The Vanishing Classroom

In one of my past blogs, I shared my best effort to put together an All Class Reunion for my grade school. The Little French Church, May 31st. Unfortunately, that effort has fallen flat and only a half dozen folks have responded.  At about the same time that I decided to put that effort to rest, my old high school sent me a notice of a quasi-reunion of sorts.

It’s for an unofficial (but much welcomed) 61st class reunion for the Cretin High School Class of 1961. It’ll be held at a bar/restaurant in the nearby neighborhood. It’s more of a group effort by several classmates of mine than an officially sanctioned school affair. The reality is that many of our classmates have already passed and waiting another ten years for another class reunion probably isn’t too realistic unless it’s held in someone’s living room.

At about the same time I got the notice for this 61st class reunion, two books came to my attention about my old high school. Both were written by graduates of our all-boys military institution in Saint Paul.

The first is called ‘Cretin Boy’ by Jim Landwehr, a graduate of the class of 1979.

The second book was written by a classmate of mine who collected all the content for a book of memories of our class of 1961. Both books paint a vivid and honest portrait of that time period in my life as much as ‘they’ can remember it. Unfortunately, my own memory bank of my educational years is low on credit and almost in default.

The classrooms have vanished in all of my past halls of learning. From St. Louis Grade School to Cretin High School to the College of Saint Thomas, nothing has remained the same. Time, social changes and the inevitable march of progress has altered, erased or radically changed the face of education as I once knew it.

My earliest recollection of my formal education came from foggy brown-tinted photo plates nestled in the back of my head. There were fleeting images of creaking old wooden steps, the smell of old classrooms, wary nuns watching our every movement and poverty; even though we couldn’t recognize it at the time. It didn’t help that down the block were rows and rows of run-down tenements housing indigent and homeless people.

I don’t remember much about first or second grade when my sister and I walked to St. Louis Catholic Grade School each day. By third grade our mother had built a home in Highland Park, a half hour streetcar ride away. Each morning we would take the trolley to downtown St. Paul with our mother. Each night, my sister and I would take the rickety transit back home again alone.

Courtesy of the Minnesota Historical Society

Unlike a lot of the schools around our home in Highland Park, St. Louis Grade School was anything but vanilla and main stream. Students came from the surrounding neighborhoods like Irving Park, East Saint Paul, West Saint Paul, and the projects behind the capitol. It was an eclectic, mostly poor, somewhat mix-race group of students; clearly reflective of their communities of origin.

The teachers were all nuns. They were tough-minded, serious, no bullshit kind of instructors who had the full backing of our parents. We understood that punishment at school was always favored in lieu of a call to our parents. Catholic doctrine had a firm grip on our young lives and followed us home as well. The grade school closed in 1962 and the building razed in 1966.

photo credit: Jerry Hoffman

For many of us, high school proved to be a pivotal point in our lives. Even more than college, it was where the stumbles of youth were corrected by the realities of our teenage years and finally solidified into the more mature footsteps that carried us through our collegiate and/or skill building future.

Reflecting back on that time period in Minnesota history and my own historical tracks, I realize now that attending Cretin High School back in the late 50’s and early 60’s was a unique learning experience. The idea of an all-boys military school seems strange today with the sensibilities bubbling up from younger generations. Back then, it was our reality and not far out of line with the general mood of the country and our parents.

photo credit: Jerry Hoffman

In retrospect, it was a turning point in the history of our country. The beginning of the end of that idyllic plain vanilla existence our parents loved so much and wanted us to emulate. The old neighborhood was morphing through all kinds of changes just as we were. It was end of Doris Day and her’ Doggie in the Window.’ It was Frank Sinatra and his version of cool slowly being drowned out by the heavy drumbeat and bass guitar of Rock and Roll. It was hot rods and tail fins and poodle skirts that only hinted of secrets underneath. The Cold War was inescapable but it hardly permeated our existence the same way Rock and Roll and the first warm feelings of affection for the opposite sex did.

Cretin High School was a different kind of school but those of us attending it really weren’t any different from our friends at other schools. We came from all walks of life but for the most part were solidly middle class. Back in the late fifties, Cretin’s tentacles spread out across the Twin Cities in one last grasp at prospects before newer Catholic High Schools in the suburbs started to pick from the litter.

Cretin was a molder of men, a change-maker, and a foundation upon which to build one’s own values, aspirations, judgements, and creative hunger. Like ‘Bob Dylan’s Dream,’ my rag-tag group of Cretin friends have scattered with the winds of time. There are only a couple of guys left that I’ve managed to string together with a loose fitting web of memories that we can cling to. It was the best of times…most of the time. Now in retrospect, it seems even better than that.

Following in my cousin’s footsteps, the College of Saint Thomas was the next step in educating myself. It started out normal enough with two years of learning then hit the preverbal bump in the road. Two losing quarters at the University of Minnesota prompted an invitation from the administration to take a break. Ever watchful, Uncle Sam welcomed me into the United States Army, sent me around the country and left me with the GI Bill to finish my college education back at St Thomas.

Then living abroad, starting a career in writing and television, and I was finally taking my first tentative steps toward a lifelong career in what I loved to do.

All my old classrooms have now disappeared into that dark, murky pool called fast-fading memories. Along with a few scattered classmates, all I have are some old photos and mind-pictures that keep morphing from vapid to vague. Thankfully, the lingering effects of hard work, focus and determination, long since hammered into my soft core brain, hasn’t gone away. Even if the classrooms have.