McBride High 01

Brother Vincent Gray

Beginning with high school, a number of teachers influenced my life a great deal, but few more so than Brother Vincent Gray. Practically from my first day as a freshman in 1957 I came home from the all-male, Catholic William Cullen McBride High School (now closed) talking a mile a minute about this fantastic Social Studies teacher, Brother Gray. He was so dynamic, so smart, so enthusiastic, so wonderful. He knew this, he knew that. He did this, he did that. Never a day went by that I didn’t run home with another inspirational Brother Gray story.

After the first four or five weeks of class my parents attended a parent-teacher conference at McBride. When they came home Mom had a strange look on her face as she asked, “Do you know that all those times you talked about Brother Vincent you never once mentioned he was black.”

The truth was his race wasn’t something I gave much thought to. I was so impressed by his extraordinarily vigorous intellection that his being black never was a factor. Of course I knew Brother Vincent was black. Very black indeed. You had to be blind not to notice. Not with a broad nose splayed across his face, or lips so thick they had the appearance of small sausages. And you couldn’t miss his jet-black face marred with acne scars. Short and squat, he was only about 5’7” and, like a fireplug, was almost as wide as he was tall. Okay, he wasn’t an extremely attractive physical specimen by society’s standards. So what? I didn’t give a shit and I’m sure most of his students didn’t either. We were too busy trying to keep up with him to worry about such nonsense as outward appearance.

Brother Gray’s diction was so precise at times I swore he had an Eastern Seaboard accent. And on occasion you could detect a slight lisp, especially when he was so excited by an idea that the words tumbled out in a torrent, which happened practically every day. That was the most arresting aspect about Brother Vincent, his incredibly dynamic and enthusiastic personality. He was the very first teacher who instantly impressed me not only with what he knew but also with the force of his personality. He was so gang-busters determined to make you eager to learn that he literally grabbed you and pulled you along with him, whether you liked it or not. Being in his class was a truly participatory experience that you had better be ready for or you suffered the consequences. He had little patience for students who were lazy or who didn’t want to learn.

But Brother Vincent was never harsh or irritable with us. He was fiercely demanding but never in a punitive sense. Everyone in the class respected him yet no one was afraid of him, though we had a healthy fear of being caught ignorant of our assignment. We all knew he was tough because he desperately wanted us to learn, not because he was a tyrant or a bully.

One thing I’ll never forget about him was his intolerance of gum, candy, or anything chewable. If he saw any of my classmates chewing gum or even holding it in his hand as a preface to transferring it to his mouth he would fire an eraser, book, piece of chalk or anything at hand straight at the culprit. And then he would make the criminal kneel in the aisle for ten or fifteen minutes as penance for his transgression.

Let me state from personal experience those erasers flying out of nowhere to smash into your chest just as you were about to sneak a piece of candy into your mouth startled the living shit out of you. By the time you looked up Brother Gray would be standing over you like an angry black volcano, pointing his finger at you and commanding in his deep voice, “Kneel!” He was incredible and fascinating at the same time.

In short, I loved the man. However, I didn’t do well in his class, at least not at first. Primarily because I was locked in a bitter struggle with my father for control of my mind as well as my life. It was a battle I was determined not to lose. Since I knew my father’s approval would never be forthcoming, no matter what my accomplishments or level of effort, I decided to reject him and his values in a way I knew would be effective. By not studying and pretending that getting good grades wasn’t important. It worked for the first two semesters but, at the insistence of Brother Vincent who refused to let me fail, by the end of the year I had brought my Social Studies grades up from the very low 70s to the low 90s. Quite a climb for a boy determined to flunk out of school to spite his father.

I’ll never know if Brother Vincent suspected what was happening. But I think he had to have known. When I expressed a strong attraction to the religious life I was invited to conferences at the Brothers’ residence with Brother Vincent and several other Marianists. But most of that time was spent talking with him. About all sorts of exciting topics. Novels, classical music, current events, history, politics, religious life, going to college, even my then inchoate aspirations in life.

During one of those conferences, probably after I had formally petitioned to become a Marianist postulant and had been accepted to Maryhurst Preparatory School, Brother Vincent gave me his crucifix. He presented it to me as we were listening to classical music during one Saturday session that lasted nearly three hours. I treasured the gift because to me it was far more valuable than gold and kept it for more than three decades. He was truly a special man and his gift meant more to me than I can express.

The sad part of the story is Brother Vincent’s heath wasn’t nearly as perfect as he was. The rheumatic fever he contacted as a child had seriously damaged his heart. I was in a doctoral program at the University of Florida in 1967 when I found out that he died at age 37. I cried as though I had lost one of the most important people in my life, which I had. He was a truly remarkable man. The first teacher who inspired me to learn, who lifted me above the dark clouds of personal angst to see the bright light of intellection. He was a good and genuinely holy man I will never forget.

His grave is in the little cemetery at what remains of Maryhurst Prep, where Vianney High School is today in Kirkwood, Missouri. I visit it every now and then and invariably am moved to tears remembering the concern he had for me at McBride and later at Maryhurst. He touched my life and changed me forever in ways he never knew.

I owe him so much it is hard to express my debt in terms others can understand. He helped me examine my life and think about the consequences of my actions. He helped me through a time of terrible inner turmoil when I was rebelling against a father I could only see as manipulative and mentally abusive. But he never told me what to do. Instead, he encouraged me by word and example to put my mind and soul in the hands of the Holy Spirit and my feet on the path that Christ had laid out for us. I miss him to this day in so many ways.

Brother Vincent Gray was born and reared in modest circumstances in East St. Louis, Illinois. Today, an alternative high school bearing his name offers East St. Louis students opportunities to finish their educations without the pressures that caused them to withdraw from regular high school. It is an effort Brother Vincent would have approved thoroughly.

Over a decade ago I donated his crucifix to the school. It had been in my possession long enough. And surely it belonged there, in an institution bearing his name and legacy. Because that is what Brother Vincent was all about — giving students a chance to become all that they could possibly be. That is precisely what he did for me and for so many others. The debt I owe him and his fellow Marianists is one that can never be repaid, no matter how long I live.