any child who attends mass SIX days a week possibly do so poorly in Religion?”
I would make a pathetic attempt to switch to the highlights. “Look, Mom, I did raise my Self-Conduct mark from a D to a C–. And I did receive passing grades in Music and Gym.”
“Music and Gym? MUSIC AND GYM! Just what is that supposed to tell me? That you have a secure future singing the national anthem at basketball games? Just wait until your father takes a look at this mess.”
I could wait. If there was one thing I detested, it was my old man preachin’ to me about my shortcomings as a model Catholic youth. It was such a bad joke. What the hell qualified him to criticize anything I did? I felt that he should reserve his critiques for matters that more closely coincided with his niche in life. Education? Shit. He should have stuck to advising me on the proper methods of wife cheating and check forging and navigating a car with triple vision. And what about the studied art of smoking an entire Winston without ever removing it from your mouth or the precious knack of impersonating a morgue stiff for forty-eight consecutive hours on the living room sofa. This was the kind of heavy data no nun could ever pass along.
I was my father's seed. Technically, I guess that was reason enough for him to meddle with my grade situation.
“You think you're hot shit, don't you, son?” my father would begin. I would shrug nervously. “You think you've got a pretty soft thing going for yourself. Am I right?” I would shake my head slowly.
“Well, the way I see it, you ain't nothin’ but a bad actor. You may be snowin’ your mother, but I can smell your game a mile away. You wanna play wiseass with me and I'll knock you down a few pegs. Anytime you feel like you can take the old man, I'll be right here. Anytime you wanna wear the pants in the family, you just let me know. I'll be more than willing to put my foot right up your ass. Understand, son?”
“Yes,” I would mumble enraged and full of regrets. If only I were eight inches taller and had a reckless set of balls. I could envision myself springing from the interrogation seat and sucker-punching my old man right in the chops. “Here, sweet father of mine, take this busted lip as a loving token of my esteemed adulation and let this punt to the rib cage serve as a loving reminder that your eldest son worships the ground you piss on.”
But back to reality or, at least, my father's version of such. “Now, son, you must realize that your mother and I have worked very hard to see that you receive some proper schooling. All this report card tells me is that you don't give a good goddamn one way or the other. You keep this shit up and you'll be just like half the other morons in this city who end up spinnin’ their wheels and suckin’ some heavy ass down at Chevrolet or over at Buick. You can clown it up now, but you'll be laughin’ out of the other side of your mouth once the blisters appear and some bastard starts leanin’ over your shoulder with another bumper to fasten down.”
I heard this speech often during my formative years. I came to refer to it as my old man's “State of the Hometown” address. Do as I say, not as I did, kid. My friends received similar pronouncements from their fathers. The factories weren't looking for a few good men. They were dragging the lagoon for optionless bumpkins with brats to feed and livers to bathe. An educated man might hang on for a while, but was apt to flee at any given whistle. That wasn't any good for corporate continuity. GM wanted the salt of the earth, dung-heavers, flunkies and leeches—men who would grunt the day away void of self-betterment, numbed-out cyborgs willing to swap cerebellum loaf for patio furniture, a second jalopy and a tragic carpet ride deboarding curbside in front of some pseudo-Tudor dollhouse on the outskirts of town.
Which is to say that being a factory worker in Flint, Michigan, wasn't something purposely
I would make a pathetic attempt to switch to the highlights. “Look, Mom, I did raise my Self-Conduct mark from a D to a C–. And I did receive passing grades in Music and Gym.”
“Music and Gym? MUSIC AND GYM! Just what is that supposed to tell me? That you have a secure future singing the national anthem at basketball games? Just wait until your father takes a look at this mess.”
I could wait. If there was one thing I detested, it was my old man preachin’ to me about my shortcomings as a model Catholic youth. It was such a bad joke. What the hell qualified him to criticize anything I did? I felt that he should reserve his critiques for matters that more closely coincided with his niche in life. Education? Shit. He should have stuck to advising me on the proper methods of wife cheating and check forging and navigating a car with triple vision. And what about the studied art of smoking an entire Winston without ever removing it from your mouth or the precious knack of impersonating a morgue stiff for forty-eight consecutive hours on the living room sofa. This was the kind of heavy data no nun could ever pass along.
I was my father's seed. Technically, I guess that was reason enough for him to meddle with my grade situation.
“You think you're hot shit, don't you, son?” my father would begin. I would shrug nervously. “You think you've got a pretty soft thing going for yourself. Am I right?” I would shake my head slowly.
“Well, the way I see it, you ain't nothin’ but a bad actor. You may be snowin’ your mother, but I can smell your game a mile away. You wanna play wiseass with me and I'll knock you down a few pegs. Anytime you feel like you can take the old man, I'll be right here. Anytime you wanna wear the pants in the family, you just let me know. I'll be more than willing to put my foot right up your ass. Understand, son?”
“Yes,” I would mumble enraged and full of regrets. If only I were eight inches taller and had a reckless set of balls. I could envision myself springing from the interrogation seat and sucker-punching my old man right in the chops. “Here, sweet father of mine, take this busted lip as a loving token of my esteemed adulation and let this punt to the rib cage serve as a loving reminder that your eldest son worships the ground you piss on.”
But back to reality or, at least, my father's version of such. “Now, son, you must realize that your mother and I have worked very hard to see that you receive some proper schooling. All this report card tells me is that you don't give a good goddamn one way or the other. You keep this shit up and you'll be just like half the other morons in this city who end up spinnin’ their wheels and suckin’ some heavy ass down at Chevrolet or over at Buick. You can clown it up now, but you'll be laughin’ out of the other side of your mouth once the blisters appear and some bastard starts leanin’ over your shoulder with another bumper to fasten down.”
I heard this speech often during my formative years. I came to refer to it as my old man's “State of the Hometown” address. Do as I say, not as I did, kid. My friends received similar pronouncements from their fathers. The factories weren't looking for a few good men. They were dragging the lagoon for optionless bumpkins with brats to feed and livers to bathe. An educated man might hang on for a while, but was apt to flee at any given whistle. That wasn't any good for corporate continuity. GM wanted the salt of the earth, dung-heavers, flunkies and leeches—men who would grunt the day away void of self-betterment, numbed-out cyborgs willing to swap cerebellum loaf for patio furniture, a second jalopy and a tragic carpet ride deboarding curbside in front of some pseudo-Tudor dollhouse on the outskirts of town.
Which is to say that being a factory worker in Flint, Michigan, wasn't something purposely
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