To what lengths will some people go to connect with their roots? And what means enable them to do so?
These questions arise in the case of Florence Bordj and her mother, Therese Bonnafous Bordj, from France but now living in Tahiti. They flew to the states to be close to the haunts of their great-grand-uncle and grand-uncle, respectively, Msgr. Adrien Rabeyrolle, the pastor of Immaculate Conception church.
But first, how they got the connection: Back in 2003, the first year of Work of Art, I wrote on how the word “challenge” appears to have changed complexion.
Let me explain:
Today, a challenge comes across more as a request, as in “I have been challenged to invite 20 or more people to my Amway party.” I said in that column that “challenge” used to be an urging to attempt something that has a foreseeable reward. My words were, “‘Challenge’ was the word Msgr. Adrien Rabeyrolle employed to announce to us Immaculate Conception School third-graders in Sister Mary Verfressen’s class that the fourth-graders had challenged us to sales of raffle tickets. We gladly took up the challenge. Besides, what business do those pseudo-sophisticated fourth-graders have trying to beat us?”
Note that the reward would come in the glow of beating those brobdingnagians, those enormous fourth-graders, who’d pick on us on the playground.
Late last year, Florence Bordj used the “Google” feature on her computer and typed in her ancestor’s name. Among other things, up came the Dec. 23, 2003, Work of Art titled, “Who’s ready for a challenge?” She then wrote, asking for whatever information I could find.
Florence soon made plans for a flight all the way from French Polynesia to Albuquerque, then a drive to Santa Fe to visit his gravesite, and eventually to Las Vegas. Florence wrote, “We came in the USA only to go and see where he had lived, served and was buried. When in Santa Fe in the Rosario Cemetery, my mum shed some tears even if she didn’t really know him, she went quiet emotional. It was like going through a long journey and finally finding the (Holy) ‘Grail’”!
During their visit here last week, I learned Florence herself keeps a file filled with photos, clippings, testimonials and public records on her great-grand-uncle. All I was able to provide was anecdotes. Among them: How he used to read and recite everyone’s report cards.
Even having “A” student sisters, Dorothy and Dolores, didn’t mitigate my six-times-yearly embarrassment. My sisters got rave reviews, but the scholastic talent must have diminished with the last sibling. The entire class must have gotten accustomed to hearing Rabeyrolle gasp as he recited my grades, in the key of “F,” even though I.C. lacked a music class.
“Ohhh, Arthur!” became the chant of some classmates, imitative of Father Rabeyrolle, and the intonation made it clear substandard grades were being implied. Differently inflected, these words would be what any boy named Arthur might enjoy hearing from a girl on a date, or in the back row of the movie show.
Any pre-50s alumnus at I.C. School will verify that Father Rabeyrolle announced everyone’s grades to the four winds. Why didn’t I.C. have only two grading periods instead of six?
Yet few remember the time when Rabeyrolle’s sermon got interrupted by a chunk of concrete that broke off a side wall, alarming many and waking some.
Asking for verification today would be difficult, as the event took place about 60 years ago, in the old I.C. Church, at Fifth, University and Grand, where an Allsup’s now stands. Father Rabeyrolle died in 1950, in the old Saint Anthony’s Hospital, on Eighth. His grand-niece was 2 at the time.
The tour my wife and I led took our guests to the spot where the old church had been located. We stood at the spot of the confessional, a small one-penitent booth with a thin curtain for privacy. Though we were under orders never to overhear anyone’s confession, we got the drift when the priest’s voice would holler, “You did what?”
We showed the Bordjs where the old rectory was, now a used-car lot, across the street, and we took them to I.C. School and church, the cornerstone of which bears Rabeyrolle’s name. The priest worked for construction of a new building but didn’t live long enough to see it dedicated and in use.
Rabeyrolle headed the local church about 44 years. A clear recollection on my part — and this is really a criticism of technology of that era, and of myself — was the pain I would feel when Rabeyrolle “whistled” into the microphone. My theory is that a gap between his teeth created a whistle for certain sibilant sounds, amplified by the then low-tech mike.
Yet, when he bruited out our grades at school, the whistle wasn’t as evident; he spoke softly, but loud enough for his tone of to allow people to infer with accuracy what the grades were.
Back to roots, connections and foundations. Therese speaks only French and I am an illustrious student of the language of Voltaire. But I soon discovered that the French “gateau” doesn’t mean “cat” at all, but “cake.” That can cause confusion in a restaurant.
I tried out my new skills for the occasion, mustering my best French nasal and a recent cultural lesson at the departure of the voyagers. I stepped forth and plied the “on se baise?” (is it OK to give you a good-bye kiss?) principle, giving my guests a fond bon voyage message — a brief hug and a peck on each cheek.