When he was one year old, I left home to enter the Society of Jesus. Over the next four years I saw him about once every two months, for a couple of hours, when the family came to visit me in the Jesuit Novitiate at Wernesville, Pennsylvania.
When Ken was five years old, I came home for one week, before I left for the Philippines. He was the only one who wept, when I went away. After that, I did not see him for seven years, because the war broke, and I was interned at Los Baños.
When Ken was eight years old, in Grade Three, he came home from school one day, in the middle of the morning, carrying a spelling test paper, and a note from the nun who was the Principal of Saint Mary’s Parochial School. The note said that the test paper must be signed by father and mother, and he could not come back to school unless one of them was with him.
When my mother looked at the spelling test, she was aghast. Out of a possible 100, Ken’s mark was 19. And it was not his first crime. He had failed many previous tests, but did not bring them home. He learned to forge mother’s signature.
My Dad was at work, and would not be home until evening, so Ken could not go back to school. My mother did what only a woman would do - she sat poor Ken, eight years old, in the corner of the kitchen, while she was cleaning the house.
Every time she looked at him, she wept. She was sure that he was retarded. There was a mental testing center in Newark, New Jersey – the city next to ours – and by noon my mother was planning to take him to the testing center. She was sure that they would declare him a moron, or an idiot. By mid-afternoon she was sure that they would have to put him in a mental institution. She was thinking of the family going to visit him on Sundays, bringing him hot soup.
When my father came home, still in uniform, still wearing his gun, he stopped in the doorway. He could feel that the room was charged with emotion. Poor Ken was sobbing in the corner. My mother’s eyes were red from weeping, and she was so choked up that she could not talk. She took the test paper, and thrust it into my Dad’s hands, saying: "Here!"
My father looked at the paper. Then he said: "What’s the matter?" My mother said: "It’s a spelling test! Look at it!" He looked at it, and said: "What’s the matter?" My mother, impatient, said: "Don’t you see all the words that are spelled wrong?"
My Dad sat down, and studied the paper carefully, for about five minutes. Then he looked up and said: "Which words?"
It was only then that my mother realized that my Dad could not spell, either. They met when she was one year old, learning to walk hand over hand along a white picket fence. He was two, and could walk already. He never had another girl friend. But he never wrote her a letter, either. He didn’t have to. They lived next door to each other.
He laughed, and said: "Yeah! I could never spell. Whenever I was called on in class, I would get by with my smile!"
My mother thought: "He began to work when he was 14; he is a good provider, a good husband, a good father; and he can’t spell! Maybe spelling is not that important." So the next morning she went to school with Ken. The nun was the great stone face, very stern. But my mother said to her: "Well, you know, his father can not spell, either. Maybe he has other talents."
Ken continued in school. In fourth year high he was captain of the basketball team. He went on to become a Lieutenant of Police. He carried a little pocket dictionary, to look up the words he couldn’t spell. Thank God for my father! If he had not laughed about it, Ken would probably have been committed to a mental institution!
When Ken came here, for the first time, on my birthday, he said: "I can’t spell, even now!" When he got home, he wrote me a letter. True enough, there were eight mistakes in spelling. I corrected them, because I was an English teacher. But it is a beautiful letter. Here it is.
"Hi Jim,
"I can remember a long time ago, you said that the Filipinos were the gentlest people in the world, and I couldn’t agree with you more. In all the time we were there, rich or poor, I didn’t hear one harsh word, see a nasty look or any impoliteness.
"In my life I have been to Germany, France, England, Austria, Ireland, Bahamas and many of the states including Hawaii. In all fairness I saw most of them while I was in the Army and being an ‘Ugly American’ some rudeness is expected. But to see none of it in the Philippines was unbelievable.
"I could say that this was due to the respect that everyone has for you, but much of the time we were on the street where no one knew us, and the demeanor did not change.
"I don’t know whether you had a choice as to where you wished to work, but you could have led an easier life. By teaching, coaching, working with the wealthy, it enabled you to help the poor, the nuns, and God only knows who else. I know this must sound silly to you because you know it, but before this trip I didn’t.
"Being on the police department, I dealt with a lot of the poor. Mainly because that is where the crime rate is the highest. I felt bad for many of them and could understand some of the illegal things they did in order to live, but after seeing the Philippines, our poor are living high on the hog! Our poor may not have hot water but many of yours have no water at all or for that matter, no roof.
"One picture that will stay in my mind forever is when a child under the bridge, a baby who couldn’t have been more than a year old, took Geri’s hand and touched it to his forehead. I felt I could cry, and I know Geri did.
"I have always felt that we never got to know each other, as most brothers do, but when I see the work you have done, I know it is far more important than anything else. I am sure Mom and Dad knew all you were doing, and if they didn’t then, they do now.
"Geri will try to get the names and addresses of all the wonderful people who were so good to us so we can thank them personally.
"Please slow down just a little, and try to listen to the nun who is your doctor. She is trying to see to it that you make 104.
"Love you. – Ken."
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