Vito Colletta missed his calling. As he strode down the hallway in his $35 dollar Marshall’s sport jacket he looked as if he could be perfectly cast as a low level lieutenant in the Soprano gang. With his full head of slick black hair pasted to the side, shifty brown eyes, and bushy eyebrows he could have passed for a small time mobster on his way to carry out a hit. Instead, he was the assistant principal of Pine Bush High School, walking down the hallway with a sense of purpose that was testing his reputed lower than average I.Q. On this particular Monday my best guess was he was once again looking for me and not one of the students.
“Siegel did you leave school early Friday afternoon?’’ was his introduction to this latest potential confrontation.
“No, Vito, why would you make such an inquiry?” I replied sarcastically .
“Mrs. MaCewan said you walked out the side door at about two and never returned.”
Vito did not like me and he was doing everything in his power to catch me with my hand in the cookie jar. As Vito challenged me further regarding my early departure, I caught the eye of a 17 year old student who had developed into sort of a teaching assistant for me over the course of the school year and saw my opening.
“Vito, I am not going to let you or Mrs. McCewan embarrass yourselves any further.
Friday afternoon Kim Kelley had very a personal problem that needed private conversation. I was talking to Miss Kelly right over there,” pointing around the corner behind the stairwell.
“ Siegel I know you’re lying.”
“Well, Vito there she sits why don’t you go over and ask her.” The game of chicken was on. Mr. Colletta shot glances back and forth between myself and Ms. Kelly . Shaking his head in disgust he headed back down the hallway, walking with a defeated shuffle, once again not securing his man.
By the fall of 1984 I was ready to embrace moving out of the Middle School and walk the halls of academia at Pine Bush High School. It was a seamless transition for me at the time. I had already coached two years of J.V basketball and had become familiar with many of the athletes, cheerleaders, administration, and faculty. Now the ride from where I lived in New Paltz in my new 300zx was much shorter than the prior two years. In my mind it was a promotion, everything and everyone would be magnified. Standing in front of first period 11th grade American History class I felt like a baseball player who had spent a couple years in the minors and had just been called up to the majors. The lights were brighter, the kids were bigger, and the accountability was raised to a higher level.
Of the many labels I had been assigned , being called a good student was never one of them. And, now, there I was the authority and voice of reason to these late teens. As I stood in front of that initial class on opening day I was prepared to give these skeptical adolescents their money’s worth. As I think back
today, through steadily weakening eyes, some faces are blurred and others are crystal clear. Kate Bergamo locked in at attention with her big brown eyes. Jim Becker’s constant barrage of questions. Swimmer Regina Martin sporting a damp head from an early practice, or a late shower. Mike Lettera’s quiet smile that foreshadowed the unspoken bond we would develop. That first class at PBHS set the stage for an enchanted fairy tale-like school year for me. Little did I know, that his particular year would be the most fun, fulfilling , and rewarding year I would have in my teaching tenure.
PBHS had been around much longer than me but in many ways we were coming of age together. Pine Bush, geographically one of the largest school districts in the state , unfairly had a reputation of being made up hard working farm families peppered with hard-core rednecks. In the early 1980’s a growing Middletown area created an overflow that brought more of the city types into PBHS. What on the surface looked like a lethal blending of polar opposites turned out be a potion of bonding and mutual respect. Superintendent Ed Moore had plans for turning Pine Bush into a winner in every way . He was determined to hire young energetic “superstar teachers”. He discovered these characteristics in the likes of myself, Mark Cartisano, Jerome Leonardi, Greg
MacAvoy, Robbie Greene, Carla McClaud and John Salvadore. Also on Moore’s agenda was having a winning football team. Moore heard that J. V. football coach Marsh Canosa wanted to leave the District to coach baseball professionally in Italy.
To keep his grips on the charismatic teacher and coach he cut an under the table deal. Canosa was allowed a half year sabbatical from Pine Bush to coach baseball professionally in Italy. Of course Marsh did not have to return, but if he did the deal was he had to take over as head coach of the a staggering PBHS football program. Marsh did come home, he installed the wing T offense, and with the talents of Mike Kiselak, Jack Shaughnessy , Rich Cameron, Tom Lamendola, and Joe Crisp Canosa’s first varsity team went on to win their only Orange County Championship in Pine Bush history.
Four of the seven teachers I mentioned stayed in Pine Bush as teachers another 25 years. Robbie Green went on to be Superintendent of Schools in Washingtonville New York. Leonardi stayed another 10 years , while I would depart with the class of 1987…….even though in that inaugural year I was sure I would never leave . There was one major factor that drove me to that belief. It was the students themselves and
the relationship I built with so many of them. Every day I brought the kind of energy to the classroom that opened minds, providing fertile ground for learning. I was challenged in American History by Jennifer McGregor, Jim Whittel and Kim Kelley.
I was debated in Criminal Justice by Bill Grau, Clint Knoll (some irony there) and Andrea Lunney. I was scrutinized in sociology class by Torill Hunsbedt , Mark Brennan and Alisa Lazio. I coached J.V basketball for the third consecutive year with players who slid in under the radar; Glenn Taylor, Derek Moore, and Jimmy Wright (currently the varsity football coach at Pine Bush).
I took it all in that first year, like a kid in a candy store. There was a little faculty room off the cafeteria that I don’t think many people even knew existed. Every school day myself, Steve Loturco, and Mark Cartisano exchanged war stories that
as of today I will not share. I observed student –student relationships, teacher-teacher relationships , and yes, teacher-student relationships. There are many tales that I have sworn to myself I will never retell, and so far I have kept that pledge. On the Senior trip to Busch Gardens I was awakened from a sound sleep only to be yanked out of my bed and mildly attacked by a swarm of 18 year old girls. I took it in fun and was always comfortable knowing that there was never anything more than youthful testing of the boundaries involving the interludes between myself and the students in my charge. Now the administration……. was an entirely different story.
It was a Thursday in the middle of June that I walked through the doors of the High school fashionably late. With a few cobwebs left from a day before of golfing, and a night on the town in New Paltz, I was startled when John Salvadore approached on my first step inside the
building.
“Siegs, they were paging you on the loudspeakers yesterday all afternoon. I just wanted to give you the heads up.”
The prior day had been a regent day and my kids were not testing until the next day. I had no responsibilities on Thursday but I knew teachers were required to be there for the whole day regardless. In by mailbox was a note from Mr. Colletta asking for me to see him immediately.
“I walked the building, called for you over the loud speaker several times, I got you this time Siegel,” Vito gleefully chirped. “You left the building early yesterday.”
“Sorry Vito, I had nothing to do in the afternoon, I was downstairs in the pool for two hours swimming laps.”
Vito’s veins in his neck were exploding as he picked up the phone in front of me.
“Mase,(Jeff Masionet was in charge of the school pool) was Siegel swimming laps in the pool yesterday afternoon?” I could tell there was a long hesitation on the other end but when Mase started to speak I could hear him.
“Come on Vito what do you want from me,”
“Just the truth Mase,”
“Jesus Vito, don’t do this to me, yeah Siegel was doing laps.” I loved teaching, and I loved the kids but having Wile E. Coyote chasing after me constantly was getting old fast. As Mr. Colletta stood there in frozen frustration I slowly turned and existed his office. Upon my departure, I said two words, just loud enough for Vito to hear, “Beep, Beep.”
The top was all the way down as the little red MG sped through the winding roads of the Town of Crawford. One of the few FM stations that could get audible reception was playing Asia cranked all the way to the maximum volume, “One thing is sure…that time will tell.” At 7 am on this September morning there was the slightest aura of Autumn and school books. A kid who had possessed a disdain for being a student, and an overall cavalier attitude toward academia, was cruising along headed for his first day of being an educator. Like the dark roots that hid beneath his sun bleached hair, there was much more to this young man than met the eye.
or, the science teacher was having an affair with the English teacher, and the gym teacher was trying to score with everybody. As for me, I reserved my faculty flings for an older, recently divorced, sixth grade teacher. She was a rookie teach who taught health and coached the girls field hockey team.
It was as quiet as a fraternity house could get. The ambiguous time 
It was that time in late February when we take notice of the days getting longer. For the first time in over two months, the winter was displaying a chink in it’s armor. The month with the fewest days had been breaking records for low temperatures and high snow accumulations. The last time I had walked out of the gym without a coat was before Christmas. I stepped into the 40 degree daylight and instead of a shivered, rushed walk to my car. I strutted slowly barley lifting the soles of my shoes off the ground. Staring down at my walking surface the impact of the harsh winter was obvious. The blacktop had a white tint to it from all of the salt that had been grounded in. The parking lot area had already begun to display cracking and bubbling from the sudden and short lived change in Fahrenheit. For a moment “Old Man Winter” was losing his bite. Despite how hard he tried to hold on , it was time for a change. Even seasons must give way to the order of the universe.
“Hey Richie Siegel! I just ordered your book. Funny, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so nostalgic, and well… a writer.” There was a signature after the note. It was a person who, like the years, had slipped away and out of my consciousness . I had known her well for a short period of time in my adolescence but realized that our last contact had been nearly 40 years ago. Over the course of the last year, I have had numerous reunions with the ghosts of my past. Most have been friendly encounters and filled with adulations. I had heard from many people with whom I had powerful relationships with at one time but had written out of my life. This connection felt different because I could remember how this girl had experienced me at my height of immaturity and arrogance. Her message went on, “I can already hear in your prose on your website the sounds of the cocky, conceited, prepster- jock I remember from four decades before.”
I sat still in my car not turning on the ignition. She had come to New Paltz in 1974 from Gramercy Park with her dad and sister. Her mom had died six months earlier and her father was faced with some legal problems that had made the newspapers. Never could a young girl be more vulnerable and in need of support and friendship. Within a year she was in a serious relationship with my best friend. This is without a doubt how we became connected. Her close relationship with Todd presented me with an opportunity to show off my ugly side. That included inappropriate flirtations, derogatory comments about her dad, and judgments in reference to what I considered her promiscuity . A couple of years later when my friend and her broke up, we went on a few dates where I was able to up close and personally solidify in her mind what an asshole I was.
I am ready for another spring as much as I ever have been. I am not afraid of change and I am ready for new, bright, fresh days. One person from my past gave me the confirmation and the verification that I am still learning , still growing, and still seeking redemption. It is the time of year to start repaving the roads, opening the windows, and planting new seeds. Winter can’t hold on much longer . The circle of life assures it will come back again, but not before we get a chance to start over. Seasons change, people change.
While his opponents running on the synthetic turf were collapsing from pure exhaustion, Bruce Jenner raised both his arms high in triumph. His chest was wide and his golden hair flopped in the Canada night as he crossed the finish line of the 1,500 meter track race. He completed the final leg of the event that would give him the unofficial title of “Greatest Athlete in the World”. Jenner’s second place finish in the 1500 meter won him the gold medal in the Decathlon at the 1976 Summer Olympic Games held in Montreal. Back in upstate New York on that warm July evening, my brother and I lay on the shag rug in our family’s den looking at each other knowing that what Jenner had just accomplished was the stuff of dreams. I was only 16 years old and had really had just begun developing an idea of who I was and who I wanted to become. I was very late to mature mentally and probably more so physically. I loved sports and fantasized of being a great athlete but my body was not cooperating. At this juncture in time I had not gotten to second base with a female and was having the normal prepubescent struggles with my own sexuality. As the new Olympic champion jogged a victory lap draped in an American flag ,my brother and I headed to the garage for a game of ping pong. On that night there was one definitive thought in my mind: Bruce Jenner is a real man.
The days of boys in blue and girls in pink was no longer the standard. Openly gay men seemed to be more in touch with their feminine side. They were going to the hairdresser, getting their nails done, wearing jewelry, and enjoying being pampered. My father’s generation had never heard of such a thing. For myself, this was a time period to embrace some of the more lady-like things that my older friends scorned and ridiculed. I wore my hair longer, got my ear pierced, wore platform shoes and adorned plenty of feminine colors. My teens and 20’s were awkward from an emotional side. I had no idea of how to treat the ladies and I had less of an idea of how to be a man.
Although the word may already be somewhat antiquated, my wife refers to me as metro sexual. I always respond back, “No, I happen to be in touch with my feminine side.” Growing up in small town America in the 1970’s, there were no LGBTQ groups with an office on main street or a gay alliance club in the high school. The only exposure I had to this lifestyle was the character from Rocky Horror Picture Show (Dr. Frank Furter) and the androgynous rock stars Freddie Mercury and David Bowie. Back then, I could not adequately explain what it meant to be transgender and would have trouble expressing it even today. In the most literal sense, Bruce Jenner is a male who desires to be female. In respect to outward appearance, with the exception of his head, he is growing less hair and seems to have larger breasts. I would also assume that once the gender reassignment is complete he will dress like a lady. Were there men with woman living inside of them? Had these people been assigned the wrong sex at birth? Are there many people who have these desires and just fight them off?
Having the opportunity to have lived 55 years, I am coherent there lies a large gap in the constitutional make-up between men and women. Yet in the same breath, the difference in the two sexes is like the fine line between the darkness and the dawn. As children, there was an “us” and “them” factor. Years ago, it seemed like girls were running past me as I just dragged my feet. Despite the muddle, and my wife’s teasing about me being too in touch with my female side, I never had a physical relationship with a male nor have I ever felt like I was not assigned the wrong sex at birth. I support gay marriage, what two people do with their lives is of no concern of mine, and if somebody believes they were assigned the wrong sex at birth, I say fix it. The combination of being an Olympic hero and the patriarch of the Kardashian clan already gave Jenner attention from millions of Americans. Coming forward now with the declaration that he has been a woman trapped inside a man’s body is more fodder for the magazines and the curiosity seekers.
Somewhere in my youth I heard the expression, “Now that’s a real man.” The people who used the quote were referring to the likes of John Wayne, Burt Lancaster, Mickey Mantle, and Rock Hudson. The implication was that if you were strong, athletic, swashbuckling and handsome, you were a “man’s man”. Members of the opposite sex adorned and lusted after kings of masculinity. Over space and time, the lines between man and woman have become fuzzy. It’s not a bad thing that it’s m
ore challenging to define what it means to be man in today’s world, or what it means to be a woman. It has always been the case that as we age, gravity provides the stimulus for making men and women appear more physically similar. Bruce Jenner feels his gender was initially misidentified and has lived with that awareness for 65 years. It is courageous for him to put himself out there for all the world to see. I am sure Jenner’s announcement will encourage others to explore their gender Identity. It will leave the rest of us wondering who the real men are.
Sunday as I was watching the Super Bowl that repressed memory rushed back into my head as hard and punishing as a Marshawn Lynch run from scrimmage. Pete Carroll, of big time coaching fame, had just made the coaching blunder of the Century. Not only might it have been the worst call in sports history, it was executed on the biggest and most viewed stage that exists today. A half a yard away from immortality, and “Beast Mode” on his side ready to roar Coach Carroll decided to be fancy instead of prudent and elected to throw the pigskin for the win. The result will keep the Monday morning quarterbacks talking for a lifetime and destroy Carroll’s coaching legacy.
My interest in all of the above is not as much as the errors made, but the accountability, or lack of such, that people demonstrate in the immediate times after the mistakes in judgment have been made. Here’s what Pete Carroll should have said:” I don’t know what I was thinking, I should have given the ball to the best power back in football and game over. If I had it to do over again we would have won or lost this game on the back of Marshawn Lynch.” That simple concession and 150 million people would have cut him some slack. It is difficult enough to admit miscues on the sports field let alone missteps that result in losing lives. Coach Carroll post game explanation was filled with rationales and defenses of a his major screw up. Fourteen years later President Bush justifies the war in Iraq and despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary still nods and says ” yes , the weapons are there.”
I guess we all have trouble confessing to our poor decisions we make under pressure. The day after the Super Bowl “Johnny Football” (Manziel) checked himself into a rehabilitation center because of problems related to alcohol use. The analogy may not be perfect, but unlike the three above mentioned Manziel is taking accountability and responsibility for his actions. It takes tremendous courage to be 23 years old, have millions of dollars and admirers, all having tremendous expectations for you. By admitting to having a problem a label will be tagged on you to carry around the rest of your life. Owning who you are and your short comings is not an easy thing, especially at such an young age. Alcoholism is a disease that causes your life to become unmanageable. Surrendering to it is far different than conceding you made the wrong call in a football game.
On the occasions that I get past the shallowness of my appearance, I begin to examine the fibers of my life. I am a big believer that life is short and we are not in a dress rehearsal. I have gotten wise enough to grasp that I will never find all of the answers but the search for them is the true high. In the end, I don’t want to leave anything on the table whether it be money, good times, opportunities, or my quest for knowledge. Fortunately at some point earlier in my life I decided I wanted to be something more than a jock and a good time Charlie. I want to explore myself and try to tap into that deep well of potential we all possess. At some point I did think ahead of what it would be like to be 55 and older. I figured out back then that I didn’t want to be looking back at a past of scorched earth.
If age is just a number, come