For gentlemen, only!

When I was in high school, I used to play American football with my barkada, my gang, my friends. We called ourselves the "Alcyons." I had an old red sweatshirt which I really liked. Somehow, both sleeves had been torn away, and it looked a little ragged. But I thought it was lucky. In that sweatshirt I was catching passes beautifully.

But my mother did not like that sweatshirt. She said: "It’s a disgrace!" So she bought me a new one — which I never wore, because I liked the good old lucky red one. Day after day, my mother said: "Don’t wear that! Wear the new one!" But I never did.

Then one afternoon I could not find the old red sweatshirt. I asked my mother. She said, vaguely: "I suppose it’s around, some place. Wear the new one". . . . . . I wore the new one, because I had no choice. . . . Later, I discovered: my mother burned the old red lucky sweatshirt! She burned it!. . . . . That was the first time. I realized: when a woman wants something—stand back! Let her have it! Women have tremendous will power!

Then I discovered that girls were very sensitive about things that a boy would never even think about! I used to go to early Mass every Sunday with my sister Dorothy, who was only 14 months younger than I. One Sunday morning the altar boy was my good friend, Joe Ryan, who was the quarter-mile high school champion of New Jersey, very good looking.

At Communion time I got up to leave the pew and go down to the altar. Dorothy remained kneeling. I said: "Dot! Communion!" She shook her head: "No". So I went down the aisle myself. When the Mass was over, I rose to leave. Dorothy remained kneeling. I said: "Dot! Let’s go!" . . . . . She shook her head: "No", and said: "I will stay for the next Mass. I want to go to Communion."

I could not understand this. . . . I went home, alone. . . . After about an hour Dorothy arrived. I said: "At Communion time, I told you! Why didn’t you go at the first Mass?" She sat down to breakfast and said: "The altar boy was Joe Ryan. . . . .No boy that I like is ever going to see me with my mouth open!"

I learned a little more about girls when my younger sister Nancy — the athlete, the roller skater — broke up with her first boy friend. She was abandoning him for the boy who was her skating partner in competition. The poor boy — her first boy friend — was around our house for about three days. My mother felt so sorry for him! She was feeding him breakfast, dinner and supper. He did not want to break up with Nancy. But she was adamant. Finally he went down our stairs, with his head hanging, crying on the inside.

About 18 months later, our family was driving home from the Jersey Shore, and we passed through the town where the first boy friend lived. . . . .And Nancy began to cry!. . . . . I asked her why. She said: "He just got married, to somebody else!" And she wept all the way home!

I said: "Nancy!. . . . . You were the one who broke up with him! He was begging you to let him go on courting you! And you practically threw him down the stairs! . . . . Through her heart-broken sobs, Nancy said: "Yes. I know. I did that. . . . .But I never thought that he would marry somebody else!"

Then Dorothy married Jack Hathway. They had two sons. And then Dorothy broke up with him. Jack did not want to break. His own parents were divorced, and he knew how terrible that was. It was Dorothy who wanted separation.

By this time I was a young Jesuit Scholastic, not yet ordained. When I came home to visit, Dorothy wept on my shoulder, literally. We were really very close. I said: "Dot! Couldn’t you just stay with him, and pray that love will come back?" . . . . .With her head on my shoulder, and sobbing, she said: "No!. . . No!. . . . When you live that close to a man, you either love him or hate him. There is no in-between!"

It was then that I realized: the passionate emotions of a woman are amazing! They feel things much more deeply than men!

Here in the Philippines, for a while, I was moderator of athletics at the Ateneo de Manila. At that time we had a half-miler who was a mild, gentle soul. During his whole four years of college, I never saw him angry. Not once! . . . . I was the priest at his wedding.

He married a highly intelligent girl, 26 years old, an interior decorator. After their wedding, they were building their love nest. Because the wife was trained as an interior decorator, she also was skilled as an architect, so she was supervising the construction.

Every evening, when he came home from work, they went through the house, when it was under construction. He loved it. He said: "I like this home! It’s so open, so airy! Free flowing space! This living room is big and beautiful. Let’s have a big door. 8 feet!"

His wife said: "Darling, all doors are seven feet." He said: "Sure! Ordinary room ordinary door. But this is a big room. Special! So let’s have a big special door 8 feet!" The wife said: "Honey, doors are for people to come through. We don’t know anybody who is 8 feet!" He answered: "I’m not building this to be functional! I’m building it because of the effect it has on me! I like a big door — 8 feet!"

The wife did what many wives are prone to do. She said: "Alright. 8 feet." Happy over that, they went home. The next morning he went to work. And on that day they were building the doorway. The contractor, who knew about this discussion, said to the wife: "How high — the door?" She said softly, confidentially: "Seven feet." So all day they build the doorway. It was carrying a great deal of weight, so they built it solidly, anchored in cement.

That evening he came home, and they went as usual to look at their love nest. When he saw that door, he exploded. Whatever it was, it triggered something in him. He went wild. There was a sledge hammer there, that was used in the construction. He took that sledge hammer and beat the doorway apart, in a rage.

They came to me at 11:00 that night, getting me out of bed. Her make-up was all smeared with tears. I took him alone, first. He said: "I wouldn’t mind if she was honest! But last night she said ‘8 feet!’ So I go to work this morning, and when I came home, there it was — seven feet! She doesn’t tell the truth!". . . . .When I took the wife alone, through her tears she said: "He is so stupid! Who ever hear of an 8 foot door?"

I thought the marriage would break up, over that door!. . . The construction went on. . . .And the door was built at seven feet.

Once there was a discussion in media, in the United States, on "Who was the head of the house — the man or the woman?" The Reader’s Digest took a survey in a little farming village which was mathematically in the middle of the United States. They trained their census-taker carefully. It was a sensitive question, so they had prizes. If a woman was the head of the house, she received a chicken. If the man was the head of the house, he got a horse.

When he started his survey in the early morning, the census taker had three horses a red one, a white one, and a black one. And he had a whole tru_ckload of chickens. He took up the survey, all day. As the sun was going down, he still had the three horses. And he had one chicken left.

By this time he knew who was the head of the house. So he thought: "I can do just one more!" He knocked on the door. It was evening and the husband was home from work. He opened the door. He was a big burly brute of a man, in his undershirt, and the hair sticking out of the undershirt. The census-taker said: "Sir, I just want to know — who is the head of the house? You, or your wife?" The big man looked at him in surprise, and said: "I am!"

The census taker looked down at the column saying "husband is the head of the house", and it was empty. He hesitated. The big man saw this, and said: "Oh! you doubt it, huh?" Then he turned and roared: "Martha, come out here!" She came out, a very sweet, soft spoken woman. "This man wants to know who is the head of the house. . . . Tell him who is the head of the house!". . . .She looked up at him, and said: "You are, dear."

The big man stood there in his pride. The census-taker said: "Mister, you are the first one all day! You are the only man in this valley who is the head of his own house! You get a horse! Which one do you want?" The man looked at the horses and said: "I’ll take that big black one!". . . . . The wife said, quickly: "Oh no, dear. Let’s take the white one!" The big burly man said: "Okay. . . . .I’ll take the white one!" . . . . . The census-taker said: "Mister, you will take a chicken!"

When a woman wants a thing. . . . stand back!