To the Band of Brothers: Summer Edition

Yesterday was the last day of final exams and the enthusiasm with which the boys flew out of the classrooms and poured into the central patio at the end of their Theology exam was as great as when East Berliners knocked down the wall and scrambled west. While my enthusiasm was not as great, as I actually love having the guys here, I understand it and remember how much I also felt a sense of relief at the end of an academic year. 

So, summer break is here and I am sure many have great plans on how to invest wisely these coveted days off. There was always a battle in my house about the summer. For a couple of years, we were sent to summer camp thinking my brother Manny and I would enjoy the structured activities and organized sports. We hated it. Why would I want to wake up early over the summer and head off to a place where they would make me spend hours upon hours in the heat and humidity?

Don’t get me wrong, I understand Belen summer camp is a blast. But for Manny and me, those two summers were spent at Circle C, aka “the center of my life” camp. It was run by a Baptist minister and his wife. Every morning, they would rustle the campers into the chapel and have us sing songs about the bible, obedience, and how much Jesus loves me. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. As a Catholic, I knew Jesus loved me very much. As a matter of fact, I agreed with every word sung in the songs, but at 7:30 a.m. wearing a t-shirt one size too small and shorts that after the third day smelled like tuna fish sandwiches, realizing I could either be sleeping or watching Spiderman on channel 6, I was definitely not a “happy camper.”

I remember how the minister would walk around in his blue overalls and drill us with bible verses he wanted us to memorize. I was very bad at this activity and almost refused to do it. Every time he would walk by me and scold me for not knowing the verses, I would tell him I wasn’t supposed to know the bible because I was Catholic. He would look down at me as I sat in the pew and would nod in agreement and then move on to the next poor Catholic.

Manny and I endured two summers of that camp and we begged my mother and father when the third year came around to please save their money and let us stay home where we promised we would be good. We promised to mow the lawn, trim the hedges, bathe the dog, neuter the cat, and do the dishes. Anything, as long as it wasn’t Circle C or Square E or Triangle X. Fortunately, they agreed and the following summers were saved. Or so I thought. Little did I know what was going to happen the following summer when I was sent to work at a construction site by my father.

Construction! Why didn’t he just send me to hell for the summer? Every morning at 6 a.m. the oldest van you have ever seen in your life would rattle down my block and stop in front of my house. I didn’t need an alarm clock because I could hear that bucket on four wheels a mile away. I would walk out with filthy jeans, a torn-up t-shirt, and a lunch box filled with misery, and sit in the back where there were no seats. I would sit on top of a one-gallon paint can that would slide from one end of the van to the other every time the driver took a turn. Thank God my mother had the right idea to get me a tetanus shot in case one of those slides jammed me up against a rusty nail.

Picking, shoveling, and suffering was the order of the day and all of it under the Miami summer sun. I would bake for hours building warehouses in Medley. Why? What did I ever do to deserve such misery? What did I ever do to deserve such pain? Hadn’t this kind of torture been denounced at some conference in Geneva in the 19th century? Every time I lifted a shovel over my head, I would sing Baptist bible songs and reminisce about the good ole days at Circle C in that cool, air-conditioned chapel, with those comfortable wooden benches.

For one month my dad had me working there without paying me a penny more than he paid his other employees. He handed me the check the same way he handed it to the other construction workers and would demand from me the same he did the others. While at first it made no sense, at the end of the month it became drastically clear: don’t complain about summer camp when so many others have to spend their whole year, including their summers, working there. 

There was another great thing about this experience. By the end of the month, I earned enough money to pay for a $400 1973 Volkswagen Bug I cherished more than life itself. The reason was simple. I had bought the car with the money I had made by the literal sweat of my brow. And, as an extra bonus, I also discovered what I didn’t want to do with the rest of my life. I quickly scratched construction worker off my list of possible vocations.

But here is one thing that remained exactly the same during the summer vacation. Whether I was at camp or working, whether we had taken a trip to Disney World or Naples, we never missed a Sunday Mass. While it was true we had a break from school, my parents made sure we never took a break from God. The simple fact is, God doesn’t take a break from us and our obligation to Him runs through all twelve months of the year. I encourage all our students and their families to do the same.

I pray you guys enjoy your summer break. The time off will do you good. You deserve the rest. But gather your strength men, because come August, we come back to school ready to learn, ready to work, ready to grow into our role of “men for others.”

Auspice Maria