With their short plaid skirts and white collared shirts and the inviting exposure between where the skirt cut off and the sock began, generating an erotic glare of exposed flesh.
In their uniforms the Catholic school girls felt like a superior breed, they were of higher stock and quality. I think we needed to see them that way, that if they represented cleanness and purity to our degeneracy and vileness, that meant they could serve as powerful forces, magical and otherwordly, beyond or above the shit of our neighborhood, and restore us to the greater parts of ourselves, the higher parts. They could restore us to us.
In this respect they were indispensable.
At the same time, on some level, we hated them for exactly the same reasons.
We needed to tear them down, make them pay for indiscretions they had never committed, trespasses they had never enacted. They could purify us, they could damn us.
On a most fundamental level, we were scared of them, or perhaps scared of how much we needed them.
Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag.
His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.