BY DAN VALENTI

PLANET VALENTI NEWS AND COMMENTARY

(FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE, MONDAY, OCT. 17, 2016) — In 1965, THE PLANET graduated to ninth grade. We entered St. Joseph’s High School on Maplewood Avenue in Pittsfield, continuing a tradition of an incoming freshman class going back to the 19th century, when the school opened. The elegant building outside which we assembled that first day in September ’65 impressed us with its light-tan bricks. It loomed without overshadowing. It hovered without suffocating.

As a young teen thinking of a career in architecture, we stood affixed at the contrast from my previous academic abode. From K through 8, we attended Mt. Carmel School on Fenn Street, opened in 1954 in a great collective effort by parishioners and pastor Fr. Camillo Santini.

“Catholic” and Catholics have taken a beating in the 62 years since. Today, the word as a proper noun brings as much derision as devotion. As a generic noun, however, “catholic” means universal, applicable to all. In that sense, we are all “catholics.”

They Didn’t Walk; They ‘Processed’

It was both as a Catholic and a catholic that 13-year-old Dan Valenti stood outside on that brisk, clear September morning. The bell finally tolled for assembly, boys on one side, girls on the other. In 1965, Catholic students didn’t “walk.” We “processed.” Once inside, again an architectural flourish grabbed our attention. We marveled at the glossy, light-brown cement blocks of the walls. Entrancing.

Our freshman class included Jean Dassatti, Jerry Packard, Gerard Downing, Edward and James Wood, Steve Proper, Stan Wojtkowski, Shaun Ringe, Denny Ryan, and so many more. Older spirits lingered: Denny Kelley, Frank Scago, Dan O’Connell, Danny Ford, Keith Haven, Jim Ruberto, Paul Procopio, Jim Ruberto, Danny Ford, Peter McGuire, Peter Gregory, Tommy Tobin. We could go on and on …

There are no such things as ghosts, of course, but if we allow reverie to mingle with wistfulness, we can imagine memory in a tangible form that still mingles inside those walls. Should that building become condos, a charter school, or assume some other function, we have to think that every happening of the years of its life as a parochial school will be eternally present. The presences might be still and quiet, satisfied in their goodness. They might haunt. If the latter, it will be a benign “disturbance,” a procession, if you will. If the building goes condo, sign THE PLANET for the first unit.

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A Forced Choice of an Odd Master

The black and white-habited nuns herded us up to our home room: 310. That was another contrast with Mt. Carmel, where we guided by the Venerini Sisters. The St. Joe sisters were more formal, from habit to homework, more rigid. The hidden secret at St. Joe was that the school culture leaned Irish. Mt. Carmel bent toward Italia. We were Austrian-Italian but fully subsumed as an American. Young Dan Valenti possessed that wonderful quality of adaptability.

At St. Joe, we had our first male teacher ever for 9th grade algebra: Paul Perachi. We sat in the middle of five rows, fourth seat in, directly behind Charles Trzcinka. Perachi went on to become a barrister and judge, Trzcinka a renowned economist and academic. Fate had placed us in fast company.

The other memorable teacher At St. Joe was our gym coach, Al Belanger. He gave us the confidence of refined athletic movement, teaching us the finer points of gymnastics, wrestling, handling a basketball, and the ethics, morals, and values to be found in sportsmanship. We also cannot forget our English teacher, the beautiful, young Sr. Theresa Florence, who was early to encourage us in our ultimate career as a writer.

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“It was with great sadness that this decision had to be made, but not before many years of valiant efforts by the very dedicated board, faculty and staff of St. Joseph’s,” said  Bishop Mitchell T. Rozanski in a statement. “We had hoped to turn around the enrollment decline and financial deficit, but despite the very best and exemplary efforts of so many, the task proved unattainable. My thoughts and prayers go out to all who grieve the end of this great school.”

The good bishop had no choice but to give into man and mammon. He knows better than we that no man can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and cling to the other, or he will love the one and despise the other.

The diocese, having been reduced to an economic fiduciary, had no alternative to choosing an odd master.

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“I could die for you, but I couldn’t — and wouldn’t — live for you.” — Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead.

“OPEN THE WINDOW, AUNT MILLIE.”

LOVE TO ALL.

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