Bobby Joe's Recess Rebellion: Thoughts on Surviving the Playgrounds of Life

By Robert Joseph

In this heartfelt collection of stories based on events in his own life, Robert Joseph explores three “playgrounds” that shaped his young life: Catholic school, the Army, and an inner-city public school where he worked as a teacher. Hailing from St. Louis, Missouri, the stories in this collection reveal the author’s love for his hometown and his Midwestern roots, even as he travels to such far away places as France and Germany. Encouraging us all to find compassion within us, Bobby Joe’s Recess Rebellion is part fictional memoir, part philosophy, and part politics. Above all, this book is meant to be a friendly companion for anyone in need of one during their travels through life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Joseph
• Release date: May 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996227919

Robert Joseph

After selling more than a million print books published by Ballantine, Berkley, Fawcett, Pinnacle, W. H. Allen (UK) and Landemann (Scandinavia), author Robert Joseph is currently working on the Raff Rafferty detective/thriller mystery series, the first seven of which are now available. In addition, Robert has written many screenplays, including the film THE DIVINE LOVERS as well as works for the stage. He currently lives in rural southern Nevada.

Book preview

Prologue

How did I come by the title of this book? I wanted the book to reflect some of my thoughts and feelings acquired from three significant playgrounds in my early life: the Church, the Military and the Ghetto. Playgrounds are places where we all have begun to be socialized into our environment. It is where all the rules are learned, the subtleties of communication and mediation are practiced, and most important, the fires of Competition are ignited. In our childhood playgrounds at school, we are suddenly, brutally introduced to the concepts of Winning, Losing, and ‘Life is not Fair.’ Playgrounds are just a microcosm of the world in general. I never considered myself to be much of a rebel but as I continued to write and reflect upon my life experiences, I suddenly realized that I probably was more of a rebel than I realized or that I ever wanted to be. True rebels usually don’t have a happy ending in their lives. They end up getting crucified, hanged, or put before a firing squad. None of these outcomes appealed to me.

I was brought up with the Lone Ranger’s sense of right and wrong. Life was simple. My vision of the world was clear. The good guys wore white hats and the bad guys wore black hats. There were no grey hats walking around town with fatal flaws and ambivalent feelings. Sometimes you could be Tarzan, Cheetah the chimpanzee, or Rin-Tin-Tin-the German Shepherd who knew right from wrong better than most of our politicians. In our childhood play, the good guys would prevail and you would always feel victorious after having vanquished any imagined evil force.

Evil was determined by those seven deadly sins referred to in early Christian teachings: hate, lust, greed, pride, sloth, envy, and gluttony. These moral vices seemed to be operating at the very core of our human behavior.

Then along came Darwin with his adaptability and evolutionary theories and a new, even more powerful force became part of our daily vocabulary. Evolution exists in the life force of all species. It is natural, it is necessary, it is the very essence of life itself; however, it also carries the seed of destruction—competition.

Any observer on any playground or ecosystem in the world will see that living creatures are forever competing with one another in a variety of different ways. For humans, early playground experiences will begin to shape our personalities for better or for worse. Our numbers have increased so radically that we are in the unique position to shape the environment of all living beings. Even as we get older, we never really leave the playground. We just change our playground environments and call them work environments. We all wake up to begin our day on some sort of playground-with rules to follow, games to play, and places to hide from authority figures. We all wake up ready to COMPETE.

They say write about that which you know. So if a person wants a Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy or Hugo experience you won’t find that here. If you are looking for shocking profanities or difficult Russian names to pronounce, you won’t find it here. If you are looking for salacious intrigues where Ms. Womanly meets Mr. Manly in a top-secret rendezvous in distant exotic places, you won’t find it here. What you will find are some of the highlights of my journey and my attempts to discover some truth and meaning in my life. You will hear about my experiences and my social commentaries and reflections from those experiences. The experiences might be unique but the feelings are universally shared by all of us.

What else is more important than to have meaning in your life? We are all on different paths, but I strongly feel that we are all heading in the same direction, even though it doesn’t seem that way. Chaos is everywhere but Hope springs eternal.

***

We all know about playgrounds, but there are many types of playgrounds. There are playgrounds for the mind; playgrounds for the spirit; playgrounds for the body; and playgrounds for the heart. Writers, poets, composers, engineers, and scientists are forever creating new toys for us to play with on those playgrounds. Just as Shakespeare states life is but a stage, one might also state that life is but a variety of playgrounds in which we all experience the drama of living. We live in an infinite universe that can be dark and foreboding but can also be fascinating and filled with wild adventure. Some of us are fortunate to have many friends and some of us have few if any. In some humble way, this book offers my friendship to the reader for a short period of time in your life. While books cannot be a substitute for a true friend, if friends are not available then they can provide some companionship for those lonely evenings and dark nights.

Maybe I should call my writings Coffee Books to be read at Starbucks coffee shops; or Tea Books to be read in the quiet of a room sipping on green tea; or Soft Drink Books to be read at one of the shopping malls or fast food eating centers; or Traveling Books to be read to on subways, buses, airplanes or trains. Instead of all those catchy concepts, I will simply call them companion books by Bobby Joe because that is precisely what I meant them to be.

I will be like a traveling companion to anyone who wishes to engage in my companionship. I was not brought up with the varied, electronic gadgetry of delivering messages we have today. I prefer the more relaxing, archaic, comfortable, and less litigious way of communicating—like reading a book. I haven’t yet read about anyone being sued for reading a book.

If someone were to ask me what are you doing these days, I would like to be able to tell them that I am a stay-at-home columnist working on some Bobby Joe books for people who would like to have a companion with them as they travel through life. My books hopefully will act like surrogates for those seeking companionship through a stimulation of thoughts and experiences from another human being other than themselves. Whether we agree or disagree, I think that it is always healthy to get out of our skins and listen to what others have to say. Just reading books that rubber stamp what we already believe becomes redundant and does not allow the mind to expand beyond its own perimeters.

My naysayer friends might respond to my Bobby Joe books as a bizarre idea followed by a dubious comment such as, Say What! People don’t want Bobby Joe books. That is silly and ridiculous. They want sex, violence, shocking biographies, money making tips, gossip, and supernatural themes filled with shocking, revealing episodes of mystery and intrigue. If they want companionship, my friends will tell me, then people will turn on the TV and let the images dull their minds as they gradually turn them into couch potato zombies. They don’t want to think. They don’t want to reflect. And they definitely don’t want to take the time to read books by Bobby Joe, whoever he might be. People are oppositional by nature. They don’t want to agree with you without showing their skepticism. They would rather be left alone to continue chasing materialistic dreams, or better yet doing nothing.

Hopefully, my naysayers don’t speak for everyone. Hopefully, there are people who still like to read and think and look for some type of meaning in life. And if they travel alone through life, I might just add some companionship to their lives.

Based upon my adventures, the stories and commentary within this volume are written from my personal point of view and from my personal experiences. My aim is not to proselytize, although I do confess to sermonizing at times, but my real intent is to provide enlightenment for both my readers and myself. I always have had problems with evangelists who claim to speak for God. I would rather speak from my heart and from my experiences and this is what I propose to do in this book and the books to follow.

If someone enjoys participating in a quiet reading experience and feels that it is somehow beneficial to their lives and they enjoy the companionship that goes along with the experience, then I would have accomplished what I had set out to do. In a sense, I am extending my hand in friendship for the reader to either accept or reject, and I will not be offended no matter the reader’s choice.

Human beings are complex animals for whom trusting relationships are difficult to maintain. These relationships are unpredictable, fickle, like needy puppies, demanding. The perfect response to that is a book. In a sense, I have become a book, and once you close the covers, my complexities are silenced and you have no responsibilities of maintaining a relationship. If you want to hear more from me, simply open the pages and begin reading. Through this book, I have become a ‘reading pet’—one that doesn’t require walking at two in the morning in freezing temperatures.

My heart saddens at the demise of bookstores across the country. Social Media is the fast moving train that everyone is frantically hopping aboard. I prefer to stay at the station, sitting on a train bench, drinking some coffee or tea and staring down at the birds hopping along the tracks feeding on human crumbs. They seem happy seeing the trains move out and so do I. The silence of tracks without trains is what I prefer anyway.

I’ve decided to write in the first person, divide the book into many chapters, including many topics, meant to stimulate thought, and act as a companion to someone who feels like they need a friend on some particular evening.

Books are like special friendships that also don’t involve jealousy with one another. You can have a hundred different titles on your bookshelf and you will never hear them arguing and shouting with one another. They don’t have to be fed or watered; a simple dusting every now and then is all that is required.

So what is wrong with having a book as a companion? If you are feeling lonely and depressed, why spend massive amounts of money on expensive medicines and therapy when a chapter a day will keep that therapist away? I am cheap, inexpensive, don’t talk back, won’t send you to jail, won’t ask for a meal, won’t ask to spend the night, won’t say bad things about you when your back in turned, cost nothing to maintain and will be available 24 hours a day. In other words, I am a cheap companion and totally non-intrusive. What more could you ask for from a true companion? I am no Himalayan guru with strange mystical powers, no Olympian god with immortal cosmic abilities. I have no authority, notoriety, fame, or fortune, but I have had a number of life experiences which I will share with the reader and from which I have acquired some wisdom and a great sense of appreciation for life. There is nothing more precious than the life that you are living, right now, today.

The book is divided into three main parts, each with a number of chapters pertaining to the larger theme. Chapters are written to stand-alone, without the need for a lot of explanation. Just like most recesses on the school playgrounds are of a short duration, the chapters may also be read in a brief amount of time after which the reader can put the book down and relax.

We all have memorable events to share with one another and this is just my way of sharing some of those happenings with the reader. I have learned to simply embrace the sun, the warmth, and the diversity of life around me. And yes, I have also learned to say thank you to those who have helped me along the way and to appreciate the kindness that has been given to me. I stand alone, yet I am not alone. We all have ways of expressing ourselves, and writing is mine.

Part One

The Catholic Way

1

Puppy Love

There was a certain macho status in playing football at an all-Catholic boys school in the late 50's that probably still exists today. You had status among the student body. You had status among the parents in the stands cheering. You had status among the Teaching Brothers. And you had status in the eyes of some of the Catholic girls who would attend our games from some of the nearby all-girls Catholic high schools. Mine was an all-boys Catholic school where the sight of a girl was as rare as spotting some jaguar in a jungle. Most of us were awkward with girls but it was still exciting to see them in the stands cheering for us in their plaid skirts, white blouses, saddle shoes, and school sweaters, especially when we played teams from the public school league.

Catholic schoolgirls were always this alluring mystery to me. I would see them walking in groups together wearing their uniformed skirts with blue and white blouses coming or going to school with their pony tails swinging back and forth. I often wondered what they talked about and what they did during their free time. Sometimes they would stop outside the football field and watch us Catholic Spartans at practice. That was all we needed to boost the intensity of the practice sessions a few notches. Suddenly, we would run faster, tackle harder, and display an unusual amount of motivation for a weekday practice session that I am sure surprised the coaches. I am not too sure if the coaches were aware of the girls standing up on the hill, but I suspect they were, and I suspect they took advantage of it by getting that much more effort out of us.

Weekday football practice sessions were times you tried to avoid if you could. Monday was ok because you mainly licked your bruises and wounds from a weekend game and there was no physical contact on that day. Friday was ok, because again there was no hard physical contact and they didn’t want us to have any injuries before Saturday’s game. The other days of the week you were just grinding it out and hoping not to get a sprained ankle or busted finger before Saturday’s game.

When the girls were standing or sitting on the hillside watching, practice didn’t seem as brutally hard or as grueling. A few of the players knew some of the girls and they let the girls wear their high school jackets with their school letters sewn on them. They were the envy of the rest of the team. To have your girl wearing your school-lettered jacket cheering for you on the sideline was about as good as it gets in high school sports world. In fact, it was the next best thing to heaven.

Even if you didn’t have your girl cheering for you in the stands, and I never did, it was nice to know that at least someone on the team did. There was no jealousy. We were a team and when one of the players was happy we were all happy. Also there was the possibility that she might have some girlfriends and maybe we could meet some. But I never did. I remained a true Spartan throughout my high school years.

The first time I truly had feelings for a girl was a pure and innocent puppy love if you want to call it that. Probably most of us have experienced a similar feeling at one time or another either when we were young or got older. We were both in the eighth grade but we did not attend the same elementary school. She was new to the neighborhood and I think that she was finishing up her elementary years at her old school.

I was always naturally quiet and shy when it came to the opposite gender. I never thought about girls much until that summer. We would ride bikes or play some type of ball game in the street to occupy those warm days. One of those summer days we were playing step ball on the front steps of my home. Step ball was a city game just like cork ball is a St. Louis game. You played step ball on the steps in front of your house...hence the name, step ball.

We would play in front of our house for hours and hours. There were variations of step ball. You could play simply for points. As you threw the ball towards the steps, it would come back at you in various ways. If you hit the point of the step, that would mean more points or a home run if you were playing the baseball variation. Many of those hot summer St. Louis afternoons were spent playing step ball, drinking lemonade or soda and just lingering under a shade tree. St. Louis had a number of good healthy shade trees—maple, elm, oak and sycamores were but a few. As I drive through the city now, I see no kids playing step ball and many of those mature trees have been removed. My father used to talk about how the kids from his time played ‘tippy. Who plays tippy now? Who even knows what tippy" is or how to play it other than some real old timers? Who even knows what step ball is anymore?

***

Cathy, the new girl, joined us in one of our step ball sessions. We allowed girls to play step ball with us but that was about as far as we would go. Spartan Catholic boys didn’t play sports with girls in the 50’s. Those were the days when girl’s basketball rules were totally different than boys. They could only take a few dribbles with the ball and then they had to pass the ball. The thinking was that too much exertion for the girls might harm them in some way. We weren’t too sure what roles girls would have in our lives, but it wasn’t going to be on the athletic fields so therefore their importance was minimal.

After playing for about and hour or so and showing off our step ball skills to the new girl, we decided to ride our bikes down to Carondelet Park in the south side of St. Louis. It was a different time and kids could ride the streetcars to movie theaters or take the streetcar to the ballpark and watch the Cardinals play a double header while munching on a snack lunch you brought from home.

We would love to ride the streetcar to old Sportsman Park and go to double headers and spend the entire day walking around the ballpark feasting off whatever snacks we brought with us. Our parents would let us take long bike rides without fear of something bad happening to us. It was always a little scary when you left the neighborhood, but for the most part you felt safe. Parents these days wouldn’t even consider the thought of having their kid ride the bus to the ballpark by themselves.

Cathy asked me if she could ride on my handlebars to the park. I was shocked and couldn’t believe it. My step ball buddies looked at me with shocked disbelief. Did they hear right? Did a girl just ask me to ride on my handlebars? Why did she pick me, I wondered. Was it because of my ball playing ability? I was ok but not that much better than anyone else. Was it because of my bike? It wasn’t a new bike and had nothing shiny on it. Was it because of me? Was it something that I projected that she felt safe to ride with me? It couldn’t be me. Could it be she loved my pet dog ‘Spotty"? I didn’t have a clue as to the chemistry going on inside her mind. All I knew was that I was going to have a girl sit on my handle bars while I rode the city streets to the park which was probably a good one and a half to two miles away.

She was a tall, thin blond and wore short shorts as she positioned herself on my handlebars as I shoved off with a few of the other kids. No one else had a girl on their handlebars. Exhilaration does not come close to what I was feeling. I had turned into an Olympian God with enough energy and strength to pedal this young goddess to the ends of the earth. This was indeed a dream come true, a once in lifetime event for me. Suddenly, I had lightening bolts coming out of my arms and legs. I had become a superhero who would protect this fair maiden at all cost.

I was not known to be a ladies man so the other kids in the neighborhood were surprised to see me riding down the street with this blond girl sitting on the handle bars and her long blond hair blowing into my face as I peddled furiously past them to avoid hearing any of their crude comments. This was a special moment for me and I knew it. I didn’t want any vulgarity to spoil that special moment.

Suddenly, I was thrust into the NOW with no past and no future. All that mattered to me was what I was experiencing at that time. The whole world was that much more alive. My consciousness had expanded a hundred times. I had suddenly become something greater than myself. Every time a strand of her hair would blow across my face, I would become that much more alive and vibrant.

It was a long ride and I kept moving from riding on the sidewalk to riding on the street depending on the traffic. With her on the handlebars, pedaling up hills became more challenging and there was only a few times when the both of us got off the bike to walk the hill. There wasn’t a lot of conversation, if I can remember correctly, just small talk about school and where we liked to go on family vacations.

It took us about 30 minutes to reach the park. She held on tightly as I tried to avoid as many bumps as I could. It was hard sometimes to see over her shoulders and through her flowing blond hair, and she would yell out if she saw a bump coming or any other obstruction in the road. We had become a team. She was my navigator guiding me along on our journey. By the time we got to the park, the other kids had turned around and were heading back to the neighborhood. For them, there was nothing special about the trip. It was too long and I also think that they felt awkward riding with us. As we peddled down the street, people in cars and along the sidewalks kept staring more at Cathy than at me. I guess they were fascinated at the blond girl on the handlebars riding in and out of traffic and down the sidewalks.

I can remember special times in my life that sort of transcended the normal mundane activities of the day. This was one of those times because these were two young souls touching one another in a very innocent and almost spiritual way unsullied by any adult thinking or persuasion.

We didn’t have to be saved by some evangelists. We didn’t have to be converted to any new faiths. We didn’t have to be patriotic to some ideology of some country. We didn’t have to salute flags or genuflect in church. We didn’t have to beg God or anyone for forgiveness. We had not yet truly understood what the word corruption meant, but at that moment we were beyond the corrupt ways of man. We were in a capsule of time meant for young people to discover one another in an innocent and innocuous way. We hadn’t learned yet that ‘growing-up’ meant learning how to compromise with the corrupt world that man had created.

It was the 50’s and the music wasn’t raw and suggestive. People rode the bus and streetcar to work and most families had one car and were hoping to buy a TV one day. Most moms stayed home and most families ate evening meals together around five o’clock. Rock and Roll was innocent in the beginning and most people communicated without the gratuitous use of vulgarities. Cathy and I were still in the 50’s and not aware that we were on our way to becoming a nation of ‘potty mouths’ and priding ourselves in our liberation from the puritanism of the past. Our innocence still protected us.

Once in the park, we stopped by one of the lakes, took a long drink from one of the fountains, and watched some of the people fishing along the shore. Mostly all you caught in those city park lakes were small sunfish, bluegill, and an occasional catfish or carp that sometimes got to be pretty big. Sometimes you would see a picture of a kid and his dad who had just caught a ten-pound catfish on a cane pole using Limburger cheese as their bait. My father, with his German heritage, loved his Limburger cheese sandwiches with onions on rye bread. Apparently, catfish would go wild over Limburger cheese too. Maybe these catfish had a little German in them. I even caught a few using that cheese for bait.

Just being with Cathy and feeling her hair blowing in my face as we rode put me into a state of mild euphoria. This was all so unexpected. Here I was with Cathy in the park all alone and feeling overwhelmed by the sensation when she announces:

I think we better get back. My parents will be wondering where I am, she stated calmly, but with some uncertainty in her voice, which was as lovely as any music that I have ever heard.

How could I encapsulate this moment and immortalize in my heart and consciousness forever? Somehow I did. The memory, which defies the corrosion of time, lives with me to this day. It is something that no one can destroy. It is a memory that I can carry to eternity. I have learned that we all have them, these sweet little memories that nature allows us to put in our piggy banks and store for eternity—never to be sullied by man’s perverted thinking. Something tells me even the devil must cherish moments such as these.

I could feel the dream bubble pop right there and the euphoria slowly drifting away. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to stay there forever, with Cathy on my handlebars and with me peddling to exhaustion. There was no place else that I wanted to be. I would have loved to ride her across the United States. I was enjoying every millisecond of the moment and I did not want it to end. If I could stay in this point forever, I could not have been happier.

Sure, I said willingly. Hop on. I was crying on the inside as she slid back onto the handlebars.

And we were off on the return journey back to our homes. The exhilaration was gone. The euphoria was gone. With every downward push on the pedal, I knew we were getting closer and closer to reality. The first part of the journey was effortless. The second part of the journey was now becoming laborious because it was coming to an end.

And like so many wonderful things in life, it was over. The ride was finished. As I rode up to her house, she thanked me as she bounded up the concrete steps to her home and went inside. That trip was never to be experienced again. It happened only once and it was gone. Cathy went to an all-girls Catholic school and I went to an all-boys Catholic school. Even though we lived on the same block, we rarely talked much after that day. She told me once that her grandmother thought I looked like Liberace and she laughed. Afterwards, I kept looking at pictures of Liberace and saw absolutely no resemblance at all.

***

I wanted to talk to her again but I was way too shy. I would watch her through the blinds in my living room when she came home from school carrying her books in both arms. I can see her even now as she swayed back and forth in her parochial school plaid skirt and her pony-tailed hair swinging from left to right as she walked. More than once, I wanted to go out and greet her as she walked down the street, but I felt too uncomfortable and awkward to approach her. I often wondered what she thought of that bicycle ride that summer day to Carondelet Park. I wanted to thank her for giving me such a wonderful lifelong experience even though I was huffing and puffing all the way. As I would watch her walk home, several times I just wanted to charge out of my house to say something nice to her, but my fear was too strong.

How my life might have changed if I just had the courage to approach her and say hi? How could I have been so close to her on my bike and put forth so much effort to impress her and then not be able to even talk to her? I hated my shyness and my lack of confidence. I empathize for all those who have to experience the shackles of shyness. You are trapped in your own quagmire of insecurities with seemingly no way to escape.

God, at times I feel like I am such a hopeless romantic. I have an absolutely terrible time saying goodbye to people that I like. I have done so many times, but saying goodbye is never easy for me. I wanted to keep the friendship lasting forever, because I knew how hard it is to actually find a true friend. Shy people are often mistaken for being distant, aloof, and non-social when just the opposite is true.

When I heard recently Sarah Brightman and Jackie Evancho singing the song ‘Time to Say Good-by,’ I was flooded with a stream of images of people to whom I have had to say good-bye. These were special people who came into my life and impacted me in a positive way. I just never wanted to have to say good-bye. If people were nice to me, I always wanted to return the favor and be nice back.

Every time I hear that song or melodies similar, my memory bank begins playing lullabies and fills me with sweet, unfulfilled reveries of thoughts that might have been. So many people that meant something to me are now gone, and I will probably never be able to talk to them again.

I never met Cathy again. I heard that she later moved to Florida, got into an automobile accident, and then moved to some place in Colorado. She was gone but my thoughts of her remain and my bicycle ride to the park with her has never really ended.

2

A Bully’s Fist

During our long hot and humid St. Louis summers, we had enough kids in the neighborhood to play a variety of different games. Basketball in the schoolyard, step-ball in front of someone’s house, baseball in the park, bottle caps in the street, and football in a field behind my house.

One day, like any other day, we had talked about getting together for a football game the night before. Most of the faces I was familiar with, however there were two that were new. They had been invited because they were new to the neighborhood. They went to the public school in the area. They were brothers. One seemed nice. The other had the 50’s look. Ducktail hair, white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans with the bottoms rolled up. I thought he seemed different and I was right.

We were playing tackle football, but not rough tackle. Most of us were friends and we didn’t really want to hurt anyone. However, the new kid had no allegiances and after a few minutes we all knew that he was a dirty player. We were always competitive with one another and played hard but not dirty. We were Catholic kids and played in the schoolyard and under the ever-watchful eye of the church tower whose bells would toll on the hour at certain hours of the day. The Catholic presence was always around us.

During the game, I collided a few times with the new kid and I remember him giving me a menacing stare. I sensed there was something deep inside of him that was different from the rest of us. He had the eyes of a predator who was looking for some prey to devour. I was taught not to turn away from a stare so I stared back and the play just continued. I could tell that he was feeling me out like any bully does before he makes his first move.

We had played about twenty minutes or so and decided to take a break and get a drink from one of the neighbor’s home’s outside faucet. These were city homes with the houses close to one another and the gangways were usually shaded with a water faucet coming out from the wall somewhere. We were all hot and sweaty waiting in line to get a drink and chatting with one another. Unknown to me, the bully had gathered some pigeon droppings and when my back was turned he dropped them down my shirt and rubbed them into my hair. He was laughing loudly as he ran back to the field where we were playing. My friends just looked at me in disbelief. This was an act of disrespect—maybe even disgrace. My friends