Brown and White Book Author Writes on Catholic Boys Schools

My book, The Brown and White is a fictonalized memoir of Collin Callaghans freshman year at a Catholic Boy's high school. The Brown and White tells the story of Collin Callaghan's freshman year at a Chicago Catholic High School. Collin is a white boy who is living in turbulent times in a changing city. He clings to his neighborhood and his family as he heads out each day with his classmates on the Brown and White, the ancient school bus driven by free-spirited Willie. Memorable characters abound as this humorous story unfolds.

But today, I wanted to write about a serious and important topic--related to the Brown and White.

Boys Catholic High Schools are expensive! Many range between $8,000-$12,000 a year. There are certain student aid programs that help of course. If a boy finds a job, he may be able to contribute a few thousand himself, but for the most part, parents have to pick up the cost.  And once the student finishes his education at his college prep school, he and his parents have a bigger financial fish to fry with a college education. Still, Catholic High Schools are surviving, but it just can't be easy. 

If a parish feeds students into a Catholic High School, they may be able to have a collection or two for the program, but chances are they are having a hard enough time as it is themselves. Never-the-less, I believe that a high school, a grade school, the local Catholic bookstore, parish organizations and the parish church itself are all part of a faith continuum. The distinct pieces need to be fed for the health of the whole.  I can't help but believe that when the schools fall off the radar, that church membership is likely to drop over time.  When schools are healthy, I suspect the church is going to do well. A local Catholic bookstore that carries merchandise also helps support the faith continuum. Catholics who pass by the Catholic gift and bookstore for their Communion and Confirmation gifts are not helping the cause. In this troubled time, you must be "in for a penny, in for a pound."

I think it's funny that many people think that the Catholic Church is rich.  I suspect they have this belief based on the Vatican treasures and properties in places like Rome. But frankly, if they get to Rome, they will find that these treasures are for the entire world not church property like a parish bank account. When some of the great Catholic churches have burned and needed costly rebuilding and renovation, it might surprise many people that donations frequently came from people from many different faiths--including Jews and Moslems. 

And on some level, Catholic Schools have also been very ecumenical as well. In some ways, this can be disturbing to some Catholics, but by doing so, it supports an opened mindedness and does not put the breaks on true charity. When I was a kid way back in the dark ages, we had a couple Jewish kids in Catholic School with us. The nuns did their best to teach the Catholic program, but at the same time tried to be kind to the students of other faiths.  This must have been difficult when you consider there was a Catholic slant built into practically every subject in its textbooks and curriculum.

As neighborhoods changed in Chicago, for example, it became more difficult in that Catholic Schools sometimes served more Protestants than Catholics. Many of the schools were serving middle class people, but some found themselves in poorer areas. I find it disturbing when a Catholic home for children, a hospital or some other institution that serves mostly non-Catholics, receives government funds to help it provide for services (at much cheaper rates than the public organizations) and people have criticisms for the serving organization. 

When schools came to serve poorer minority populations, the Sisters and other teachers shifted their curriculum somewhat and wanted so badly to make a contribution to help these poor kids move up and out of poverty. In some cases it worked and if it didn't work, it had more to do with society at the time than the teachers. My sister taught in schools like this in Detroit. 

At the same time, you can find yourself in a no-win situation.  At my high school, one of its most prominent Protestant students remarked that there was a certain teacher who harassed him (I suppose like in racism). The kindest thing he had to say was that  "the teachers did not try to convert him." A generous man no doubt.

Most Catholic institutions have come back to tighter Catholic curriculum, but they retain their respect for the other faiths of  their non-Catholic students.  Catholics criticized schools when they found their kids were graduating without even a fundamental understanding of the "Roman" faith.  To maintain their appeal however, the schools today must show their academic excellence. Producing good Catholics with bad ACT scores is not an option. 

But if the whole Catholic Faith continuum is to survive, people have to support all the Catholic institutions.  The people that whine about this institution is too liberal or this one is too conservative are just expressing their views and it's their right. But again, I think we need to be "in for a penny and in for a pound" on Catholicism. If  you are waiting for just the right pope, bishop or priest to come along before you support the Church, good luck with that.

I think Catholic High Schools can use some help. I have a hard time thinking that we will be judged by whether we gave to a conservative or liberal one. We might be judged if we could have given and didn't because they were too liberal or conservative for our taste.

Copyright 2016, Sporting Chance Press

My Neighborhood was Irish

My neighborhood was Irish.  My uncles, a little removed from Ireland by time and distance, would sing Irish tunes in the Irish bars in the South Side Chicago. My Irish grandmother on my father's side had stopped by England with her parents before swinging over to America.  She was at home here with her Mc's and O'this and O'that. My mother's parents were from Ireland as well, and they were part of a migration of Irish who went to Scotland's shipbuilding centers and then on to America to make their new lives.  

My dad was a big husky man with reddish hair and a big smile that masked an Irish temper.  He was an Irish Policeman and happy to gab with those on the beat.  But he never played the Irish card. He was who he was and he kept it simple.

Being Irish in my neighborhood was like having two hands or two legs, not much to brag about with everyone being Irish! I did come to appreciate it later in life.  As an adult, when I read the Breastplate of Saint Patrick and I felt the fear and the desperate need for God from the words of a desperate shepherd boy and slave, I appreciated my Irish roots.  You could throw away all the male tenor versions of Danny Boy I heard as a child in heap, but when I heard Jamie O'Reilly sing it purely and sweetly, I felt the song and felt the Irish and the sadness of having to leave their land. 

But I want to tell you about  the time that I went to Billy Donovan's house, the most Irish of all Irish boys in the neighborhood. His parents were so new to the America that they had brogues.

But first I must tell you that my family, the Callaghan's, had a kind of shabby house that was suitable for a family with one child and we had six.  My brother and I slept on the unheated back porch and one of my sisters often slept on the front porch, which was technically enclosed in windows but had been an outdoor space.  The other girls in the family shared a room and when the weather changed, the cold-room kids slept on the dining room floor and on the living room couch.  Luckily, there was a bit of space between the oldest three and the youngest three, and before long the older moved out to nurses training and the convent. So we lived in shifts.

We were growing up with a little bit of Eisenhower and then John Kennedy.  Some of my neighbors were sporting new cars and few bucks in their wallet so it was not quite "in" to be shabby. We were what Americans called  "shanty Irish," some of our neighbors were trying to be more like the "lace curtain" Irish. Aside from our friends on the block who had known us since we were very young, it was a little more difficult to reach and touch some of the others in the neighborhood who might be a step above our lowly socioeconomic rung on the ladder.

But Billy Donovan had been a good school friend and he had invited me over to his house.  Billy was the most decent guy you would want to know. Never course or unkind, a good student and good baseball player. Billy had a younger brother and sister. He lived in a very nice little brick house that was a block away from Saint Cajetan School. Everything about Billy's house was what our house did not have.  It was brick.  It had a second floor where there was three bedroom in which the family could fit comfortably.  It was decades newer than our house and the grounds were neat and trim.  So my entry into the Donovan's house had expectations. I knew it would be just like the Cleavers' of Leave it Beaver and ours was like the Beverly Hillbillies before the move out west. But I was wrong.

You see Billy's dad had come over to America with some baggage.  Not suitcases and trunks, but the baggage of pain, anger and alcohol. And Billy's mother was what today would be called an enabler. As I entered the living room, any joy that I had in my soul left me. The room was tidy and clean enough, but completely devoid of furniture except for a few pieces that were used by Mr. Donovan in the center of the room.   A TV set stood on a table opposite Mr. Donovan.  The "King of the Castle" was sitting in a brown reclining chair. A tray table was at his side with an open bottle of beer. Upon our entry into the house, Mrs. Donovan came into the room carrying the King's dinner and another beer.  Billy Donovan and I were like flies in the room; worth a few seconds of Mr. Donovan's annoyance, but little else.  Mr. Donovan said nothing to us, but nodded and went back to some television program.  This was the Donovan's nice house. 

Billy and I ran up the stairs to the room he shared with his brother.  We sat around for a few minutes and talked.  I was nervous and jumpy.  And then it was time for me to leave and never come back to the Donovan's house.  I wanted to get home to our shanty Irish home and the people I loved. 

Copyright 2016, Sporting Chance Press
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Lawrence Norris is the publisher of  Sporting Chance Press Books and the author of the eBook, The Brown and White. The Brown and White is a fictionalized memoir that tells the story of Collin Callaghan's freshman year at a Chicago Catholic High School. Collin is a white boy who is living in turbulent times in a changing city. He clings to his neighborhood and his family as he heads out each day with his classmates on the Brown and White, the ancient school bus driven by free-spirited Willie. Memorable characters abound as this story unfolds. Collin's loveable family, especially his Irish Catholic policeman father and his immigrant mother face life together.

My Trinity of Older Sisters

First, let me say that when I wrote the Brown and White, I kept things focused on my high school days.  The book was about the school and home, but most of the home focused on my parents.  I have five siblings, but it would have taken another book or two to cover them.

We were a struggling family.  And what I mean by that is simply that my dad was a cop and pay was low in those days--we struggled.  He had a full-time job for the Chicago Police Department, took on a second job as a University of Chicago cop and sometimes worked a third job--and it never quite added up to enough.  

My three oldest siblings were born in  a bunch and after a short rest, a second batch that included me and my older brother and younger sister came along.  And I have to say that the older siblings became little parents and each one took one of us on.  So we had a mom and dad along with a designated "second mom" who was an older sister.  

My oldest sister, Ellen, was the first one to go out and make some money and begin a career. She became a nurse. She bought my parents an early color TV. She replaced the carpet in the living room that was probably as old as the house--circa 1927. She brought the first stereo record player that I have ever seen--one of those portables where the turntable folded down and the speakers swung out the sides. She bought a small selection of albums that we enjoyed--Johnny Mathis, Opera for People Who Hate Opera, West Side Story and more.  She bought three pieces of art that depicted in a modern sense the Chicago skyline--she hung them above the coach. She bought a dinning room furniture set that included a table that slid into the hutch for storage and stack-able chairs. She started a tradition of buying new Volkswagens that continued for decades until her weary old van was given to a local high school shop a few years ago. She was strong, determined, and loving. Tall and attractive, Ellen took everything on and set the stage for the others.

My third oldest sister is Margaret. I remember Margaret was the sister that focused on improvements to the outdoors.  She was forever planting new grass to replace the dirt patches that my brother and I and others had created in the lawn.  She dutifully put out little fences around the spots where the new seed lay and I suppose for two or three days (or maybe it was two or three hours) we kept off the grass.  A fresh coat of paint could really make a difference on the wooden front steps or the lattice work that surrounded the front porch--those were the kind of things that excited Margaret.  Margaret did what she could to make our house look a little better than the worst houses in the neighborhood.  It was not easy. She took on the tough projects.

Margaret went on to nursing school and won a scholarship while there.  She got married fairly young and all her kids are brilliant.  She was also one of the prettiest young moms to grace the southwest side and had a terrific sense of humor. 

My second oldest sister was Marianne.  She is ten years older than me.  When she was young, she was the odds on favorite in the house to become a nun and she did for 13 years.  She was smart, pretty, and full of life.  She was my little mom.  She babysat for a cheaper-by-the-dozen family. She could make a huge sum on certain weekends if she babysat the large family while the mom and dad got some R&R.  She took me to the public pool when I was very young and I remember hanging on to her for what must have seemed like hours. I remember she bought me football cards. And when it was time for her to enter the convent my world fell apart.  She took off for Adrian Michigan and I was losing my little mom--although a few hundred other kids would have her services.  After she left the convent she continued in education.

Everyone was proud of Marianne and they still are. 

Brown and White

sportingchancepress.com Title

Sporting Chance Press author Lawrence Norris has a little marble angel on his desk, just under his computer screen. It's not very big, but Norris says it "looks over" all his labor each day.  Norris wears a brown scapular of Our Lady of Mount Carmel every day. It's the scapular that he always wore as a student at Mount Carmel High School in Chicago.  On one wall of his little office, there are images of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Sacred Heart of Mary.  The pictures are housed in beautiful gold frames that are shaped like little stained glass windows.   His desk is home-made from an old dinning room table. And as a publisher and an author, surrounding Norris are boxes of his company's books and an old floor to ceiling bookcase that includes a small sampling of his old books.  He has another small bookcase by him and several more throughout his house. Most of his old books have little value to anyone other than himself.

Norris is not sure if the Sisters who educated him in grade school or the Carmelites who did the same in high school or the Benedictines who took Norris on in college would love all his work.  He wonders if old Carl Kroch or Bill Casey would get a kick out of what he has done since he left Kroch's and Brentano's bookstore many years ago.  He wonders whether Bob Bartlett, the first president for whom he worked at CCH Publishing Company would like at least a few pages he's written or published. 

But somehow Norris has always thought a lot of his own book and he has a lot riding on it.  The little eBook that he calls the Brown and White is a fictionalized memoir of his first year in high school.  It has been a part of him for over 40 years as he has worked on other authors' works.  The Brown and White is a personal story that was put together as a kind of humorous and sentimental travel log.  He has resisted some editors advice who told him to make it more  plot driven. Norris liked the work of John Powers, a Chicago South Side author (Last Catholic in America and Do Pattent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up) , and he set up his book like one of Powers stories. He also resisted those who told him to take the religion overtones out of the book and others who told him to put more in.  The story is not of a very well-rounded worldly boy, it a story of a boy who lives in one of those traditional Chicago neighborhoods where children are raised with great love, but not always kindly. Worldliness comes later.

Norris wants you to know that his work is available this week for just $.99 via a Kindle Countdown Deal. 

Thoughts on Labor Day

I grew up and tried to emulate my parents.  They had six children and struggled to make things the best they could. My mom stayed at home and my dad was a Chicago Policeman who had a second job on the University of Chicago Police Department.  He took on a third job at times as well.  His patrolman salary was sub-par at the time for raising a large family.

At some point the unions that had been created to protect workers fell on hard times. My grandfather who had started out with a horse and buggy delivery service had become an official in a union. He was an honest man who did not drink or swear.  After he died, the union for which he worked became corrupt. I have a relative that tells me his retirement funds were stolen by a corrupt union.

The auto makers unions fought for high salaries and good benefits.  But they seemed to have lost the support of the common man who made so much less.  Eventually, unions seemed to survive in certain industries and die out in others.   In some cases businesses moved their operations out of the country and blamed it on the unions.  Recently, such a case was made for a large baking operation here.  Many have gone before it. If you are a big company and want to create cheaper goods out of the country, maybe you can do it by having a union disagreement.

From bikes to boots and from many luxury cars to lamps, much of our manufacturing has left.  Red-white-and-blue heroes in retailing passed away and their business went to second generation leaders who had no interest in anything other than the bottom line. The Greatest Generation was replaced by something else. Many people believe they sold out to cheap labor.  Foreign car makers nominally assemble cars in American with thousands of foreign made parts.  And consumers have lost interest in buying American or anything close to the notion.  Unless or until Americans decide to put a premium on American made goods, the economy will erode.  Like the dust bowl in  the 1930s, the American economy will have few roots to sinks it's teeth into that will hold on when the winds blow and the weather turns hot and dry. 

Sadly, many American young families are not having families at all. Some have a dog and spend a small fortune on pet supplies. Do they believe everything they hear about "affording a family" and decide they just can't do it? Or do they have one child and call it good?  Are today's young people facing a quandary or are they just too selfish?  What example did they get from us?  Or is it a case of convincing messages coming from other sources?

Silly Americans think that the labor force is being filled at the lowest level by foreign workers, but they are not looking very hard.  From roofers to truck drivers, from painters to doctors, from scientists to newsmen and woman, the face of America is changing.  Very soon, no one will be immune. No job will be safe.  Don't be surprised to hear from some authoritative source that American lawyers and accountants are lazy and there are new ways to get better cheaper representation.  Will the lawyers who bought foreign cars or the accountants who did nothing when their clients lost their business to outsourcers get a better hearing from other Americans? Or will people continue to look at their stock portfolios and call it good?

The world is getting smaller and people need a break who come from overseas when jobs are scarce and resources small.  But I find it hard to believe impoverishing more Americans to secure the high profits of the few is the way to go. And the need for labor organizations that can stand at an equal level with corporate interests has never been greater. Some of course don't believe there is a need and don't care about American workers regardless. What does Labor Day mean to these people?

What do we hear about labor today? In some ways, I have to wonder about who minds the store in terms of our information.  It occurs to me that a few generations ago, anything we got for advertising messages that came from the big companies of the time like General Motors were pretty clear--"see the USA in your Chevrolet." But now, I think our biggest companies are running the information highway.  They control most everything we see.   Go to an entertainment event, just drive home in your car, or search for a historical fact and it is likely you will be face-to-face with information someone paid to get you. Want a greater audience at your web site, pay the advertisement fees set up. So much information comes to us paid.  So little otherwise.

On this labor day, I have to wonder about the value of  American sweat and toil.  Have you tried to fill out an employment application lately? At many offices you can't even get in the building. The want ads that you see for jobs come to you paid by some source that has something to sell and it's not jobs. Is it any wonder that so many job seekers are frustrated when they literally can't get "in the front door?" 
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Lawrence Norris is the author of the Brown and White, a fictionalized memoir that takes a funny look at Catholic High School and the author's family and friends in the late 60s. 

Book for Plane Trip

If you went to a Catholic High School and you have a plane trip coming up, I have a great book for you: The Brown and White. 

The Brown and White is a fictionalized memoir that tells the story of Collin Callaghan's freshman year at a Chicago Catholic High School.  Collin is a white boy who is living in turbulent times in a changing city. He clings to his neighborhood and his family as he heads out each day with his classmates on the Brown and White, the ancient school bus driven by free-spirited Willie.  Memorable characters abound as the right of passage unfolds. The story is also about Collin's lovable family, especially his Irish Catholic policeman father and his Irish immigrant mother (from Scotland--you'll have to read the book) who blazes her own trail through the 60s.

Available on Amazon. 

Brown and White: A Different Time

Brown and White

The late 60s were a wake up call for Americans.  Civil rights, the war in Vietnam, the generation gap, changing moral values, civil disobedience, drug abuse and so much more.  But for the kids in my book, the brown and white school bus was their transport between the big changing world and their home turf. At the time, although many neighborhoods were changing radically, ours seemed secure.

About the time my story takes place, John Powers books on Catholic life in Chicago were best sellers.  Powers was able to take that life and hold up a mirror for us to see ourselves.  Powers world was pre-Vatican II.  He weaved ridiculously funny stories that boldly cast his characters.  Powers gave the community a sense of value as many things we valued seemed to be coming apart at the seams.

When I began writing my story over 40 years ago, I was very young and had an exaggerated sense of my understanding of life. Time has made me humble and in the Brown and White I stepped back and described what I knew. I hope people will appreciate it for what it is, and also understand it for what it is not.