Study Hall

I was thirteen.
Spring semester at The Fenn School of Concord -
a secular yet most decidedly Christian academic institution for young boys -
I, being the first member of the Hebrew faith to matriculate since its
foundation in 1929 by a portly, enterprising former teacher, Robert C. Fenn.

My mother's great ambition
was for my inclusion into New England WASP society.
Names like Hobbs, Malcolm, Lee, Hollingsworth,
were the envy of her striving, immigrant heart.
I was therefore thrust,
a proverbial round ethnic peg in a square blue-blood hole,
in this archetypal Yankee breeding ground.

Much to the chagrin of one and all,
other than my excellence in sports -
(and thus the admiration and respect from my peers),
my academic career was a debacle of historic proportions.
Conscientiously, methodically, yes, even studiously,
I ignored all lessons and all schoolbooks.
It was my great distinction to not only flunk three classes -
Mathematics, Latin and English,
but also to accomplish the unimaginable...
I failed Citizenship.
I had the innate talent of making
flippant, mocking remarks at my easily affronted teachers,
combined with the indiscriminate and flagrant propensity to cheat
on any and all tests, written or oral.

It was also at this fine institution of higher learning
where I developed my lifelong fascination with the day time sky.
Invariably in the back next to a window
willfully tuning out the classroom's constipated drone,
I mused on the shape of clouds and their variegated formations.

The moment at last at last arrived where the wise Christian elders,
in consultation with my tearful mother and aloof father,
devised a solution to their unique and thorny Jewish problem.
Dropped from the rigors of Latin,
the empty library
was placed at my disposal for one hour each day.
I was left utterly alone
with the providential hope that this hermetic seclusion,
I could and therefore would,
at the very last,
concentrate on my studies.

The library, however -
located in a small balcony overlooking the school auditorium -
was wanting both in number and breadth of books.
The collection,
an old, worn and outdated Enclyopedia Britannica,
a behemoth, musty, untouched, and an un-illuminated Bible;
rows of tepid Christian novels
extolling the virtues of blinkered conformity,
was as nourishing as a
desiccated saltine.

However, in a corner,
on a bottom shelf,
festooned in an anomalous, festive yellow,
a stack of National Geographic magazines beckoned.
They were to be my intimate spring time playmates.

My daily communion,
at first
furtive, harried, quick,
soon grew bold
from the knowledge I was truly alone for a full hour.
A ritual arose where,
after removing my three piece suit,
underwear,
shoes and socks,
and making a neat pile,
buck naked,
either by
sitting down on a cold metal folding chair,
or lying on a wooden desk,
or standing in the middle of the room,
or leaning against a wall,
or flat on my back on the linoleum floor,
or pressed against the window,
or sitting or standing against the unlocked library door,
(the variations were constant and diverse),
I shared my yearning seed
with the clean, prim, glossy issues,
where,
from around the globe,
images of exotic, bare-breasted, native woman,
calmly, patiently, dispassionately
beguiled my eager eyes.

Alas,
the erotic spring term came to an end,
and when my report card revealed not an iota of improvement,
I was transferred to another school.