COLLARED

I myself find the phrase “faith-based institution” unsettling, and not only because it pushes aside less ugly terms like “religious charity.” It’s also because I know how the power of moral suasion is vested in certain private institutions. For ten years I attended Catholic school, and even on the day I was leaving it for good, its coercive extralegal authority followed me out the door.

That morning, I had fulfilled my final obligation of the academic year, an examination required by New York state. For the fall, I was enrolled in a public school. Now, by my reading of the relevant statutes, having finished the test and cleared off the premises, I had ceased being a student of St. Francis Preparatory High School.

I had a lot to do that afternoon. Talk to my buddy James about fund-raising opportunities among our friends. Convince an artsy chick named Jen to lead a small expedition to Springfield Boulevard, via the public bus system, to buy a pizza pie and bring it back. Go to the supermarket with James for some orange juice. Only then would I get around to actually breaking the law, by purchasing a liter of vodka.

Our pizza and screwdrivers party took place down the street from St. Francis, on city property, in a park. We sat under a tree that all the cool students called Euripides. We were six or seven minors, including some girls I didn’t know. Two of them, as someone later recalled, got “really buzzed” and had to go to the bathroom.

So the two girls walked down the street to use the facilities at St. Francis. Which wouldn’t have gotten them in trouble had they not made a racket in the girls’ room. In fact, all their clattering and cackling might not have attracted anyone’s attention, had the nearby classrooms not been filled with sophomores taking state math exams. Only minutes after they were apprehended by a nun, I later learned, they answered the fateful question: Who bought the liquor?

A few days passed before the dean of men called me at home to set up a little get-together. He didn’t believe me when I pointed out that I was no longer a student at his school. But since he was eager to involve my parents, I thought I should humor him and nip this thing in the bud.

I don’t remember everything that was said at our meeting, but I do remember his first words: “So, Mr. Skinner, why don’t you tell me what transpired the other day?” Then, as if using an SAT word weren’t threatening enough, he flexed. The dean of men, it so happened, was also coach of the weightlifting team. And he was huge. His folded hands pushed hard against each other. One could see, just beneath his short-sleeved button-down shirt, his upper arms widening and his trapezius muscles swelling upward into his walrus-sized neck, which looked about to burst the confines of collar and necktie.

In my reply, I conspicuously replaced the word “transpired” with “took place” and made it clear that I didn’t think he had a shred of authority to bully me like this. He noted that we could always call over “the boys” from the local police precinct to see what they would say. I hoped he wouldn’t do that, I said, but still I couldn’t see how it was any business of his if a boy who wasn’t even a student at St. Francis celebrated the last day of school in whatever fashion he pleased.

The dean of men quickly tired of me and demanded another meeting — with my parents, both of them if possible. That night at home, I begged my parents to tell him to get lost. They were strangely dismissive of my legalistic argument that the dean of St. Francis lacked the necessary standing to get all blustery and menacing about my off-campus activities. My mother and father made it plain that the dean was a member of the same committee of adults they belonged to and had as much authority to yell at me as they had to ground me.

At the second meeting, two things happened. My father nodded a lot while the dean repeated the litany of my crimes. And the dean convinced my father to drive me over to the store where I had bought the vodka and browbeat the owner for selling liquor to a minor. It was so embarrassing.

The village had spoken. My parents had happily allowed the dean to castigate their child. They even seemed grateful for the assistance. Returning the favor, my father was more than willing to get tough with the liquor store owner, both as a parent and on behalf of the school. Everyone was in cahoots — and everyone had standing except me.

DAVID SKINNER