About a week or two before I went to the Adam Ant concert with Father Orlando, Dad dropped the bomb on me during our daily commute…I wouldn’t be returning to Strake next Fall. The official reason given was my mediocre 2.86 GPA. Despite their reputation as educators, the Jesuits couldn’t motivate me into becoming a better student. So according to Dad, it was unfair that everyone else had to make sacrifices for my academic career if I wasn’t going to apply myself. How I cried over the news. The dust from the Springfield-to-Houston move hadn’t even settled and I would have to start all over again on friends.
Nevertheless my BS detector went off. I knew the actual reason was Dad’s dislike of commuting from the West side of Houston to its Southeast section; something around 50 miles one way. To me, any anguish he experienced was payback for uprooting me from Springfield, my future at Griffin High School and the friends left behind. As for the other sacrifices, these were half-truths. Mom had to take up a retail-management job because our financial situation needed a boost, especially with Reagan’s voodoo economics. She made sure we shared her pain with boring evenings spent waiting at the store until closing or assisting her on inventory nights. Brian’s attendance at Sugar Land Middle School wasn’t my doing. He could’ve gone to St. Francis which was a few blocks from Strake. I don’t know why he didn’t. I do know he hated public school after all the years we spent in parochial schools because he was a popular kid unlike me. Not getting to participate in sports is what really ate at him the most. Our relationship definitely started to deteriorate then as Brian resented my opportunity while he languished in a “ghetto” school (a way of saying the kids aren’t as similar like they used to be at St. Agnes). Lastly, Grandma covered the tuition which meant there was no crippling financial burden on my family outside of commuting. My so-so report cards just gave Dad a plausible rationale or he’d find another if I had straight A’s—a self-fulfilling prophecy in 1984, a story for later.
Today I sympathize with Dad thanks to my time at DG. But this was the 14-year-old version of me then and I despised him for “wrecking” my life again. If you know my parents, what followed was obvious, their litany of how friends are unimportant, friends can’t be relied on, friendships fade, blah blah blah. Not exactly something a teenager swallows unless he’s an android. I was already numb to their bullshit thanks to the past moves of 1982, 1979 and 1975. Too bad it didn’t harden me more effectively for the next ones due in 1984 and 1985.
By the time Summer Vacation 1983 began, the tears were spent and we had to find a new place to rent off the Gulf Freeway region (that’s Southeast Houston which runs along I-45 to Galveston if you’re not familiar with Texas). Luck was on our side this time. My parents found another wonderful four-bedroom house in a relatively new area owned by a Mr. Chen. This gentleman was moving his family to a larger place several blocks away and he wanted to try being a landlord I guess. It was a perfect match. We would be living in a more developed, mature section of Houston unlike the West side’s perpetual state of construction. Mr. Chen got a family that would take good care of the place.
Then came the weekend with a U-Haul to lug our heavy junk across Houston. I recall it was a small truck because we had to make at least two trips. Loading it up with boxes was easy, we never completely unpacked from the Springfield move. The following weekdays were spent cleaning up the minor details while Dad was at work. This new home had a neighborhood pool which assuaged Brian and me once Mom announced we weren’t getting cable TV anymore. They hated MTV being frequently watched and blamed my “poor” grades on it too. Their strategy worked. I think our overall television viewing declined despite having solid reception. It didn’t matter as I was evolving into an avid FM radio listener and voracious reader thanks to a donation of three Sci-Fi novels from Dad’s unknown co-worker:
- The End of the Matter by Alan Dean Foster
- The Mercenary by Jerry Pournelle (I criticized him last year on On the Media as host Brooke Gladstone read aloud)
- Dorsai by Gordon R. Dickson
When I wasn’t holed up in my new bedroom listening to KLOL, reading those novels, writing mopey-assed letters to my pen-pal Kim Stewart or researching my D&D books, I made beaucoup use of the local pool. Some days, Brian and I went swimming twice a day. We failed to make any new friends during our stints there because we weren’t around very long. Shortly before the move we received the bad news about our house in Springfield. This meant a brief settling-in period followed by the month of July spent around Central Illinois seeing old friends, our family and painting. Overall, the Gulf Freeway area was shaping up for us; there were two big, decent malls (Almeda and Bayshore), Mom didn’t have to work any more (it improved her outlook) and if we had to live in Houston, this part felt nicer.
Epilogue: There are several little side notes to accompany this jog down memory lane. My future wife Somara actually lived a couple miles away and attended the nearby rival Dobie. Jose’s future wife Nancy was also around but attended Clear Lake. Finally, after the Giraudet wedding (Sonia’s) in early 2004, we drove out to this house to see it again. Despite all the doom-n-gloom I felt as a teenager, it held decent, happier memories for a brief window. We bumped into a gentleman who lived across the street while he was collecting his trash can. I introduced myself and explained why I was there. He told me sadly that Mr. Chen died a few years earlier so his wife had moved back in; the children were grown and she didn’t want a large home anymore. My past fared better too, we later found Somara’s alma mater fenced off and going through the process of being demolished.