In 1938 we made what was for my family a major move: we crossed the railroad tracks. After the birth of my sister, Barbara, all five children slept in one tiny bedroom, Paul and John in one bed, Robbie and me in another, and Barbara’s crib crammed in between. Once Barbara grew out of the crib, we had to move. My father bought an old house on Front Street, which runs directly adjacent and parallel to the tracks, so we were now actually closer to the tracks than we had been in Head of Falls. But the move was symbolic because we were, literally and figuratively, out of Head of Falls and on the right side of the tracks. My father took great pride in being able to move us there. That September I started school at St. Joseph’s Maronite Parochial School, located just off Front Street, about three blocks from our house. The school was operated by the parish. The instructors were nuns of the Ursuline Order, deeply religious and dedicated teachers. Strict discipline was maintained, and heavy emphasis was placed on learning the basics. We attended Mass daily. Then, as now, the young boys assisted in the Masses as altar boys. There I learned early the value of knowing more than one language.
Maron was a priest and hermit who lived in the early part of the fifth century in the mountains of what is now central Lebanon. He devoted his life to prayer and good works, living simply and frugally. Eventually the Maronite Church was created in his name. In the sixteenth century it permanently joined with and became part of the Roman Catholic Church. Although its liturgy and practices were once significantly different from those of the Roman Catholic faith, over time the differences have diminished and the two are now virtually indistinguishable, especially as they operate in the United States.
In 1938 one difference was that all Masses at St. Joseph’s were held in Arabic, the language of Syria and Lebanon, while Masses at most Roman Catholic churches were in Latin. Now, except for one Arabic Mass a week, all Masses at St. Joseph’s and other Catholic churches in the United States are in English. Although my mother and father both spoke Arabic, they rarely did so when we children were around, as they, like many immigrants, were anxious that we be Americanized as quickly and completely as possible. Thus to this day I can say and understand only a few words in Arabic.
The first time I served as an altar boy I was paired with Henry Nagem, a happy-go-lucky older boy. He knew even less Arabic than I did. The priest was the church pastor, Father Joseph Awad, a stern, intimidating figure. Both Henry and I were nervous as the Mass began. Things went well until near the end, when one of us was supposed to get Father Awad’s cap, which he had placed at the side of the altar at the beginning of the Mass. We both forgot, and a long, motionless silence occurred. Then Father Awad, in a low, stern voice said something neither of us understood. He repeated it three or four times in a voice rising with anger. I looked at Henry; he looked at me. My legs were shaking. He was sweating. Finally an exasperated parishioner yelled out, “His hat, he wants you to get his hat, you dumbbells!” We collided and nearly fell, scrambling to get Father Awad’s cap. Afterward, in the rectory, he reprimanded us and made us stay there and memorize the Arabic words necessary to serve Mass, including the word for cap, pronounced “boor-nite-ah.” I will never forget it.
Serving as an altar boy was my introduction to public speaking. The church was usually full at Sunday Mass, and one of us always read the epistle; it was an honor and a challenge. My father insisted that I learn to speak in public and encouraged my reading of the epistle. To make sure I could be heard and understood throughout the church, he made me practice at home: I would stand in the back hallway while he sat in the living room at the far end of our house. There were three rooms between us and I couldn’t see him, but I read the epistle over and over, louder and louder, pronouncing every syllable clearly, until he could hear and understand every word. Although I objected at first, once I found that I could do it well, I looked forward to the Sunday readings.
My brother Robbie and I shared a bedroom, as did my two older brothers. My sister, Barbara, the youngest, had her own bedroom, as did my parents. In retrospect the only real inconvenience came from seven people sharing a single, very tiny bathroom. That led to occasional waiting lines, but we learned to take our turn. Over time, as Paul and then Johnny went off to college, the waiting time decreased.
Barbara, the youngest of five children, and the only girl, didn’t have a natural playmate in the family, but she handled it well, becoming highly successful and fiercely independent; she now tends to lead, and occasionally to dominate, family discussions. As one of my brothers once said, “The four of us against Barbara: an even battle.”