British Boys in Buenos Aires

I have learned that I must keep busy. I can’t allow the interminable seconds of every hour to make a prisoner out of me. I know that silent minutes are hosts of sadness, and the long slow hours are messengers of despair. What am I talking about? I’m saying that if I don’t stay busy each and every instant, each and every breadth, my mind will fill up once more with crazy ideas. I will not tolerate it. I will admit, however, that I miss the lack of appetite that accompanied the old madness. I’m back to eating like a starving animal, wondering if I’m the only gay man in the DC who believes that eating a family size bag of candy after dinner as a “snack” is perfectly acceptable. If I keep this up, I will certainly be very round and jolly.

It is in search of keeping busy that I find myself, right now, studying a box full of photographs, lost and forgotten now for a long time in the deepness of my closet. I pretend that this is part of a larger project, the idea that I will discard myself of all possessions that serve no purpose and I will keep only those things which have reason or purpose in my life. But it is all a lie; I have no true intentions of throwing out anything; I am not organizing my closet. I am simply wasting time, studying black and white photos from my past. Among these photographs, I find (as if they have been newly taken) photos of my classes in the 1960’s at Saint Andrew’s School of Scotts (also known as el San Andrés), in the town of Vicente López, province of Buenos Aires, country of Argentina.

British boys in Buenos Aires, in the never-seemed-to-happen years that enveloped 1966 and thereabouts, congregated at St. Andrew’s School of Scots. They wore military-blue fitted jackets, tightly-knotted ties and gray-flannel shorts. They all looked like such little fags.

It always strikes me as odd that in the United States I am seen and perceived as Hispanic. I am. But in Argentina, in my native country, we considered ourselves, more than anything else, as British. My father’s family, like many other British families, emigrated to Argentina to herd sheep, establish “estancias,” and replicate in the Southern Hemisphere an English lifestyle mixed completely with Argentine and Gaucho pride. It was something unique in history.

Saint Andrews, el San Andrés, a private school for boys, was a miserable place where male descendants of the Anglo-Argentine population flocked. The majority of them were blond, with light eyes and fine small mouths. Only little gentlemen attended this school. The young ladies had their own school, el Northlands. Every morning, before the school bell rang, the boys played football or fútbol (or soccer, in American) on the wooden floors of the school gymnasium. The walls in the gym were decorated with tattered prints of English nobles (palms placed above their laps) or stock Argentine heroes, like Sarmiento, San Martin and Belgrano (arms crossed across their chests). There was also a picture of Queen Elizabeth, next to a picture of whoever happened to be the then current Argentine dictator or president. Not all boys played fútbol. The less athletic, the less sure of themselves (in other words, just my type), spent the time walking around in the blacktop outside. I just walked from one end of the paved yard to the other, back and forth back and forth, and spoke to no one. My shoes had holes on their soles from all the pavement I pounded. I often wonder, did no one notice me? Not a teacher ever came up to me to find out why I spent so much time alone. Perhaps they communicating with my parents, secretly, and my parents were saying, “yes, we know, he is very strange.”

The morning sessions were given in English, the afternoon sessions were in Spanish. The morning headmistress was Mrs. Hanley; the afternoon headmaster was Señor Martínez. I knew both of them quite well, as I spent a lot of time in their office. For whatever reason, as shy and introspective as I was, I was a trouble maker in class. Now as a parent when I see kids that behaved the way I did when I was their age, I say to myself, “God help the adults!” For whatever reason, I couldn’t sit still in my seat, and insisted in standing up next to my desk, regardless of what the teacher said. “What’s wrong with you boy?” would ask the teachers. “Are you retarded or simply incapable of sitting down? Either way, we have a problem here, Mister!.” The teachers, deservedly so, had less than full respect for the little bunch of hoodlums at that school.

{Side Bar} As I recollect these memories, I also see orange boots and an orange raincoat. I know this cannot be true, but I also see orange palm trees standing tall, in the front yard of our house in Buenos Aires. And it is all enveloped in orange skies, threatening to burn, threatening an orange haze. {Set Aside Side Bar}

I don’t know why I didn’t like sitting at my desk. Maybe my butt hurt. We’ll talk about that later. Each teacher had his own special way of correcting my lack of discipline. La Señorita Smith favored sending me out into the hall, with strict instructions that I could not come back into the classroom until at least 15 minutes had passed. To anyone else, this would have seemed like a simple task, but for a little dunce like me it was like asking to perform brain surgery. This is where I must admit to you, my dear reader, that I suffer from dyslexia. And that bitch Smith knew it. She relished sending me out into the hall, knowing full well that when I looked up at that big clock on the wall all the numbers looked exactly the same. I had no idea how to tell time. This little fool, however, is not as foolish as he looks. There’s always someone walking around the halls of St. Andrew’s. Some little boy student has to go to the nurse (plugged up nose, itchy crotch), some perv is always sent to the headmistress office to get a bit of what-not for acting-up in class, some fag brownnoser is always taking a note from Miss Legg (Upper 1st Grade Teacher to Mrs. Hallow (the school) librarian, unknowingly assisting an illicit lesbian affair. And even though I was a bit dumb and friendless, I knew everyone’s name by heart. Here comes Rodríguez Thompson, a stutterer, strolling down the hall. “Rodríguez?” I ask him. “Can you tell me what time it is? I don’t have my glasses with me.” (Aside, I don’t wear glasses.) Rodríguez is eager to answer, “So-o-on las die-z-z-z en punto.” (I-t-t-t’s ten-n-n-n sharp.)

Poor Rodríguez Thompson. There was a special place in St. Andrew’s hell for mortifying Rodríguez Thompson (and there will be a special place in heaven for him for the torment he endured). The kids loved to mock his stuttering. But the poor slob was fairly jovial. He was always smiling, as if to hide with those big teeth the fact that he could not speak any faster than an old lady can walk. Rodríguez put up with everything that the kids did to him, choosing to see the humor in all of it. One day, however, the kid simply blew up. Flaco Jones (a particularly loathsome bully, feared by all) got Rodríguez into a headlock and ordered him to “suck my c-o-o-o-ock Rodríguez! Suck my c-o-o-o-ock.” Everyone laughed hysterically, like the hyenas they truly were. In that instant, Rodríguez found a strength in him that no one would have thought was there. He started punching el Flaco like crazy. El Flaco was so taken aback that he fell over and started covering his face with his arms. Rodríguez would not stop. He kicked el Flaco in the balls, not once but several times. El Flaco started bleeding. Finally a teacher (reluctantly) stepped in and broke up the fight. “You asshole,” cried Eduardo Lecky to Flaco Jones. “Don’t you know that Rodríguez’ father, Mr. Thompson, died last week?”

Rodríguez never came back to that school. I don’t know what happened to him. Perhaps he is one of los desaparecidos. Flaco Jones, last I heard, is a castrato singing at a choir in a monastery in the mountains of Córdoba, where he is sodomized every night by monks and nuns alike. (This fantinformation was provided to me by Eduardo Lecky, in the 5th grade.)

{Continue Side Bar} I rode the school bus, each day, back and forth. I sat alone. My brothers, Xavier and Gabriel, went to the American School (el Lincoln), as they had received academic scholarships. My parents had to pay fully for my tuition at el San Andrés, of which I was reminded daily. {Set Aside Side Bar}

Here comes Eduardo Lecky. “Eduardo, buddy, what time is it?” Eduardo informs me it 10:20. I can go back into class. Eduardo has jet black hair and the most unusual grey eyes I have seen, even to this day. His small nose is freckled, his mouth is small. I imagine that Eduardo Lecky, as an adult, will be very hairy. Even then, in 1st or 2nd grade, or was it 3rd?, I knew I was in love with Eduardo Lecky. He befriended me, and I visited his house often. It was quite unlike my own. We lived in a fashionable house, on Calle Winennberg in La Lucila, in the heart of the “colonia inglesa” (English colony) in Buenos Aires. Eduardo lived in a traditional Spanish house, with a patio in the center. Each room connected to the patio, with old wooden doors. The beds were always unmade; the house smelled of cooked onions and spilled spaghetti sauce. I don’t know if Eduardo’s father worked. He always seemed to be around the house, in a tee shirt and drinking red wine. At least he was home. My father was always in the office. There was also a small barking dog, Eduardo’s pet, who was blind in one eye. Whenever the dog barked, Eduardo’s father promised to go out into the patio and shove a broom stick down the dogs throat. I don’t know if he ever did this, but Eduardo would cry each time his father said it, and went outside to keep the dog quiet. At the Lecky residence, there were no maids, no Danish furniture. His mother did all the cooking (my Mother never cooked). Mrs. Lecky once made lunch for Eduardo and me, green peppers stuffed with rice, which I had never had before. I thought it was delicious. I told Mother I would love to have that someday for lunch at our own house. She told me that it was food for “pordiozeros” (peasants). After that, I started to note that Eduardo’s school uniform was always too tight, as it should have been replaced last year. His shoes were worn out. But he had the most angelic Anglican face I have ever seen. In retrospect, I realize that Eduardo must have been at St. Andrew’s on scholarship. This may explain why he, like I, had no friends, other than each other.

Here’s Eduardo Lecky in the class picture. He is standing next to me. He is taller than I am. I am the shortest kid in the class.

{Poetic Side Bar} In the school days, when I rode in the school bus, in silence, in the madness of the times, dreading to be left, by the house, by the yard, in Argentina, Buenos Aires. 1966, 1967, 1968. {Set Aside Poetic Side Bar}

I’m chewing on some chocolate covered peanuts, enjoying these memories. Here’s my memories of the headmaster. As ever, he guards the halls, humming with children’s voices crudely reciting bits and pieces of history, arts and math, punctuated by the admonishment of dissatisfied teachers. As ever, a penitent boy stands in a corner, under some clock or other, serving time for some perceived class impertinence or other. As ever, a boy accused of cheating, lying or stupidity is sent to the front office, the lair, to report his own crime and wonder if he really saw a spanking board on the headmaster’s desk.

Now let’s try some liquorice sticks. Here’s my memories of afternoon recess, the boys run amuck in the paved outdoors and the adjoining green gardens. Rodríguez Thompson spins the earth with his wooden, red Coca-Cola yo-yo, whirling round in unbounded circles; Eduardo Lecky (of the lovely locks), and Flaco Jones (a bully), knock about, billy-goat style; and simple Shawn (a loner), scurries the fields, like a wounded animal, screaming wild nonsense into the wind, never ending.

{Continue Poetic Side Bar} Are these memories confused? Is this the yard, where the bus now stops, the yard in which I grew? Is this the house, where the bus drops me off, the orange house, the one where I was thumped (in the corners, in the shadows, under the cold madness of brutal adults)? {End Poetic Side Bar}

The other little fags in that school behaved miserably bad, whereas my only sin was that I spoke with no one and insisted in standing up next to my desk rather than sitting in my chair. All this time, Xavier and Gabriel attended the American school and got the highest grades in their class. I was ranked in my class as 29 out of 30 (Shawn, a poor creature shier than a shadow, was number 30). But at least I had perfect attendance. Other kids get sick and want to stay home. I, to the contrary, wanted to go to school every day, no matter how I was feeling. I hated that miserable school, but maybe I hated my orange house even more. At the end of one particularly fever-infested semester, I was the only kid in the entire school who had not missed a day of class, and I received a prize for my perfect attendance. At an awards ceremony in the school gymnasium, the likes of the stutterer got a prize for best grades in mathematics, and Lecky was given a prize for history and English. The loathsome Flaco Jones got a prize for best handwriting (who would have known he had it in him). Their prizes were trophies, or ribbons, or framed certificates. The prize I got for perfect attendance was a children’s English alphabet book, with pictures of animals (A is for Ass, B is for Boar, C is for Cheetah, D is for Darwin’s Leaf-Eared Mouse). The only thing I have left from that book is the cover (all the animals standing in a circle, some eyeing to eat the others), with the Saint Andrew’s coat of arms affixed to it, elegantly penned with “Congratulations Perfect Attendance.” I was ashamed to receive this prize. It meant nothing. It meant only that very day I chose to got on the bus to escape the orange house.

By happy coincidence, the next month the school announced a special prize to be awarded to the child who exemplified best conduct in class. It was una alcancía (a piggy bank) in the shape of a Greek goddess, reclining on a bed of stones (all made out of plastic). The task was fairly simple. Whoever was sent the least time to the headmaster’s office, the one who received the least conduct notes to take home that night to his parents, the one who managed not to irritate the teachers, would win that alcancía. The prize was prominently displayed in a trophy case in the hall, under lock and key of course, waiting to be awarded. Few of the kids paid any attention to the prize, but I thought the goddess piggy bank was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. I don’t know if it was the goddesses dress, or the gold colored plastic, but never had I felt such a profound desire for a material thing. Even though my ass hurt from lovely home spankings, and even though I was always so anxious in class that I just had to stand up, I resisted the urge during the contest period and behaved like a semi-normal child sitting at my desk each day. After nearly a month, the prize was almost mine; I could smell it. On the last day of the contest, our teacher was absent, and we were sent a very young and inexperienced substitute. The other kids in class smelled fear in her breath, and decided she was the perfect subject to receive training in the ways of little brat gentlemen. They made the wildest noises that have ever been heard in Buenos Aires. They threw paper airplanes, pencils, erasers, chalk, books all around the class. The pathetic young teacher couldn’t do anything other than beg, “Children, please, take your seats!” Her supplications were no more than instigations for them to behave even more like criminals. It was as if they had awaited their entire young lives for this day, to execute the greatest teacher-hazing ever seen at Saint Andrews. I, meanwhile, stayed seated in my little wooden desk, thinking there is no way that I’m going to lose that alcancía today. I started twirling my thumbs, forming little circles. While the other kids made more noise, I made more twirling circles with my thumbs. Loathsome Flaco Jones was the first one to notice what I was doing. It made him laugh out loud, “Look at Steel Wool Hair,” he screamed (my nickname, due to my crisp curls, so different from the soft hair of the other Anglo-Argentines). “Look at that little fag twirling his thumbs!” One after the other, each little gentlemen started looking at me, and stopped making noise. The entire class was in deep silence. “Fag Fingers!” yelled Flaco Jones. All the kids started to laugh. “Fag Fingers!”

That day I won my alcancía. I have no idea where I put that thing.


{Final Side Bar} I see Mother, who greeted me softly, once, when I came out of the bus. Once. Who welcomed me kindly with orange boots, and an orange rain hat and an orange rain coat, just as I had requested. Just as I had seen in an American Walt Disney movie. They were lovely, soft plastic, splendid, new and mine. I loved them. But they must have been bought on sale, because they do not fit me and could not be returned. “They are too small,” I complain. Mother slaps me across the face, perhaps even belts me once (with the strap only, never the buckle because it leaves welts). My face is red, hot, cold, hurt. And Mother takes the coat away. The boots, the hat. Never to be seen again in the times of orange days. I wish they had been my size. {End Final Side Bar}

In the class picture, handsome boys with flaxen hair sit tough in the front row; uniforms intact; legs stiff; arms crossed; palms tucked; lips slightly snarled. In the last row, my stiff and crunchy curly hair, unkempt, serves to frame the backdrop, reserved for the misfits and forgotten. I have patches on my jacket, my tie is unknotted, my shirt is untucked, and my smile is wide and large, frozen in time and wonderment so long ago, in Buenos Aires, in the suburbs, in the long gone colonia inglesa, in the never-seemed-to-happen years that enveloped 1966 and thereabouts.

* * *

Pass me the candy bowl. I’m still starving.