Mum’s Not the Word Anymore

When I attended Cardinal Spellman High School all those years ago, students typically had a “free period”—or two in some instances—each and every school day. We were confronted with several options during these much-appreciated respites from the educational grind. Visiting the cafeteria was a popular option, which I often did during non-lunch periods—the calm before or after the storms, as it were. Another possibility was the school’s library, where absolute quiet was not only the rule, but enforced without exception and with an iron fist by chief librarian Sister Mary Louise. What was dubbed “quiet study,” in a classroom with a faculty monitor, was a benign choice. Mum was the word, but without Attila the Nun waiting to pounce like a frog on a fly. Finally, students could attend the also monitored “loud study”—as I so cleverly called it in my witty teen years—and kibbitz with one another without fear of reprobation.

It was an era where quiet was expected in certain bailiwicks like libraries. I distinctly remember my local public library in the 1970s. You could hear a pin drop in that place. The librarians were quick to “shush” violators of the established protocols. Nowadays, of course, the library experience has changed. Kids use computers there to play interactive online games with sound and no earphones. Noise that everyone can hear. Multiply that by five, six, seven, or eight, and it’s disconcerting. Throw in personal phone conversations and it’s a raucous party room. There is no more shushing in libraries—at least around here—and talk is both cheap and earsplitting.

A few months back, I was summoned to jury duty, which eluded me somehow for thirty years. That, too, was a much louder experience than in the past. In the 1990s and earlier, there were no big screen TVs in the jury assembly room tuned into annoying game shows and obnoxious talk fests with the volume turned way, way up. My prior memories of serving were on the serene side. One could talk in the rooms, but there was no music or deafening televisions to intrude on the noble civic service waiting game. Prospective jurors brought books and newspapers with them.

Loud distractions are here to stay, I guess. But why, pray tell, do eateries or doctors’ waiting rooms need TVs? I’d rather not be subject to The View with my burger and fries or before learning that I have a terminal illness and only six months to live. A healthy portion of the masses fear quiet contemplation. In my neighborhood, modified cars, motorcycles, and scooters traverse once quiet—or quieter—streets and most people don’t bat an eye. Sports venues blast music—and not of the elevator or organist variety—to fill in every moment of inactivity on the fields of play. I suppose in this age of short attention spans, noise—and the louder the better—calms those afflicted.

Lastly, a footnote taking me back to that more peaceful age: Upon graduation from high school, I worked in a small retail shop called Pet Nosh—owned by my older brother and a neighbor—in Yonkers, just north of the Bronx. Often in its nascent days, I was the sole employee on the premises. One morning, two customers arrived together—two Sisters of Charity—that I knew from my secondary educational experience. It was none other than the librarian and an administrator/teacher, who I had for a course called "Finite Math." Only three years removed from high school, my legs got a little wobbly in their presence. They didn’t recognize me, though, and I debated whether I should declare: “I know who you are, ladies!” I didn’t because, after all, I was a quiet young man living in quieter times. In retrospect, I wish I had done the big reveal. They were very pleasant outside of the confines of Cardinal Spellman. Yes, quietude has its place in certain places and is sorely missed.

 (Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)