Tracy

News arrived today that Tracy passed away. She was a girl I had known since first grade. “I guess you would say that Tracy was the star of our class,” said our longtime friend, Paul. He ended his email with, “We’re dropping like flies.”

Tracy, Paul and I were of the Class of ’65, the heart of the baby-boomers.

By star of our class, Paul was referring to Tracy’s popularity. She was petite and cute. Starting in elementary school, she was considered by an undefined consensus to be the most desirable of all the girls. Tracy was Homecoming Queen of the Class of ’65. She had been on the “court” the three previous years, since her freshman year. It was a given.

I never really knew Tracy. I never talked with her or shared a laugh. She seemed untouchable. Her boyfriends were always older and from other schools. She didn’t associate with my groups, which I guess would be the jocks and surfers. Although I was not much of a joiner. I don’t remember her at any of the school dances or hanging at the beach with the gang. She must have been there somewhere.

Tracy sat in the front of the class. Being one of the taller boys, I was stationed in the back. Plus, the nuns tried to keep the boys and girls apart. Following eight years of co-ed elementary school, we were separated in high school, sent to all-boys and all-girls institutions. I lost track of many girls with whom I’d laughed and enjoyed company, mostly the taller girls. Some I never saw again until Facebook appeared and we found ourselves at the other end of the age spectrum. Tracy was not on FB.

What had happened to her? Was she happy? Did she have children, cute little Tracys? I hope so. I hope she had a good life.

Maybe I would have gotten to know her if we had shared classroom experience in high school. I do know that Tracy married Nick. He was two years older and his family was well-connected with the local social scene. His family seemingly had money and prestige, including a house on Lido Isle in Newport Beach. It made sense that he would go after Tracy, and vice versa. Through the grapevine I heard that Nick and Tracy lost a baby in an unfortunate accident and later divorced. She left town. That was the last I heard, many years ago.

Still, Tracy’s name evokes feelings and memories of my early days. She was a bright star, recognized and bonafide. When I first met my wife Barbara, among other attributes, I was taken by her voice, its stirring resonance, a pitch of certainty and confidence. I told myself, “she sounds like Tracy.” A curious reference from the past.

Oddly enough, when I came back to earth, I realized that I had no idea of what Tracy’s voice sounded like. I heard an association that didn’t exist. I think the association was of a queen. I had met a queen.

The loss of Tracy closes the book on a chapter in my life that I never expected to see end, like the colored sands that the monks in Oaxaca carefully sprinkle on the sidewalks, creating intricate scenes, only to see them swept away with a gust of wind. A reminder of our temporal lives.

Paul was correct. We are dropping like flies. We’ve had the misfortune of losing too many from our class, although the analogy is too pejorative. Think of us as luminous stars, consciously aware of and part of our magnificent cosmos, that shine brightly and dimly and eventually burn out, leaving traces of ourselves in the minds and genes of others all connected to the greater mystery.

Paul said he knew Tracy through Kim, his girlfriend at the time. Kim stayed with Tracy and her family when Kim’s parents moved before she graduated. So we know Tracy was kind-hearted, “a nice person,” said Paul. I regret that I did not know her better.

Inside the Church

Tantum ergo sacramentum

Veneremur cernui

Et anticuum documentum

Novo cedat ritui

Praestet Fides Supplementum

Sensuum Defectui. -- Tantum Ergo  -- Medeival Gregorian chant by Thomas Aquinas

St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Pomona seen from the choir loft. Two separate altars, not visible in this photo, flare off on the right and left side of the main altar, with separate pews, forming the overall shape (looking down) of a cross.

When you were young 

and someone asked what you wanted to be when you grow up, what did you say?

It's a strange question, I think, but it was often asked. Could you be something other than yourself?

I don't know if kids today hear the same question.

I can only imagine how girls responded. In those days, the answer was probably "a mother." Maybe a teacher or a nurse. Or perhaps, in my milieu, a nun, if you felt a vocation, a calling to serve God. For a boy, to be a priest.

I grew up under the Roman Catholic regime. Many parents during the Fifties sent their children to parochial school. These schools dotted the Southern California landscape like loose rosary beads gone to sprouting seeds.

Cardinal James Francis Mcintyre served as Archbishop of Los Angeles during this post-WWII period, from 1948 to 1970. He oversaw the construction of a new Catholic church every 66 days and a new school every 26 days, according to Time Magazine.

Cardinal McIntyre became a controversial figure as an outspoken conservative on issues of civil rights. He directed priests to consult the John Birch Society regarding politics, especially the threat of communism. As an anti-abortion advocate, he advised California Governor Ronald Reagan.

A triple-arched bell tower from which chimes ring every half hour enhance the Mission Mediterranean architecture of St. Joseph's Church.

My hometown of Pomona, located at the eastern boundary of Los Angeles County, was beneficiary of this rapid growth of Catholic churches and schools. One of the most magnificent churches in Southern California popped up on Holt Avenue, the main drag through town. In fairness, there were several large formidable Protestant churches along this stretch as well. You couldn't miss St. Joseph's on the west side. The church appeared like a miraculous Spanish cathedral on the dusty Camino de Santiago. Intimidating, but nonetheless, a refuge.

The building was erected on an 18-acre parcel of Catholic-owned property that included St. Joseph's Grammar School, plus full-sized athletic fields for baseball, a running track and a fully-lighted football field where the Pomona Catholic Spartans, on Friday nights in autumn, battled such rivals as the mighty Monarchs of Mater Dei. The complex also featured a swimming pool with diving boards as well as a Little League Field with a green-board home run fence where local baseball legend Joe Keough grooved his picture-perfect left-handed swing.

I spent many an hour playing on those fields and swimming in the pool. I found repose and spirituality inside the church. The school was a few steps away, similarly designed to the California mission schools of the Franciscan padres.

The single-story school featured tile roofs and shady colonnades with drinking fountains and cold water so refreshing during hot September days when temperatures climbed into the 100s. Here I learned religion and the three-Rs -- reading, writing and arithmetic, taught mostly by Felician Sisters in black habits and wool robes that touched their black shoes, prohibiting the slightest hint of an ankle. There were two classes for each grade, with 50-60 students, boys and girls, filling a classroom. 

I attended first-through-eighth grade at St. Joseph's, which was named after Rancho San Jose, the original Mexican settlement in what would become, in 1888, the town of Pomona, coinciding with arrival of the Southern Pacific railroad. 

The parish was established in 1871 and became a mission station. Mission San Gabriel Arcangel, the fourth of 21 California missions founded by Spanish Franciscan priests, was located about 20 miles west toward Los Angeles along the corridor of what would be called the San Gabriel Mountain Range.

The cathedral-like St. Joseph's Church on west Holt Avenue -- the third St. Joseph's church in town -- was built in the early Fifties to meet and promote the tremendous population growth in the vast L.A. basin. During construction I watched large cranes hoist the huge wooden rafters. Completed in 1956, the church included a polished outside entry area with intricate mosaics. Inside, colorful religious-themed stained glass windows refracted outdoor light into the cavernous indoors that included a ceiling that rose several stories toward Heaven.

In the rear of the church, above the pews and congregation, Mr Johnson's mellifluous tenor reached heavenly notes accompanied by a pipe organ. I listened with my whole body, chilled by the Latin words from another time and place, so beautiful, so profound, Agnus Dei (lamb of God). The music soared throughout the building, acoustically pristine, like fluttering doves nestling into every corner altar and into the hearts and souls of devout parishioners. Or so I believed.

I felt a natural high from the aromatic burning of frankincense during benediction, Tantum ergo sacramentum (therefore, go greatly the sacrament). To this day, a whiff of frankincense takes me there. I loved singing with my class -- our young, angelic voices rising together consuming the church.

St Joseph’s parish became one of the largest in the Los Angeles Archdiocese. Our Pastor, Father Thomas P. English, was elevated to Monsignor for growing his parish. He himself was elevated at 6-foot-6. Fully adorned in purple and gold vestments with black four-corner biretta resting on his head, he towered with royal demeanor. I never saw him smile; rather a closed-lipped clearing of the throat. As an altar boy, I feared him.

I preferred Father (James) Murphy, a dark-haired handsome man whose brother Bill coached elementary school sports and served as a groundskeeper. Bill Murphy loved the kids, even took our team to the movies on Saturday night. I heard that Father Murphy eventually left the Church, with Mrs. Ortega.

In 2003, Church records were released that Msgr. English had been accused of sexual abuse of a minor in 1969. The Archdiocese determined the allegation to be unfounded. However, in 2018 his named appeared on the LA Archdiocese list of clergy credibly accused of sexual abuse. I was never sexually abused by a priest. Although you might say I was sexually abused by Catholicism, starting with mortal guilt for "impure thoughts."

During the 1960s, the Roman Catholic Church, in a nod to modernizing, changed the liturgy from Latin to English. Cardinal McIntyre, a traditionalist, fought it to no avail. The transition contributed to my leaving the Church. I felt it had lost its ritual and spiritual magic. I slowly let go of Catholicism.

St. Joseph's Church and School continue to serve Pomona to this day. A high school friend who became a Catholic priest told me at a recent reunion that the congregation is much smaller and more ethnic. I was surprised to find myself saddened by this. 

My memories from those Church days remain fond: my classmates, the CYO sports championships we shared, watching the high school games and dreaming of being out there someday; learning right from wrong, being introduced to the English language and its rules of grammar; listening to Sister Gualberta's stories and loving geography because Mrs. Rousch was such a wonderful and enthusiastic teacher.

I never wanted to be a priest, although the question did cross my mind.

Note: The late Santa Cruz author James D. Houston had a theory that many writers come from religious backgrounds, having a close relative who was a minister, priest or such. He made a long, impressive list of these writers from Herman Melville to Amy Tan. Houston believed that scripture, the Word, was the connection, the prompt to find truth by stringing sentences together. I know that my paternal grandfather, although I never met him, was a Presbyterian minister, and my mother's brother, whom I did know, was a Jesuit priest. Perhaps that has something to do with my calling and why I write these blog posts.

I used to say amen. Now I say namaste.