisecrack and a piece of gum blessed my young life and drew me toward performance.
That simple, schoolyard ritual had an effect that lasted for the rest of my St. Boniface years. I was designated “one of the cool guys”; a guy who deserved a favor, a kid who deserved a break, a someone to befriend.
In parochial school parlance, a minor legend.
From then on, words became my obsession, rituals guided my discipline, and understanding relationships fascinated me.
Words and objects can enrapture others and prompt desired behaviors.
And, in due time, the world revealed itself to me.
- 30 -
Martin Higgins
(c) 2023
all rights reserved
“Mr. Higgins, you do know the rule, do you not?”
I stopped chewing and swallowed my gum.
Of course, I knew the rule. Of course, every sixth-grader at St. Boniface school knew that chewing gum in class was outlawed for three hard and fast reasons.
First, chewing is a socially disrespectful habit, a personal insult to everyone around you, especially if your mouth is open or you are making sounds.
Second, it indicates that one is not paying attention during precious school hours.
Third, and, most importantly, it is selfishly lording over others around you something they do not have - while you enjoy a base, cowlike habit.
That may be something Sister Seamus gleaned while thumbing through Saint Augustine’s Soliloquies.
However, that last misdemeanor was the logical basis for her most incisive question.
“Young man, did you bring enough for everyone?”
My classmates sat immobile, mute. I felt the indictment and reflexively thought, But, Sister… no one ever has enough for everyone! This simple observation set me on a course that would change my life.
I began by buying half a dozen packs of gum. Those thirty pieces easily would cover my class of twenty-eight boys and girls. I now had a perfect comeback tucked into my pencil box. Perfectly legal, but precarious, given the mercurial nature of an old Dominican nun.
I had second thoughts about instigating an unprompted confrontation, then, serendipity!
Brian Cantamessa returned from our postprandial schoolyard bedlam blowing and cracking what must have been a goodly wad of Bazooka gum. He let out a loud pop in the hallway and proceeded to stride into the classroom doorway where he bumped face-to-face into Sister’s wimple.
“Mister Cantamessa? Do you have enough for everyone?” she snarled.
Brian froze and others held their breath, awaiting the inevitable.
This was my moment!
Perhaps if someone did have enough, we could all enjoy a few moments of chewing, together, in a spirit of convivial, Christian confraternity!
I was gambling with disaster, but it was worth a try. Wasn’t it? I blurted:
“I have enough for all of us, Sister. And a piece for you too!” I proclaimed, although a trace too cheerfully as it faded into the resonance of the hallway, sounding more like a snide wisecrack than a Christian entreaty.
A darkness descended on us all as Seamus pulled us into the Main Office by our pinched ears. There, we would suffer some version of summary justice at the aged hands of our Principal, Sister Veinard Marie.
Veinard is French slang meaning, “Lucky Devil.” Hoo-boy!
As we waited, expecting a telephone call to our parents, a perfunctory verbal dress-down, and surely a haphazardly cobbled homily combining respect, the need for sacrifice, and unschooled dentistry warnings.
In worst-case scoldings, there might be a hodgepodge parable about the suffering of some obscure saint who worked with lepers, was fatally festooned with arrows, suffered mightily at the hands of Satan, or got hazed by savaged Pagan revelers. Thus, Catholics prove their undying love of God.
Brian turned to me and whispered. “Look out, you’re now a hero.” He said, nodding thoughtfully, wide eyes downcast, eyebrows arched.
“No kidding. You’re golden.”
I was stunned, thinking, Okay. Yesterday, Brian didn’t have the first good word to say to me. Now I’m a hero? What gives?
Veinard ran the gamut of warnings and scorn but decided not to burden our parents with a phone call. This concession made it easier to hear her rant about Saint Philomena.
She cleared her throat and began, “This reminds me of the trials and tribulations of Saint Philomena, a princess of Greece who promised her virginity to Jesus but was martyred by the emperor Diocletian! She refused him and he had her imprisoned for 37 days, then had her skin whipped off, and the angels healed her! Then she was tied to an anchor and thrown into the Tiber River, and the angels saved her again! Then archers shot arrows at her, and the angels made the arrows turn back on the archers and kill them! Finally, the Emperor just had her head cut off. That’s how much she respected her vow. Respect!”
We sat, fogged by the image deluge.
“And you know what?” she added.
We droned, “No, Sister.”
“With her head cut off, she was immediately in the arms of Jesus. So, NO ANGELS!”
Cantamessa bowed his head and whispered to me, “No gum either.”
I bit my tongue to block my surging laughter.
After her horror show harangue, Veinard wrapped up our requisite chiding and interrogation. We were instructed to remain in the office until the dismissal bell before heading back to get our schoolbooks.
Two hours later, the bell clanged and we shuffled back to our classroom.
When we arrived, Sister Seamus was wrapping up the class homework assignment. She glanced at us, dispassionately, as we entered.
“You two can get the assignment from one of your classmates. I’m finished with both of you for today.” She pointed back out the door, “January, February, MARCH!”
We led the class as they streamed out to the schoolyard and bicycle racks. Brian started laughing and popped a couple of pieces of gum into his mouth. A few guys were clapping him on the back for being so defiant. His tough-guy clique was full of jollity.
“Atta’ boy!” one said. Another added, “Blow one, Bry!”
Brian kept chewing and held up his index finger for patience – signaling the gum was not yet blowable. He waved his other hand for the class to gather around me and him.
“I thought Seamus was going to blow her top!” he bellowed around the wad of chew, “Here’s the champ!” he added as he put his arm on my shoulder. “He’s the wise guy with the mouth… and he’s got the goods!”
For an instant, I didn’t understand what he meant. Then I dug into my pencil box, fished out the packs, and started handing out sticks of gum. Guys reached out, waiting to grab their spearmint symbols of our rebellion. Grinning girls, polite and gracious, joined the growing crowd and were just as eager. As fast as I could unwrap a pack and fan out the sticks they disappeared into the horde. Another pack, another pack, more smiles, and laughter.
We all chewed in defiance of the Dominican Dictum.
The girls laughed and smiled at me. I shivered. Dear Lord! At barely twelve years old, I first saw their eyes sparkling; their smiles sending thrills through me. My friend, Ann DeMaria looked at me and her eyes flashed for an instant. I carry that gorgeous face in my memory to this day.
Brian’s hand on my shoulder was not holding a sword, regardless, his gesture knighted me where I stood.
Just as I had marveled at the moment of communion when I served as an Altar Boy, I witnessed an ordinary group of people become a flock, form a sodality, and share an identity. And all this, simply because they had listened to sacred words and received a taste of redemption with the Eucharist or, there in the schoolyard, a stick of Wrigley’s.
In my humble situation, an unintended wisecrack and a piece of gum blessed my young life and drew me toward performance.
That simple, schoolyard ritual had an effect that lasted for the rest of my St. Boniface years. I was designated “one of the cool guys”; a guy who deserved a favor, a kid who deserved a break, a someone to befriend.
In parochial school parlance, a minor legend.
From then on, words became my obsession, rituals guided my discipline, and understanding relationships fascinated me.
Words and objects can enrapture others and prompt desired behaviors.
And, in due time, the world revealed itself to me.
- 30 -
Martin Higgins
(c) 2023
all rights reserved