Valentine mutiny
Idon’t have a Valentine’s Day memory of any importance. I mean, other than my sister being born that day. That’s pretty important. Sure, my wife and I occasionally use the holiday as an excuse for a dinner out, but that’s about it.
We don’t exchange gifts and we’d probably totally forget it’s Valentine’s Day if not for the elementary school cards we’re still sending with our youngest. In fact, we sat at home last Tuesday and enjoyed a night with no required attendance anywhere beyond our living room.
My primary memory of Valentine’s Day centers on a Little Rock legend, Fr. George Tribou, who was Catholic High’s rector for almost half a century. I know, it doesn’t seem right to connect Valentine’s Day to Little Rock legends, but hear me out.
To this day, the school maintains a strict policy of refusing gifts, balloons, cards, or any other sort of romantic communication intended for students. It’s not that we’re trying to thwart budding relationships; it’s that the front office folks have more important things to do than sort through a mountain of mushy messages. Plus, summoning teenage lovebirds to retrieve their bounty would interrupt the important work going on in classrooms.
One fateful Valentine’s Day back in the mid-1980s, there was a mutiny of sorts. Vans lined up outside the school to deliver balloons, cards, candies and other gifts for students. Being an allboys school, one of two things had happened: The boys forgot to tell their girlfriends not to send gifts, or, just as likely, they instigated a well-planned prank on the priest who despised the romantic interruptions.
The office smelled like a flower shop. You had to push through balloons to get in the front door. Fr. Tribou’s cigar smoke bellowed from his private office like a chimney, which served as an early warning alert that he was thinking. If he was thinking, we were in trouble.
His voice boomed over the intercom, causing us all to jump.
“Boys, we’re having a special assembly right after lunch. Report to the gym at that time.” We sat in silence, looking at each other, both amused and alarmed.
An experienced educator can deduce the mood of a student body based solely on lunchroom chatter. Dark, cloudy days often produce barely a mumble. An average day would be a low roar. The chance of snow inspires excited, fast-talking conversations. But this day, it was like the Super Bowl was happening right inside that cafeteria. “What’s he gonna do?” “Those guys are dead meat.” “I hope my girlfriend didn’t send anything.”
“Maybe you got imaginary balloons from your imaginary girlfriend.”
A few shoving matches ensued. Normal stuff in an all-boys school.
The bell mercifully rang and the entire student body filed into the gym to take their seats in the sections assigned by class. I was a sophomore and had a good vantage point in the front row.
A line of balloons, flowers, and cards went from one side of the gym to the other. In the middle was the priest, standing with his arms behind his back, a single microphone in front of him.
“Boys, you know our rules, but—I assume— you forgot to relay those rules to your girlfriends. Therefore, I’ve decided to hand-deliver your gifts.” He strolled to the end of the line and grabbed a bundle of balloons, headed back to the microphone, and looked at the attached card. He called out the boy’s name printed on its cover. The boy stood.
“Wait right there, Mr. Walker. Let’s see what your girlfriend has to say.” Walker froze in the bleachers. Fr. Tribou opened the card and read the contents aloud for the enjoyment of all 700 gathered students. The card contained pledges of undying love and promises to be true forever, or some other such nonsense. A hush had covered the crowd. Then, howling laughter erupted. The boys who knew they had gifts stopped smiling. I began to pray fervently that my girlfriend hadn’t sent anything.
And the assembly went on. And on. And on. Red-faced boys retrieved their goodies. Their friends applauded with teenage zeal.
Message delivered.
Now, sitting in Fr. Tribou’s old office, I realize he likely edited what was on the cards and called out only the kids who could handle a little ribbing. And, he made a point. We haven’t had a Valentine’s mutiny since.
Fr. Tribou died almost a quarter-century ago this month and it’s hard to believe he’s been gone that long. Like most teachers with a knack for outsmarting their charges while delivering life lessons, this Little Rock legend lives on.