boys and members of the staff gave me a bit of stature and seniority over the other new cadets who were coming to the campus for the first time. What little seniority I had cut no slack elsewhere, because I, like all new boys—especially new seventh graders—was at the bottom of a very long and complex pecking order, a pecking order born out of normal adolescent, macho behavior, and the military mentality that permeated the school at that time.
All new boys were subject to harassments from upperclassmen. It was a tradition, a tradition that Tommy hated from his first day on campus. Depending on the degree of sadism in a particular old boy’s psychological makeup, that harassment came in varying degrees of hectoring. My first experience of this tradition came on my first day. A small group of old boys noticed me and another new boy walking across the quadrangle before the first-period classes started at 8:00. And even though I knew the campus as a camper would know it, I did not know where the classrooms were, and we probably looked considerably confused and lost. They ordered us to stop and to stand at attention, never mind that we had not had our first lesson in military formation yet and were not in uniform. One of the boys bent down into my face close enough I could smell his breath. He growled at me,
“Boy, have you got your keys to the flagpole, yet?”
I was scared shitless. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“No.”
“No, SIR, boy!”
“No, SIR.” My voice quavered.
Another old boy put his face in mine.
“You been measured for your rifle yet, son?”
I was so scared I could hardly answer.
“No, SIR,” I answered, looking at the ground. I had no idea what he was talking about either.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”
“Yes, SIR.”
I was about to cry.
It was not at all unusual for seniors to call underclassmen “son,” or “boy,” appropriating a slur usually reserved for black men—another reason it infuriated my brother so much when another cadet called him one or the other.
There were no keys to the flagpole.
All rifles are the same. No measurements are required.
But a frightened and nervous eleven-year-old kid knows no better. I suppose the japes went on until the school dropped the military program in 1971.
For the next four years my classmates and I endured harassments, large and small, lessening in degrees of torment each year until we became upperclassmen and graduated from harrasees to harassers. Tommy left Baylor before he had the opportunity to savor the experience from the other side of harassment. Once he left, he never went back. From that time on he had nothing positive to say about The Baylor School for Boys, and he spoke well of only a few teachers. He was disdainful of all his classmates except a very few. If Baylor had caught on fire, as the expression goes, Tommy wouldn’t have pissed on it to put it out.
THE ACADEMIC DAY ENDED in the afternoon at 2:15, and unless it rained, we fell into military formation in the quadrangle or on the drill field at 2:30 and drilled for the next hour. On rainy days we spent the hour in class studying U.S. Army field manuals and committing the eleven General Orders to memory.
On the drill field we learned the School of the Soldier (moving, standing, turning, and marching as a single body—squads, platoons, companies, and battalions); we learned the Manual of Arms (standing, marching, and saluting with rifles); and those of us who eventually became cadet officers learned the Manual of the Saber (standing, marching, and saluting with the saber). My parents must have sacrificed to buy my saber. There was no such thing as used sabers, as there were used uniforms. We all kept them. Today mine lives on the fireplace mantel in my library, CADET LT. ARTHUR B. MOSER engraved on its blade.
Having that saber—having
earned
that saber—was a consolation for Tommy’s inheriting the sword our grandfather Albert
All new boys were subject to harassments from upperclassmen. It was a tradition, a tradition that Tommy hated from his first day on campus. Depending on the degree of sadism in a particular old boy’s psychological makeup, that harassment came in varying degrees of hectoring. My first experience of this tradition came on my first day. A small group of old boys noticed me and another new boy walking across the quadrangle before the first-period classes started at 8:00. And even though I knew the campus as a camper would know it, I did not know where the classrooms were, and we probably looked considerably confused and lost. They ordered us to stop and to stand at attention, never mind that we had not had our first lesson in military formation yet and were not in uniform. One of the boys bent down into my face close enough I could smell his breath. He growled at me,
“Boy, have you got your keys to the flagpole, yet?”
I was scared shitless. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“No.”
“No, SIR, boy!”
“No, SIR.” My voice quavered.
Another old boy put his face in mine.
“You been measured for your rifle yet, son?”
I was so scared I could hardly answer.
“No, SIR,” I answered, looking at the ground. I had no idea what he was talking about either.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”
“Yes, SIR.”
I was about to cry.
It was not at all unusual for seniors to call underclassmen “son,” or “boy,” appropriating a slur usually reserved for black men—another reason it infuriated my brother so much when another cadet called him one or the other.
There were no keys to the flagpole.
All rifles are the same. No measurements are required.
But a frightened and nervous eleven-year-old kid knows no better. I suppose the japes went on until the school dropped the military program in 1971.
For the next four years my classmates and I endured harassments, large and small, lessening in degrees of torment each year until we became upperclassmen and graduated from harrasees to harassers. Tommy left Baylor before he had the opportunity to savor the experience from the other side of harassment. Once he left, he never went back. From that time on he had nothing positive to say about The Baylor School for Boys, and he spoke well of only a few teachers. He was disdainful of all his classmates except a very few. If Baylor had caught on fire, as the expression goes, Tommy wouldn’t have pissed on it to put it out.
THE ACADEMIC DAY ENDED in the afternoon at 2:15, and unless it rained, we fell into military formation in the quadrangle or on the drill field at 2:30 and drilled for the next hour. On rainy days we spent the hour in class studying U.S. Army field manuals and committing the eleven General Orders to memory.
On the drill field we learned the School of the Soldier (moving, standing, turning, and marching as a single body—squads, platoons, companies, and battalions); we learned the Manual of Arms (standing, marching, and saluting with rifles); and those of us who eventually became cadet officers learned the Manual of the Saber (standing, marching, and saluting with the saber). My parents must have sacrificed to buy my saber. There was no such thing as used sabers, as there were used uniforms. We all kept them. Today mine lives on the fireplace mantel in my library, CADET LT. ARTHUR B. MOSER engraved on its blade.
Having that saber—having
earned
that saber—was a consolation for Tommy’s inheriting the sword our grandfather Albert
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