The Dedalus Log

They ask me how I feel
And if my love is real
And how I know I’ll make it through
And they, they look at me and frown
They’d like to drive me from this town
They don’t want me around
‘Cause I believe in you

They show me to the door
They say don’t come back no more
‘Cause I don’t be like they’d like me to
And I walk out on my own
A thousand miles from home
But I don’t feel alone
‘Cause I believe in you

Don’t let me change my heart
Keep me set apart
From all the plans they do pursue
And I, I don’t mind the pain
Don’t mind the driving rain
I know I will sustain
‘Cause I believe in you
(I Believe in You: Bob Dylan - 1979)

Vatican Crackdown: U.S. Nuns Chastised For Questioning Church, stormed the interior headline of the L.A. Times on April 19^th. I had just picked up the parts of the newspaper that Kathy had set aside, and I was paging through the main section.
“What did the nuns do to piss off the Vatican now?” I muttered aloud, as I quickly scanned the first two paragraphs of Michael Muskail’s story. When I came to the unfamiliar title and acronym of the offending religious organization, I went to my own “Google” source for information about nuns and religious orders – my wife.
“Kath, what’s the LCWR?” I asked, putting the paper down so I could look across the couch where she was sitting, working on the New York Times crossword puzzle.
“Hmmm, so, you finally got to that story?” she asked as if expecting my question. “The LCWR stands for the Leadership Conference of Women Religious. It’s the largest association of sisters in the United States, and it’s made up of most of the leaders of the Catholic women religious groups. They’re controversial because they’ve taken progressive positions on social justice and supported female ordination. They were the group that sponsored the exhibit we saw at the Mount last year. Do you remember? It was called Women & Spirit: Catholic Sisters in America.
“Really!” I exclaimed, remembering the afternoon we spent at Mount Saint Mary’s College, in Brentwood, walking through the galleries of photographs, posters, and artifacts highlighting the contributions of American nuns in education, medicine, social service, and the fine arts. “That was a great exhibit.”
With that brief explanation I returned to the nun story I was reading to find out what the good sisters had done to rattle the ancient rafters of the Catholic Church in Rome. But as I read, I couldn’t help thinking of the many experiences I’ve had with nuns over the years, and what might have contributed to this repressive reaction on the part of the all-male hierarchy of the Church.

I suppose my first real concept of sisters came from the nuns I had in elementary school. Before enrolling in the second grade at St. Teresa of Avila School in the Silver Lake section of Los Angeles, nuns were simply a collective body of oddly dressed women in white and black who seemed to move, kneel, and stand in unison. I would observe them from a distance as they entered the church, prayed, and left for school each morning, wondering how on earth they managed to fit themselves into those thick, flowing black robes and starchy white flaps, and what their hair looked like under their hoods. Sister Gaudentia was my first nun teacher, and she made the biggest impression on me. She was different from the female public school teachers I had in Kindergarten and the 1^st grade. She looked older, shorter, and more scowling than the fresh faced, smiling, and helpful young ladies in public schools who dressed in brightly colored shirt sleeve blouses, and long, billowing skirts. Sister G ran a tight and solemn ship. She did not brook whispering, laughing, or talking out of turn. She became angry when we failed to listen to, or follow instructions. She became particularly short tempered and critical when she drilled us on our catechism responses. Second grade was the First Communion year in Catholic elementary schools, and she would glare at us, becoming redder faced and angry if we failed to recite word-for-word answers to the Baltimore Catechism questions the parish priest would ask us on Friday mornings. Knuckle raps on the head and ruler slaps on the hands were her favorite responses to wrong answers, inattention, and whispering. Although my mother and father seemed happy with the school and its teachers, I never got the feeling that Sister Gaudentia liked teaching or children. When I expressed this idea to my mom, she dismissed it, telling me that women in religious orders took vows of obedience, and many times they were directed to perform jobs that they would never have picked for themselves. When these disagreements occurred, good nuns would sublimate their unhappiness, obey their orders, and offer their suffering to the Lord. This explanation never satisfied me as a good excuse for Sister G’s actions or demeanor. Before my twin brother and sister matriculated into the second grade the following year, I warned them that Sister Gaudentia was just mean, and that the children in her classes were the ones suffering for her obedience.

Sister Gaudentia represented a strict and humorless manner of teaching I would encounter again in varying degrees during my next six years in Catholic elementary schools, first at St. Teresa of Avila, and later at St. Mark’s School in Venice. Luckily children have an amazing ability to adapt and make the best of difficult situations, and my negative encounters with nuns were interspersed with many friendlier and more inspiring teachers. Sister Philomena was a joyful breath of fresh air in the 4^th grade. My classmates and I called her a “young nun” not only because she had only recently taken her full vows but because she looked and acted like she enjoyed school. She smiled, told jokes, laughed, and talked about her life before entering the convent. Even though Sister Philomena would sometimes become impatient and angered by our childish antics and misbehaviors, she never lashed out verbally or physically struck us. We could let our guard down and act naturally with Sister Philomena, whereby with the older, stricter nuns, we had to be constantly alert, respectful, and obedient to their requests and directions. However, just as I was entering adolescence and becoming familiar with the quirks and idiosyncrasies of the teaching nuns at St. Teresa, we moved.

In the summer of 1959, when I was 11 years old, my parents bought their first home, and we moved from a three-story apartment house in the Silver Lake section of Los Angeles to the westernmost reaches of the city. Venice was conveniently close to my father’s photography studio in Culver City, but in the last days of the 1950’s it was a funky, low-rent beach town – a poor stepchild to the swankier seaside cities of Ocean Park and Santa Monica to the north. Its storied canals were stagnant and polluted, no pier or marina had yet been built, and only homeless vagrants, bearded beatniks, and ancient Jewish retirees populated the oceanfront walkways of Venice Beach. In September I entered the sixth grade of St. Mark’s School with a new order of nuns, the Sister of the Holy Name of Jesus and Mary (SNJM). Their clothing was slightly different from the previous religious order that taught us. Holy Name sisters wore a wide, more pronounced white headpiece that covered their foreheads, with a pinned black veil that draped down their shoulders and back to their waist. A huge starched bib covered their ears and necks, extending down to the chest, making them look like solemn emperor penguins. I’m not sure if it was the new religious order, the new environment, or my age, but my interactions and attitude toward nuns changed in junior high school. Sister Trinita, my 7^th grade teacher, was the first nun I ever had a crush on. Even in her penguin-like outfit, she looked pretty, shiny, and bright. She was the first instructor who really challenged and inspired me to write and to explore other talents I never knew existed. She had confidence in my abilities, sending me to a daylong Student Leadership Conference, and allowed me to sit and chat with her after school, joking about softball season and wondering if I had a vocation for the priesthood. But this newfound confidence and excitement about learning collided and floundered with my last nun experience in the 8^th grade. Sister Estela Marie was the Mother Superior of the convent, and even though she was neither old nor dour in age or appearance, I seemed to really rub her ego and authority the wrong way. She glared at me like Sister Gaudentia whenever I laughed or joked in class. She took me out of the accelerated pre-Algebra and science classes that she taught herself, and moved me into remedial classes taught by another sister. When it was time for our graduating class to take our entrance exams for admittance into Catholic high schools, she bemoaned my math skills and counseled me to not expect placement in college preparatory classes. I fumed at these affronts that I suspected sprang from her disliked for me, and kept them hidden from my parents. I was determined to show her that she was wrong; that I could achieve intellectually and academically in high school. Mother Superior brought a close to my elementary school learning career with nuns, and for the next 3 years I was left with some bitter memories of their teaching legacy.

Attending St. Bernard High School, a co-institutional, Catholic high school in Playa del Rey, California, from 1962-1966, quickly dispelled me of the illusion of the superiority of male instructors. Co-institutional (as opposed to co-educational) meant that although male and female students attended the same school, we were assigned to different parts of the buildings and segregated into single-sex classrooms, where laywomen and nuns taught the girls, and laymen and priests taught the boys. Even our lunch times were divided, the girls eating 30 minutes before we did. The only times boys and girls had an opportunity to associate with each other were before and after school, and during a 20 minute recess break in the morning. It was in my classrooms, those all-male sacristies of learning, that I found many more manifestations of the pedagogical weaknesses I had experienced in elementary school with women, but less of the strengths. Admittedly nuns were sometimes very strict and controlling (Sister G comes to mind), with delusional beliefs in their diagnostic and counseling abilities (Sister E. M., for example), but they never lost control of a classroom of adolescents, allowing brutal hazing practices to occur, or the physical and emotional manhandling of cornered and frightened boys who found themselves in conflict with insecure men. When a male teacher lost control of a classroom full of boys because of embarrassment, anger, or incompetence, the scene was ugly and pathetic. Too many of our laymen teachers were coaches or disciplinary deans first, and trained educators second, or they were ill-prepared priests, unwillingly commanded to teach high school boys by their bishop or provincial. However, since I couldn’t verify the pedagogical differences in style and substance between the male and female teachers in high school because of our segregated system, I simply assumed that the girls had it as bad as we did. Thankfully, an exceptional male teacher would occasionally appear among the faculty who was neither a coach nor a dean, usually in the English and Humanities Departments. Mr. McCambridge, in my sophomore and junior year, and Mr. Sullivan, my senior English teacher, restored my faith in quality teaching and the power of art, literature, and the written word. It was also in my senior year that I established an unlikely friendship with a nun – a collaboration that foreshadowed a blessed and long-term relationship with the Congregation of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ).

My association with Sister Joanna Marie came about at the end of a long series of calamitous events that I only learned about later. Mr. McCambridge had been scheduled to continue as the English teacher and faculty moderator of the school newspaper, The Viking, during my senior year, but he was unexpectedly lured away by Loyola High School. Sister Joanna Marie, another English teacher who taught only girls, agreed to replace him as sponsor and supervise the paper. However a series of artistic and editorial disagreements arose between the senior editor, Mike McElroy, and the new moderator. McElroy was McCambridge’s protégé and his personal choice for editor-in-chief. They shared similar tastes in music (Chicago Blues and The Rolling Stones), literature (the Lost Generation authors and the new Beats), and a humorously irreverent attitude toward authoritarian establishments, like our school, the Church, and the U.S. Government. McElroy hadn’t been subjected to a nun’s authority for three years, and without his mentor’s restraining influence, he believed he had carte blanche to print whatever he wished. Without the new moderator’s knowledge or approval, McElroy proceeded to publish and distribute a crude and snarky fall edition of the paper that reminded everyone of Mad Magazine. The principal immediately removed him and the offending contributors from the paper, and Sister Joanna Marie began building a new staff from the remaining writers. One of the surviving editors was my friend Wayne Wilson, who asked me to the join the leaderless newspaper as a contributing editor. Wayne introduced me to Sister Joanna Marie the next day, and after a brief interview I was “hired”.

Working closely with a nun who was not our teacher was weird at first. None of the old behavioral paradigms of elementary school subservience and submissiveness worked here. We had to figure out a way of getting the newspaper back on its feet, while making it interesting, funny, and relevant to students. Wayne and I concluded that McElroy and his confederates had poisoned their relationship with Sister by accepting and acting on the prevalent male stereotypes toward nuns.  Over the last 3 years certain negative opinions about nuns had been expressed by many of the priests and laymen in the school: nuns had secret feminine agendas that they reviewed in their cloistered convents; nuns were clever and sneaky, because they wormed their way into positions of authority and control by first, volunteering to do the hardest jobs, and then performing them so expertly and efficiently that they became essential to the operation; nuns were not dependable because they were subject to periodic emotional and hormonal imbalances and hysteria; nuns were fine as long as they stayed on the girl’s side of the school; and ultimately, high school male teachers and priests could never work for a women, especially a nun. The majority of the priests at St. Bernard at the time were Piarists, a foreign-born teaching order from Spain, who tended to be the most emphatic spokesmen of these beliefs. In fact, my friend Albert Nocella often took advantage of these macho prejudices by provoking certain priests into lengthy rants on these conspiracy theories. It was strange how my childish attitudes about “good nuns” and “mean nuns” had been repackaged into adult male views of “dangerous nuns”. However, Wayne and I brushed aside those opinions and concentrated on the job at hand – printing a newspaper.

An exciting and collaborative system soon emerged. In the Viking Newspaper Office, across the hall from the chapel, Wayne and I, along with Kathy Less, the girls’ editor, would brainstorm ideas for stories, articles, and photo essays. Sometimes we’d drag along our friend Jim Riley to give the “average student’s” perspective. We’d then pitch our ideas to Sister Joanna Marie as an editorial staff in the office, or a couple of us would visit her after school. There she would praise some ideas, critique others, dismiss some, and add many of her own. We went back and forth in this manner, working out the details of an issue we could all live with and enjoy. As time went on, and we got to know and trust each other, managing the paper became easier, and more fun. There was always a lot of joking, kidding, and good humor during every encounter, and Sister was a new and interesting addition. Many times Wayne, Jim, and I would just drop in on her homeroom after school and talk about other things besides the newspaper. We learned that Sister was a native Californian, a graduate of Mount Saint Mary’s College, and a teacher who enjoyed teaching. Yet even though she could be witty and sarcastic about some topics, we could never provoke her by reporting the negative remarks and comments we heard about nuns from the male teachers and priests. Sister would simply arch her eyebrows, give us an enigmatic smile, and change the subject. She ultimately proved to be a confidant and forgiving friend who pardoned the three of us for one big mistake and bailed me out of the only serious trouble I got into that year.

By the time Spring of 1966 rolled around, with senioritis running rampant through the halls, writing stories, managing the newspaper, and just hanging out in the Viking Office, was a lot more fun than schoolwork, especially attending Civics and Mechanical Drawing. Since all our teachers recognized Wayne and me as editors, we found it a simple matter to get ourselves released from class by claiming that Sister needed us to finish up some newspaper work. Then one of us would proceed to Jim’s class and ask for his release as well, claiming we were doing so at Sister’s request. We would probably have avoided exposure if we hadn’t begun writing impromptu humorous captions for the photos of teachers and students that were posted on our mockup boards in the office. On the day of a school-wide retreat, Father Richard, our Algebra II teacher and the target of one of these humorous jibes, used the Viking Office as a confessional location. That afternoon we noticed that some of the photographs, including Father Richard’s, were missing. The next day, when the three of us should have been in other classes, he surprised us as we sat around, joking in the office. After scolding us angrily for our disrespectful captions, he waved off our apologies and demanded a written note from Sister Joanna Marie supporting our claims that we there working on official business. Shamefaced and apologetic, the three of us confessed our actions to Sister that day after school and pleaded for her intervention. The consequence we faced for cutting class was parent notification and a daylong Saturday detention under the supervision of our Civics teacher, who was notorious for his derisive and mocking treatment of seniors. Sister was silent for a long time, looking into each of our faces and letting us stew in the cauldron of our shame. Finally she turned to Wayne and me, saying that she would write the exculpatory note because we had in fact been working on newspaper business, but we’d have to work hard at earning back her trust. To Jim she gently apologized for not being able to help him, since he was not a member of her staff or a writer for the paper. Knowing that Jim would be paying the price for our misdeeds soured our initial relief over escaping punishment and sobered us up for the rest of the year. We spent the remainder of the semester concentrating on schoolwork, staying in all our classes, and regaining Sister Joanna’s trust and confidence.

I never had a hint of the Vatican II Council reforms that would soon be roiling the Church while I was at St. Bernard. My high school years (1962-1966) saw a continuation of the traditional practices familiar to my mother and father in the 1940’s and 50’s, with priests and nuns in their age-old roles, functions, and uniforms. It wasn’t until I started attending Sunday Mass and weekday activities at UCLA’s University Catholic Center (the Newman Center), under the direction of priests from the Missionary Society of Saint Paul the Apostle (better known as Paulist Fathers), that I learned of the Vatican II documents and how they were reforming the language, form, and functions of the Church. The Paulist priests were a great vehicle for learning about and witnessing these changes. While my aging parish pastor complained of these reforms and delayed their implementation, the Paulist were celebrating their masses in English, explaining the significance of the “new liturgy”, and teaching the “good news” that Jesus proclaimed in the Gospels. I learned that Martin Luther and the reforms of Protestantism were not evil; that human choices based on reasoned discernment and personal conscience, instead of blind adherence to religious authorities and doctrine, was a key ingredient in maintaining a relationship with God; and that ecumenicalism, or the finding of commonalities in all religions, was more important than condemning their differences. It was also during this exciting time that I became aware of the radical messages contained in the Gospels, and the paradoxical teachings they laid out (the meek inheriting the earth, scattering the proud in their conceit, casting down the mighty from their thrones, lifting up the lowly, and filling the hungry with good things while sending the rich away empty). Vatican II also called for a reevaluation and renewal of religious life, which was most visible in the changes that were sweeping many communities of sisters. The male religious orders didn’t seem too visibly affected, but women communities were significantly altering, or discarding, their habits, and expanding their mission to include wider occupations and more secular vocations. Although I only met a handful of nuns at the Newman Center, I was still able to see the rapid evolution of their uniforms from long, flowing robes, starchy white collars, and elaborate headgear, into prim, mid-level skirts and short veils. However I really wasn’t aware of the visceral reactions these changes were provoking among many Catholics until I heard about the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary (IHM) and their conflict with the Archbishop of Los Angeles, James Cardinal McIntyre.

I first learned of the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart after admiring the challenging artwork of Sister Mary Corita, a member of that order who helped popularized silkscreen and serigraphy as a major art medium during the 1960’s and 70’s. She was chairman of the Art Department of Immaculate Heart College when that college, and the religious order that was centered there, became the flashpoint for a battle over obedience and Church authority. Cardinal McIntyre demanded that the IHM Sisters discontinue their renewal efforts and concentrate on teaching in Archdiocesan schools. In addition, he insisted that they retain a number of the traditional rules that he believed were essential to a female religious community. The sisters, in turn, objected to the Archbishop dictating their order’s mission, and stipulating their attire, bedtimes, and hours of prayer. When the Vatican agency overseeing religious communities refused to intervene on their behalf, 90% of the IHM sisters, following the example of their superior, Sister Anita Caspary, dispensed from their vows and left the community. It was a shocking development, and it raised questions among the Catholic college students at UCLA’s Newman Center: Who was truly following the spirit of the Vatican II reforms, the Cardinal or the nuns? And, is questioning Church authority ever permitted? We never satisfactorily answered these questions at the time, and soon other events pushed them out of my mind.

In January of 1972 I began teaching History at St. Bernard High School, and resumed my connection with nuns. My arrival there was the result of another string of dramatic events that began with my being drafted soon after graduation from UCLA in 1970. Rather than accepting my induction for two years of Army service, which at that time meant a sure combat tour in Viet Nam, I decided to enlist for four years into the United States Air Force, hoping for some control over my job and duty assignments. After basic training at Lackland AFB, near San Antonio, Texas, I was assigned as an Information Specialist (Air Force newspaper reporter) to Norton AFB, San Bernardino, California. It was during my assignment there that my father suffered a final heart attack and died on November 1, 1971. A month later I was honorably discharged from the Air Force because of hardship, and started looking for a job while living at home. While reconnecting with old friends, I ran into Kathy Sigafoos, a high school and college classmate who had married after graduation and was teaching history at St. Bernard. She told me that she was leaving the position for maternity leave and wouldn’t be returning, so she encouraged me to apply for the position. Even though I had no training or experience as a teacher, that occupation appealed to me more than returning to my college job as a burglar alarm operator. So I immediately solicited letters of recommendation from the Paulist priests at the Newman Center, and the parish priest who had been a good friend of my father, and interviewed for the position. In the Principal’s Office I met Father Larry Dunphy and Sister Marilyn Therese, CSJ, the chairman of the History Department. I liked to believe that they both overlooked my inexperience and unanimously hired me because I wowed them with my youthful charm, confident enthusiasm, and compelling charisma. However, years later Marilyn told me that she had in fact wanted to hire a more experienced teacher, but reluctantly agreed to go along with the principal’s decision because of the strong vote of confidence I had received from Kathy Sigafoos, the outgoing teacher. This honest assessment and truthful revelation by Sister Marilyn pretty much typified my relationship with her and the other nuns of St. Bernard High School for the two and a half years I spent there, and for the rest of my life. I’m beginning to wonder now if the real reason I was so bothered by the news of the Vatican’s crackdown on the LCWR was influenced by my experiences as a beginning teacher at St. Bernard, and what I learned from the lives and actions of these nuns. All my previous interactions had been as a student to a teacher. I was always the child being catechized, disciplined, and instructed by nuns. Now, for the first time in my life I was dealing with them as a peer and co-worker, but in a brand new profession in which I needed a lot of help and guidance.

The first year of teaching is always difficult, but doing so without any prior training or practice is almost suicidal. Although most veteran teachers are usually responsive to appeals for assistance, many tend to shy away from unschooled rookies so as not to witness the train wrecks occurring in their classrooms. In those tenuous first months, Sister Marilyn graciously and generously stepped into the role of counselor and mentor. She paired me with another first-year teacher, Jerry Lenhard, who had received teacher training in college, and gently guided me through the brave new world of Inquiry-based Learning. This was the instructional methodology developed in the 1960’s that sought to remedy the weaknesses of more traditional forms of instruction, where students were required to memorize fact-laden textbooks. This was the way I had been taught history and other subjects in high school, and why I found so many of those classes boring and insipid. Inquiry Learning was a dynamic process that stressed student-generated questions, formulating original hypotheses, gathering and evaluating evidence, and testing the hypotheses to reach a conclusion. My first attempts at employing this new methodology met with mixed results because I was more interested in mastering classroom management techniques. But, by my second year I was gaining more and more confidence and expertise, and finally seeing the benefits of this style of teaching. It was in fact the method used in the more relevant classes at UCLA where the study of history was treated as a viable science aimed at addressing and solving social ills and political problems. Throughout the year, I grew more and more excited about the subject matter I was teaching and the skills the students were learning. I found myself spending much of my time with Marilyn and her good friend Sister Carol, Chairman of the Religion Department. Jerry and I regularly joined them in the faculty lounge for coffee and lunch, and talked about philosophy, education, and religion. It was during those times that I was also invited to join their regular TGIF parties at their apartment convent in Westchester. I had driven by this building hundreds of times, going to, and coming from, high school and work without ever suspecting that it was the cloistered quarters for five to six nuns (depending who was in residence) in the religious Community of St. Joseph of Carondolet (CSJ). By now I knew all of these CSJ’s as fellow faculty and staff members. They were the largest religious order in the school and represented every level of the school hierarchy. They had an assistant principal (Sister Nancy), two department chairs, Sisters Marilyn and Carol, and two teachers (Sisters Margaret and Mona). Given their numbers and influence in the administration and culture of the school, I saw why the more paranoid priests on the faculty still feared some kind of feminine conspiracy or administrative take-over. However, I also noticed that none of these male decriers ever sought or requested additional responsibilities beyond their immediate classroom or coaching duties. The nuns were always ready to respond constructively to school problems and challenges, and I found myself happily joining them.

It was during these lunchroom chats and TGIF gabfests that I learned of the CSJ’s commitment to social justice and Marilyn’s use of the teaching of history and religion as vehicles for Catholic social action. It seemed that she, and this order of nuns, looked beyond a life dedicated to prayer and teaching, and saw themselves as active participants and implementers of Christ’s teachings in the gospel. They modeled the spirit of Inquiry Learning that I taught – questioning, rather than passively accepting popular beliefs or authoritarian dogmas, gathering and analyzing data and evidence in their search for answers, and acting to solve problems and initiate change. Their community’s “Charism” (the divine influence on a person’s heart and it’s reflection in their life) was clearly demonstrated in the CSJ’s support of Cesar Chavez and United Farm Worker’s Union. While I had given lip service to the movement in college, and supported their grape boycott after graduation, it was Sisters’ Marilyn and Carol, and their religious compatriots who were showing up at the picket lines and physically assisting the farm worker’s in their efforts. These sisters also dared to point out the institutional inconsistencies in the decisions and actions of Church authorities.

In the early days of spring, an issue arose that would normally have been dealt with privately by the principal, Father Dunphy. However, Larry was the rare priest and leader who not only sought out the advice of nuns on his administrative staff and faculty but also was also unafraid to discuss crucial matters openly in a professional forum. The case involved a very popular and intelligent student who became pregnant during the summer before her junior year. She decided to keep the baby and raise it at home with her parents, and returned to school to finish the year. Her desire to finish high school was lauded by all and her decision to have the baby was cited as the proper Catholic choice, in a time when teenage abortions were so prevalent. The dilemma arose however when she applied as a candidate for the office of Student Body President. The issue became an immediate cause célèbre in the faculty lunchroom, where scandalized teachers and priests demanded her disqualification for violating the Student Code of Conduct. They believed that all candidates for student government office, especially the presidency, should be models of Catholic values and behavior, and an unwed, teenaged mother clearly failed to reach that standard. I like to believe that it was the gradual and subtle influence of the CSJ’s on Larry Dunphy, who was a regular TGIF guest at their apartment that convinced him to discuss this issue in a special faculty meeting before making his decision. The afterschool forum gave teachers and staff a chance to speak their minds and listen to the opinions of others, but it wasn’t until Sister Carol spoke that we were finally forced to view the issue as honest Catholics and faithful followers of Christ. She galvanized the room by quietly and solemnly relating the story that in past years many students who had secretly terminated unwanted pregnancies through legal abortions had run for, and been elected to student body offices, including president.
“What message are we sending as a Catholic school,” she asked, “when we penalize a student for publically doing the right thing, and choosing the life of her baby, while rewarding students who secretly have abortions?”
It was the uncomfortable question that no one wanted to hear. Without ever quoting scripture or making comparisons, Carol’s challenge forced everyone to recall the actions of Jesus when he was questioned about the woman charged with adultery, and he told her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more”. Looking at Father Dunphy, sitting silently across the room, I wondered what he thought of Carol’s question, and what he would choose to do about the unwed teenager seeking to run for student body office.

Many years have passed since those early days of teaching with Marilyn, Carol, and the other CSJ sisters. I went on to graduate school and public school education, but in many ways that time with them colored my views on teaching, leadership, and the struggles of living a Christian life. Marilyn and Carol introduced me to my wife, Kathleen Mavourneen, who had been their student and friend at Mount Saint Mary’s College, and we all remained friends long after. I will always admire Father Larry Dunphy, who was on the altar when Kathy and I married, and who baptized our first child, for being available, open, and receptive to what his faculty believed and needed to express. But, I especially respect him for never fearing to hear the difficult questions, or seeing the challenging evidence that nuns so often presented him. He represented such a departure from the priests and male teachers who taught me in high school. Larry saw nuns as equal partners from different religious orders, and as resources that could only enrich the institutions they were a part of, or led.

Many months have passed since I first read the L.A. Times article on the Vatican Crackdown, and I haven’t followed the story or the issues as closely as Kathy. She is a CSJ Associate (a woman committed to extending the mission and sharing the spirit of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet without becoming a vowed member) and maintains close friendships and active communication with the order. The Leadership Conference is preparing a formal response to the Vatican reports, and I know that it will be thoughtful and balanced (See An American Nun Responds to Vatican Criticism). However, from my peripheral readings, the issue seems to come down to authority and control. Except for a brief 10-year period, when the glamour of Vatican II reforms shone bright, and religious orders were encouraged to renew and transform their missions, many of the old fears and prejudices toward women religious communities have creeped back into the Church. I see vestiges of Cardinal McIntyre’s actions toward the Immaculate Heart Sisters in the Vatican’s move to send 3 American bishops to oversee and direct the course of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious. I hear echoes of my high school Piarist teachers in the Vatican’s report complaining that the women’s organization is: undermining Catholic teaching on homosexuality and birth control; promoting “radical feminist themes” (like the ordination of women); hosting speakers who “often contradict or ignore” Church teachings; and “making public statements that disagree with or challenge the bishops.” It seems to me that the LCWR is doing what the nuns at St. Bernard’s were already doing in the 1970’s  – generating questions, gathering and evaluating evidence, and seeking informed conclusions. These were religious women who went beyond the boundaries of a convent and school to reach out and work for and with the poor, the underserved, and the marginalized people in society. They were nuns who would not condemn sinners, but forgave them and worked to make them better. I wish the Church hierarchy could take their cue from the examples of Father Larry Dunphy (who died in 1980), and try trusting and working cooperatively with this other side of religious life – the nuns. Larry believed in them, and so do I.

The caustic, bitterness of the words sounded like screeching fingernails gouging across the dry, hard surface of a blackboard. Glancing quickly to find the source of the irritation, I saw a short, balding man, with light blonde hair that was turning a premature grey. His pale, light-complexioned face was bland, except for an oversized pair of eyeglasses that dominated his features and gave him a scholarly appearance. He spoke to another man sitting across from him. The tableau looked reassuringly benign; something you would except to see in a side booth in the Corner Bakery Restaurant on a chilly weekday morning. They were two 40-ish, middle-aged men, chatting over coffee and rolls before the start of work. But their placid appearance didn’t jibe with the tone of the words they were using. I’d heard the rhythms of those words before. They were echoes of my youth, when I listened to the gruff, staccato barking of fathers and old men complaining to each other at Little League games and picnics. It was the general talk children overheard in bleachers when dads of the same age bemoaned the plight of American society in the early and mid-1960’s. It was the white noise of a generation who had survived a devastating depression, a long and brutal world war, and the forbidding shadow of communist subversion or nuclear annihilation. My childhood friends and I accepted this outlook as a worldview filtered through the lenses of poverty and cynical mistrust of the military and the government. I was shocked to hear it again, coming from two men who were the same age as my youngest brother, Alex. This was not a post-depression, war-weary generation. They were post-modern yuppies who had experienced little turmoil in a peacetime nation, except for the precariousness of over-extended credit and dismal pension prospects. However, their world changed with the 9-11 terrorist attack in New York, and the Recession of 2009. The balding fellow was talking about a movie he saw that weekend, 2012. He called it an apocalyptic movie, which reminded him of old Irwin Allen thrillers, like the Towering Inferno, and The Poseidon Adventure. He said it was a dramatic reflection of how the world was falling apart.

I am not normally drawn to other people’s conversations, but that morning I was shamelessly rude in eavesdropping on the verbal exchanges between two complete strangers. I had just dropped my car off at the dealership for service, and was waiting for a call back from the mechanic. Rather than sitting in the waiting room of the agency I’d decided to have a continental breakfast at the Corner Bakery. I thought I could catch up on my homework in a warm and pleasant location. Instead, I became fascinated by the vitriolic talk I heard from the adjoining table.

“People just don’t get it,” the balding man insisted. “They don’t understand. There’s a lot more to this movie than just special effects. This nation is going to self-destruct by the Election of 2012. We were the last generation to experience the good times. Our economy is falling apart. I call it Obama-nomics, a socialist system where the government tells us how to run our life and our business”.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said his tall companion, biting into a roll and dabbing the sides his mouth with a napkin.
“Have you been following this breast cancer crap?” the short man continued, apparently changing topics. “I can’t believe it. All the hidden facts are finally coming out on healthcare. You see what the government is doing now, don’t you? They are refusing to identify breast cancer in women. The government will decide when you can check for cancer and when you can’t. Breast panels and Obama-care”, he annunciated, snidely, “it’s scary what this nation is coming to”.

The one-sided dialogue stopped as the bakery manager walked by the two men and greeted them.
“Hey Fred” the short man asked, shaking hands. “What’s this I hear that you’re leaving us?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” the manager said shyly, putting his hands into his pockets. “I’m being assigned to the Westwood Store”.
“Well, we’ll miss you Fred,” the tall man added, lowering his cup of coffee. “Is it a promotion?”
“Of course, it’s a promotion!” scolded his short friend. “It’s a chance to get out of this dump! Westwood is the big time; it’s all happening on the Westside”.
“It is a good move for me”, the manager admitted, politely, “but Westwood is actually a smaller store. This bakery does more business, with bigger volume than Westwood. My job will be to increase service and sales”.
“You’ll do great” the tall man insisted.
“Yeah, you’ll fix things up there in no time” the short man conceded. “ Tell me something, though, Fred,” he said, pointing to the 4 coffee dispensers behind him. “How do your guys clean the coffee urns? Do they really scrub them out with hot water, or just rinse them?”
“The guys follow strict cleaning procedures with all containers,” Fred stated in a formal tone, losing his friendly bantering.
“I don’t think they’re doing it” short guy insisted, shaking his head. “I’ve done a taste test, and I can tell you that the coffee from each urn tastes the same. It’s got to be the cleaning. Maybe it’s a language and communication problem with your guys. Those fellows need to learn how to limpiar” he said in exaggerated Spanish. “Cause they’re not washing them correctly”.
“I’ll review the procedures with them,” Fred stated firmly, looking directly into the short man’s blue eyes.
“So you’re moving up and going to Westwood,” the tall man repeated, after the momentary pause.
“What are you going to do about Chief Low-pants?” the short man interjected, not wishing to end this conversation with the store manager.
“Who?” asked the manager, confused by the term and the mocking laughter from the tall man. “Did you say Jay-lo?”
“No,” the short man snickered. “Chief Low-pants, your chef,” he explained. “I call him Chief Low-pants because his trousers are always sagging down to his knees. Doesn’t he own a belt? Doesn’t he know the appearance he gives the restaurant? He looks like some barrio refugee. You don’t want people thinking you run a ghetto operation here, do you Fred?”
The manager blushed at the sneering ridicule, and stuttered for a response.
“Yeah,” he admitted, ruefully. “I’ve talked to him about professional dress and his appearance when he’s working the front of the store. But chefs want to be comfortable when they’re working in the kitchen. You probably saw him during his break”.
“Well, break or not” continued the short guy, “it gives a bad impression. He wouldn’t be able to get away with that look in Westwood, I can tell you that”.

As the store manager ended his conversation with the two men, I tried refocusing my attention at something else. The scornful criticism by the short man was depressing me. I found myself identifying with the manager, busboys, and chef, and trying to quell a rising sense of indignation at this constant barrage of bile. I realized that I didn’t know enough to make judgments about these two men, or reach conclusions about their attitudes and opinions, but I was getting angry. Looking for other distractions, I opened my laptop and logged into the free wireless network. The Internet kept me entertained until a waitress walked by me, coming out from behind the counter to speak to the tall man. Curious over what this aproned, middle-aged woman might have to say to him got the better of me and I strained to hear their conversation.
“Did you have a chance to look at the papers?” she asked.
“Yeah, of course. I said I would,” replied the tall man.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you should wait. Now is not the time to buy”.
“Are you sure?” she insisted
“Look, I’m just trying to do you a favor,” the tall man said, in an irritated tone. “Do what you want”.
“Alright, thank you for your help,” she said, rubbing her hands on her apron. “There are a few more people I need to ask before making a decision, but I appreciate your help”.
“Sure, you do that honey, and can you bring me back a toasted bagel and cream cheese?” the tall man called out, as she walked away.
“You know,” he resumed saying to his partner, “that bitch is going to do the exact opposite of what I told her. She’s a moron. If she’s not going to do what I say, why ask me?”
“I know what you mean” the short man chimed in, adding his own measure of disgust. “I spoke to my dad last Sunday” he said. “My dad just signed a contract for some new job. He’s doing fine, but my brother’s a mess. He’s in way over his head. I told him to bail out, declare bankruptcy, and move in with the folks, but he won’t listen. That’s what’s happening, you know, there are lots of people moving in with their parents. I’ll admit that by-and-large I’m an alarmist, but I see it everywhere: bankruptcies, foreclosures, layoffs, and more layoffs. So far I’ve been lucky. I can be broke today and then make 10 million dollars tomorrow”. He suddenly stopped talking to help two young ladies who were struggling to operate the coffee urn behind him. The interruption gave me a chance to inspect this man who had been doing so much talking. He wore a striped, long-sleeve yellow shirt, with faded jeans. The fitted cut made him look slimmer than I’d originally thought. He moved around the counter with surprising agility.

“I listen to Sean Hannity,” he continued, resuming his seat across from his friend. “He calls himself a credit card deadhead. That’s a person who maxxes-out his credit card and then pays it off all at once or declares bankruptcy. He rides a credit card until it dies, and then walks away. That’s pretty much what I’m doing right now. It’s risky but I’m getting by. It’s tough out there”.
“You got that right,” the tall man added, leaning forward. “I listen to a lot of talk radio and money management is impossible in this economy. Now is not the time to sell, but it’s not the time to buy, either. You don’t know what is going on. I was at Macy’s yesterday. If you want to see how people are hurting, go to Macy’s. You wouldn’t believe their prices! A designer T-shirt runs for $32, right? Well with coupons and discounts you take 75% off and pick it up for $8. Eight dollars! Think they’re hurting? I was shocked. I bought a shirt that usually goes for $108. I paid $48!”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do”, the short man said, shaking his head. “It’s hard to be positive and optimistic when you know you’re going to be making 50 cent an hour for retirement. What kind of a future is that?” He stopped to let a busboy reach in and deposit a plate with an open-faced bagel and a dollop of cream cheese.
“What is this shit?” the tall man cried out, pointing at the blackened bread. “Come on! This thing is burnt to a crisp!
“That is what the cook gave me,” the waiter said in a heavily accented voice. He shrugged helplessly, and then flashed an innocent smile.
“Boy, I tell you”, the short man said, shaking his head and eyeing the bagel. “Conservatism is dying. It makes me sick what is happening to this country”.

Some live by love they neighbor as thyself,

others by first do no harm or take no more

than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,

love that casts a widening pool of light,

love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

(Praise Song for the Day, Inaugural Poem by Elizabeth Alexander)

As Prisa looked around to select her finally spot, I took stock of her location. The metal scaffolding to our right supported enough lighting to allow a determined GW student to read a hardbound novel. The last of a series of five jumbo video screens hovered to our left; and straight ahead, bathed in sparkling illumination, rose the gleaming white National Capitol. Red, white, and blue bunting and banners festooned the multi-layered portico which faced the Mall. This was it – the best, free spot on the Mall, except for the fortunate few in the exclusive seated and standing areas surrounding the capitol dais.

“Okay, chula” I said. “I think this is as far as I can take you. You can see everything here. Are you good?”

“Yup” my daughter replied cheerily. “This is great. I’ll be fine, don’t worry”.

“I’ll try calling you when I reach the ticket entrance, and we can stay in touch before the swearing in”.

“Okay, Dad. I’ll be fine. I’ll just sit down here and wait”.

The people around us had already started spreading blankets, chairs, and tarps on the ground, settling in for the long wait ahead. An enterprising quartet of friends seeking more warmth had confiscated a trash receptacle and transformed it into a waist-high, circular, cardboard barricade. Another settler behind her had spread a large white cardboard mat on the ground as insulation for his red blanket. The flannel rug stood out like a crimson postage stamp on a square white envelope.

“Okay then, Prisa” I said guiltily. “I think I’ll take off. Hopefully, the sooner I’m in line, the better my chances at a good spot in the center of the mall”.

“All right, Dad. I’ll be fine – really. Don’t worry”.

Unfortunately, I was worried. I was second guessing my decision to leave Prisa behind and proceed to another site on the Mall.
 

I kept thinking of the wide silver card I was carrying protectively in a plastic souvenir bag. The ticket was an exclusive invitation from Congressman Howard Berman to enter a special area between 4^th and 3^rd Streets, just ahead of Prisa’s location. Yesterday, we had queued up at 10:00 A.M. in front of the Rayburn Congressional office building on Independence Avenue to receive the silver ticket, and plead for an extra one for my daughter. That hope was soon dashed when the congressional assistant told us that we would have to return after 5 o’clock to see if anyone had failed to pick up their ticket. I was convinced that the chances for success were bleak, and not worth the rigors and travel difficulties of returning in six hours. My guilt over this decision was somewhat alleviated when, upon surveying the map and the actual viewing areas in front of the Capitol, we saw that we would be relatively close to each other on the Mall. I would be on one side of 4^th Street and Prisa on the other. This sense of proximity gave us renewed courage, and we began sketching our game plan for Inauguration Morning as we walked around the Capitol and Mall. Beginning at 4:00 A.M., we would catch the first bus on Wisconsin Ave in Glover Park, and take it to the limits of the No-vehicle Zone at Washington Circle, near the Foggy Bottom Metro. From there we’d walk down 23^rd Street to the Mall and then dash across it for 4^th Street. Once settled, I would leave Prisa in place and make my way to the Silver Entrance at 3^rd Street and Independence and get in line to wait until the gates opened at 8:30 A.M. So far, the only hitch to this plan was the failure of the bus to appear at 4 o’clock. We had waited forlornly at the bus stop for over 30 minutes in the freezing cold. After watching countless empty taxi cabs drive past, we decided that a warm car was worth the added expenditure. The speedy taxi ride proved even more fortuitous, because the driver was able to travel beyond our original drop-off point and deliver us on Constitution Ave at the edge of the Mall. Warmed and optimistic from the fast and comfortable journey, we joined the bands of early spectators who were making their way down the Mall. My 28 year old daughter had been my constant companion throughout our three days of travel, exploration, and planning. Now, in this semi-lit, cold, and barren place, I was at the point of leaving her alone.

“Okay” I repeated, trying to reassure myself that the time and difficulties spent in procuring my ticket demanded that it be used. Prisa had urged me to do so yesterday, and nothing had changed to prevent it. I gave her a wide, encompassing, bear-hug and a kiss on the cheek, and said, “I’ll see you when we have a new president. I love you, and thanks for coming with me”.

“I love you too, Dad. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. I’m fine”.
 

I strode quickly away, refusing to look back. I kept telling myself that Prisa was a mature adult, a veteran high school teacher, and a coach. She was not the little girl of 8 who I once left for 2 hours, with her 10 year old brother, to wait for me at the Northridge Mall in Los Angeles while I went into a bookstore. That had been a scary misadventure. I brushed those memories aside and concentrated on the plan and the mental map I had drawn up showing the streets I needed to reach. I assumed that this second half of our game plan would go as well as the first. I made my way to the corner of our enclosed section, hoping to find a quick exit to 4^th Street, so I could take it south one block to Independence Ave. There I would turn left toward 3^rd and my entrance gate. However, I couldn’t get out. There was a security guard blocking my way at the nearest break in the fence.

“You can’t exit from here” the rotund guard said, as I approached. “You need to go back and find another exit”.

“All right” I replied, not worried about the redirection; in fact, I had expected them earlier. I had read about extensive road closures, and closed access routes; but none had materialized until now. I walked quickly away, along the dimly lit gravel pathway that paralleled the grassy mall, but did not receive much light. It was a cold but quiet walk, with no one other travelers going my way. Looking to my right, I could see clusters of people in all ages, sizes, and groupings streaming steadily along the illuminated mall. The walking warmed me, and I grew more confident of my actions. Suddenly a broad street opened to my left. Approaching another barred fence with more security guards, I saw a sea of faces and torsos pressed behind it. A sigh of dread escaped me when I saw no clear way out. Worse, I could see nothing to indicate that there were any lines or movement of people along Independence Ave, beyond the massed bodies behind the perimeter. I could only see wave after wave of people behind the barrier, staring at me and wondering how I was on the other side of the blockade that prevented them from entering the mall.
 

I walked up to a friendly looking guard and asked, “Is there an exit to Independence from here?”

“No sir” he replied, courteously, in a mild southern accent. “You can’t get out from here. We’ve been holding these people back for about an hour. We’ll be letting them in soon. You don’t want to be around when we let them go”.

Those well meaning words unleashed a series of apocalyptic vignettes in my head. I imagined myself the Flying Dutchman of the Mall, doomed to sail on an endless quest to circumvent these barriers and find a passage out. I saw a tidal wave of bodies cresting the wire mesh levies and inundating the vast expanse of the mall behind me, putting an incalculable mass of humanity and distance between Prisa and me. I saw myself being overwhelmed and overcome by a relentless current of people flowing in the opposite direction that I needed to travel. I had not foreseen this situation, or discussed it with Prisa. I turned my back on Independence Ave and decided that I would rather find safe harbor with Prisa, than venture further into the frigid, early morning waters of these unchartered seas. I walked past the gravel path to the Mall, and quickly began retracing my original route back to Prisa’s location. Speed was now essential. I theorized that Prisa and I must have found an accidental breach in the Mall security that allowed us earlier access to the Mall than our brethren on the south side of the capitol. This advantage would soon disappear, and with hordes of additional people entering the mall from the south, the harder it would be to find Prisa among the thousand bundled and huddled spectators. It would help if she was alerted to my change of plans, and looking for me as well. I pulled off my mittens, pulled out my cell phone, and pushed the speed dial number, praying that the signal would get through. The phone rang and rang, until an automated voice said that the contact was not available.

“Hi Pris, this is Dad” I said into the speaker. “I can’t find an access route to Independence and all the streets on the south side are jammed with people that will be flooding onto the mall. I have no clue how to get to Independence, so I’m heading back to your location. I hope you get this message so you can be on the lookout for me”. I tried to sound confident and matter-of-fact, but I was scared. I wasn’t sure if I could find the exact spot I had left her.

“Details, details; what were the details of that area?” I questioned myself, as I lengthened my stride. I mentally checked off the objects I remembered: strobe light, video screen, spotlight tower, and cardboard fencing and mats. I saw the strobe light in the distance, and re-positioned my returning glide path to the middle of the mall. I passed more and more people filling in previously open spaces as I descended toward the gleaming Capitol building. Praying that Prisa had not moved from her original location, I slowed down and triangulated with the strobe lighting and video screen on my left and the beacon tower on my right. With a sigh of relief I saw the cardboard fence around the quartet of friends in front of me, and quickly started searching for a familiar face and profile. I took three more steps and, looking down, I saw a bright blue knit cap, atop a huddled bundle on the grass. Prisa was sitting exactly where I had left her standing 20 minutes before.

“Hi Prisa”, I said with soulful relief. “I couldn’t get out; so I decided to come back”. I sat down next to her, huddled close for warmth, and explained what had happened.

“I’m glad your back” she said. “It was lonely without you”.

“I’m glad to be back. It would have been a sad morning without you”. Instead of feeling irritated or annoyed at the obstacles that had thwarted me, I was filled with a sense of peace. One thought kept going through my head, “Thank God I couldn’t get out”. I reached over, gave Prisa a one-armed hug, and settled down to our long, cold, morning watch together.
 

To be continued…..

Remember, remember,
The fifth of November

The Gunpowder Treason and plot;

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

(Variation of traditional rhyme recited on Guy Fawkes Night, in the graphic novel and movie, V for Vendetta, by Alan Moore.)

I glided my car down the slope of the freeway off ramp and stopped at the stop sign. Years of constant repetition forced me to look carefully for oncoming traffic on my left and possible pedestrians on my right. It was evening, and although a street light shone overhead, intervals of darkness, like long, black dashes, hyphenated the sidewalk and curbs of this section of Ventura Boulevard. These blind spots could easily hide a cyclist or child. Seeing nothing, I turned sharply to the right onto the boulevard, then right again, onto Shoup Avenue. Cruising at a easy speed, my mind slowly drifted back to the football game I’d just watched, and UCLA’s stunning upset over Tennessee. I shook my head, thinking of the miserable performance of the Bruin quarterback in the first half, and his redemption in the final minutes of the game and overtime. What a great season opener! After traveling a mile or so, I looked sharply to my right. Somewhere along this tree-lined and familiar route, a mocking hint seemed to be whispered in my ear. “Something’s wrong”, a shadowed voice hissed. I looked again. Everything was in its place along the street; there was nothing out of order. However, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of wrongness, as I drove. At the well-lit intersection of Victory Boulevard, I sensed it again. “There’s something wrong” I seemed to hear. Now I was frustrated. I was missing something. I concentrated fully on the road ahead, and checked off each object as I approached them on the street: the curb, sidewalk, grass, tree, sign pennants, apartments, houses, street sign, speed sign, mobile ad, bus stop, street lights, and intersection. Everything was there, and everything was in the right place; so what was wrong? As I came to the last large intersection at Sherman Way, I stopped for the red light. Staring at the street and curb ahead, I again thought “What am I missing?” I turned away for a moment to watch the gas station customers using the pumps and walking into the mini-mart at the corner as the signal changed. When I drove across the intersection, I glanced to the curb and finally saw the detail I had been missing. A tall, mobile billboard, about 5 feet tall and 3 feet across, was mounted atop a licensed trailer platform. I had seen these mobile ads all along Shoup; what I had missed was the distinct lettering. As I passed the sign, I saw that all the words on the white background had been blocked out in black house paint with wide brush roller strokes. Nothing was readable. Each of the 6 or 7 curbside billboards along Shoup, between Ventura Boulevard and Sherman Way had been defaced and vandalized that evening.
 

I discovered this damage on Labor Day, the night of the UCLA game, on my way home. I’d been noticing these mobile billboards in the west San Fernando Valley region, all year long, especially on streets with heavy traffic density and large stretches of open curb space. Shoup and Fallbrook Avenues, sections of Topanga Canyon, and Roscoe and Devonshire Boulevards, were places where they seemed most prominent. These mobile ads and curbside billboards have become ubiquitous and annoying; they prevent the flow of traffic, and disrupt the scenic continuity of neighborhood streets. I have to admit that a part of me was secretly amused by the idea that an ordinary citizen had finally gotten “fed up” and struck a blow against billboard pollution. However, this was not a one-night stunt. Over the course of the next three weeks I saw more and more of these painted and defaced curbside signs, billboards, and mobile ads. This was not a single symbolic act; it was a crime spree. The more defaced billboards I saw along Topanga Canyon or Shoup, the more troubled I became. Who was doing it, and why? Had a citizen despaired of city government and the law, and was now taking matters into their own hands? Was this vigilantism, or a personal vendetta? It was clear that considerable damage was being done. Someone was losing money, and an angry citizen (or citizens) was increasing the odds of being identified and apprehended. My speculations would flare up whenever I saw a defaced billboard on the street. After three weeks of letting my imagination run wild, I finally decided to get some facts. I called one of the telephone numbers on an undamaged trailer hitch carrying a mobile billboard, and talked to Bill of Mobile Ads. He confirmed that the crime spree started on the Labor Day weekend and hadn’t stopped. The first billboards vandalized were the property of At a Glance advertisements, and a report had been made to the police. So far, Bill had suffered only about $800 worth of damage.

Bill’s information only raised more questions. Were these destructive acts aimed at businesses or the city’s parking ordinances? Municipal codes permit these vehicles to occupy curb space. Had this citizen become so frustrated with the city that he transferred his civic outrage to other citizens? Had he fanned and stoked his anger to the point of willfully damaging other people’s property? Vandalism is a vile and negative act; it is committed subversively, and under cover of darkness. The defacement of these billboards disturbed me. Wrongs were not corrected; laws were not changed; and civil rights were not protected. My conversation with Bill put a human voice to the phenomenon I was watching played out in the west San Fernando Valley. He sounded relieved that someone was discussing the problem. For him, this was not a crime against property; it was a personal attack. He told me that people just didn’t want to see these ads on the street. They called him and threatened him. He was responsive when callers were civil and polite in stating their complaints or requests, but he couldn’t understand the hate and violence. The only counter-strategy he had was to keep his trailers moving on a regular basis, and not concentrating them on one street.
 

I couldn’t help but be sympathetic to Bill’s plight, and angry at the perpetrator. There is always a side of us that wants to root for the underdog, the little guy, the lone voice calling in the wilderness. We love to be angry at them - the government, “the man”, bureaucracy, or lawyers. Stories abound around the world of heroes rising up to fight greedy overlords and faceless bureaucracies: Robin Hood and “his merry band of outlaws” plagued England’s Prince John, Zorro fought the alcalde of Los Angeles, Jesse James attacked the railroads in Kansas and Missouri, and Emiliano Zapata opposed Victoriano Huerta and the federales of Mexico. But what happens when one underdog victimizes another underdog. Bill was not a “fat cat”, a greedy, Wall Street capitalist. He works hard, answers the phone Monday through Sunday, worries about his trailers, and shepherds the mobile ads and signs to safe pastures; he’s just an ordinary guy trying to make a living.

I’m not a stranger to vandalism; as a public school principal it happens to school buildings and walls all the time (see A Monday without Graffiti), I should also confess, that some years, graffiti vandalism becomes such an overwhelming problem, that I find myself fantasizing about placing land mines or snipers on roofs to stop despoilers from defacing my professional home. Of course I never give into these murderous thoughts, but I still have to guard against impulsive tendencies that punish innocent students or “the usual suspects” who come so readily to mind when vandalism occurs. First of all, I have to step back and wonder if I have become “the man” to somebody’s Robin Hood. Is the graffiti a political act or destructive mischief? Next I avoid reacting to these crimes by restricting or depriving students of their rights or privileges. Closing frequently “tagged up” restrooms does not stop vandalism; it only produces annoyance, anger, and constipation among other students (and their parents). Lastly, I have to avoid harassing or prosecuting the students who fit my profile of likely hoodlums, simply because I don’t like the way they look, act, dress, or behave. Over 24 years of anecdotal experiences have taught me that “the usual suspects” are rarely guilty of anonymous crimes. The few times we actually caught a teenage vandal, spoke with their shamed and humbled parents, and heard the perpetrator’s childish and thoughtless reasons for destruction, they actually made sense to me. Children’s and adolescent mental development allows them to make stupid choices; our goal as teachers is to help them learn to THINK and make better ones. But the vandalism I was seeing in the west San Fernando Valley was different. The actions of thoughtless and boneheaded kids are bad, but developmentally logical; the deliberate and malicious act of retaliation or vigilantism, by adults, against private property was sinful.
 

The billboard bandit has staked himself to dangerous ground. He is not a vigilante in the classic sense, because the laws that regulate street parking are flexible and open to challenge – if one is determined, the law can be changed. Impatience with the legal system is not justification for violence; attacking a person who annoys you, but obeys the law, is a personal vendetta and a crime. This is what I believe is happening in the West Valley, and it bewilders me. The mobile ad marauder is not a child or a teenager; he’s an adult who is making criminal choices.