I found these photos of St. John Villa Academy in the New York Public Library’s Digital Collections: Staten Island in Vintage Postcards. The collection consists of 768 postcards that show places and life in Staten Island from the late 19th-century into the 20th-century. Catherine Robinson, who spent her childhood in Staten Island, collected and organized the postcards as a hobby and gave them to the NYPL in 2001. No date is given for these photos. The school opened 85 years ago. If you happen to know anything about these postcards, feel free to leave a comment.

To see what it looks like today, take a look at these photos I took in January 2010. The place hasn’t changed much. The trees are taller, of course, and a few buildings have been added. The Verrazano Narrows Bridge, which  recently celebrated its 45th anniversary–and remains a symbol of my longing to go home during my days there–hadn’t been built yet. The school grounds skirt the edge of the tollbooths of the bridge, its span looming in the background. The whooshing sounds of bridge traffic fills the campus.

St. John’s Villa Academy, Clev... Digital ID: 104981. New York Public Library

St. John Villa Academy, Cleveland Place, Staten Island: stone wall and drive up to main buildings

~

The Sanctuary, St. John’s Vill... Digital ID: 104977. New York Public Library

The Sanctuary, St. John Villa Academy

~

St. John’s Villa Academy  [bui... Digital ID: 104979. New York Public Library

Buildings and entrance court

~

St. John’s Villa Academy  [app... Digital ID: 104980. New York Public Library

Appears to be door to chapel

~

Chapel, St. John’s Villa Acade... Digital ID: 104971. New York Public Library

Chapel

~

 St. John’s Villa Academy, Arr... Digital ID: 104976. New York Public Library

St. John’s Villa Academy

~

St. John’s Villa Academy [view... Digital ID: 104978. New York Public Library

View of statue in entrance court and garden

~

St. John’s Villa Academy [camp... Digital ID: 104982. New York Public Library

Campus in winter, snow on ground

~

St. John’s Villa Academy,  Arr... Digital ID: 104974. New York Public Library

Drive to main entrance

~

St. John’s Villa Academy, Arro... Digital ID: 104972. New York Public Library

Iron entrance gate, snow-covered landscape and buildings

~

St. John’s Villa Academy, Stat... Digital ID: 104975. New York Public Library

Drive to main entrance with center court and statue

On late Monday afternoon, New York City was cold and gray, a light snow–picture the snow scenes in “A Charlie Brown Christmas”–dusted the streets. I wandered around a bookstore, bought a book and headed to the nearest Starbucks to read and warm up with a hot latte. Occasionally, I stared out the windows, watching the snowflakes drift to the ground and melt and people heading home for the evening. I had time to kill because Connie was held up at work. I’d waited for decades wondering when, if ever, we’d meet again. Another hour of waiting would be like a minute. I was excited and could barely concentrate on my book.

When the time came, I headed around the corner to a cozy bistro, Cafe Luxembourg, on the Upper West Side. (Excellent choice–intimate, great food.) My eyeglasses fogged up, and the lights were very dim. I searched for her familiar face. As soon as she walked in, we recognized each other and caught each other in a tight hug, despite our puffy down coats.

Our conversation flowed easily. Nothing felt awkward about it. The connection, after all this time, was still there. Other diners at the restaurant would never have guessed we hadn’t seen in each other in 39 years. We had a champagne toast, ordered the same entrees, shared dessert.

Birthday Gift

Birthday Gift

She looked the same, only grown up. Her eyes still sparkled, her skin translucent. For the occasion, I wore the earrings she had given me for my tenth birthday, when she’d come to my party. That was the last time we were together. By then we were both free from boarding school. I was in living on the Lower East Side with my mother, she in Queens with hers. I cherished those earrings, simple pink tourmaline stones. (Pink tourmaline is said to have these properties: inspire love and creativity, help one recover from emotional difficulties, provide wisdom and strengthen willpower.)

Connie and I talked fast, covering so much territory–the present, the past, the in between, politics–trying to make sense of so much. Those two years in boarding school haunt our thoughts to this day. The experience shaped our lives. But there is something more to that. It was what brought many of us to that particular place to begin with: being an only child of a single working parent in the sixties. Our parents couldn’t afford to spoil us, much less have the time to dote on us. We chatted about our mothers, their frame of mind, their needs, their neediness. Both of us admire them for what they did, overcoming sexism in the workplace, being the head of household, and so on.

And yet. We came back to one theme throughout our meal. Our childhoods were fraught with anxiety, which remains with us to this day. The adults around us weren’t taking care of us in some ways. We had to navigate so much on our own. We were lied to. We were alone.

In boarding school, we were punished for doing things that kids do. Ordinary things, not mischief. We were boarders ranging in age from 6 to 12. Connie remembered when I’d been punished for vomiting in the middle of the night in my bed. For a week after that, I was sent to bed earlier than all the other girls. There I was, at 7 pm, tucked into my bed among rows of beds. We all slept in one big room. I could never forget that incident and the aftermath. I took great comfort that Connie, too, remembered my ordeal, too.

Once, we were scolded and punished for showing fear during an intense thunderstorm. Our closets were inspected every day. Anything out of order could mean a punishment. I was caught with dimes in my loafers. We weren’t allowed to have any money at all. My mother had put dimes in my penny loafers instead of pennies, in case I needed to make a phone call. The dimes were taken away from me. I was punished. I was like an animal, always on alert, fearful that I could be attacked from any direction, for any reason, for no reason. I was never hit by the nun in charge of the boarders, but I have many scars.

Being on Staten Island adjacent to the Verrazano Bridge increased our sense of isolation and distance from any possible sense of love and security. Our mothers inadvertently added to that feeling of remoteness. Connie and I recalled that both of us had cats at home and that our mothers, without warning, got rid of them.

There was one event that I don’t remember at all: Robert Kennedy’s assassination. Connie described our dear second grade teacher, Sr. Raphael, wheeling in a cart with a TV for us to watch the news. How could I not recall something like that? That’s one of those events that you know where you were when it happened. Throughout our four-hour dinner–we were one of the last to leave–we tried to figure out where I’d been. Was it the time I had rubella and was absent? I am mystified that I have no memory of this. Connie felt so vulnerable to see that such a vibrant person had been gunned down, his life gone. When I got back to my hotel, I doublechecked the date of his assassination: June 6, 1968. We were definitely still in school. A puzzle.

Our reunion was a joyful one. We looked upon the past with awe. We had emerged from our difficult childhoods and managed to become successful. A therapist once told me that others who had experienced such traumas often become substance abusers, sex addicts, criminals. Connie and I toasted our resilience.

Throughout, the waiter, Matthew, humored us. We kept shooing him away when he came to take our order. We had been too busy talking to read the menu and told him this was our reunion dinner. Connie and I quizzed him about his own story. It turns out he’d gone to boarding school, only at age 16, in England, I think. When we told him that we had been boarders, too, only at a much younger age, he was astonished. People always are. He said something like, “even in the British system, where boarding school is not unusual, that’s almost unheard of.” (Awhile ago, I’d done a search of U.S. boarding schools. Fortunately none seem to take kids below sixth grade nowadays.)

Throughout the years, I had always thought about Connie and my other boarding school friend whom I’d last seen when I was 18. Thanks to the Internet, I found them last fall right around the time I was thinking of starting this blog. I had tried many times before, but both of them had different last names as adults. By coincidence, they had each signed up at classmates.com, which lists surnames–birth and marriage. Now that I had their correct last names, I found them on Facebook and e-mailed them. Our long-lost conversations were re-ignited. I needed to reconnect with them and that part of my life.

Connie and I said good night and hugged again at the 72nd St. subway station. Our dinner had ended, but our friendship renewed. I walked back to my hotel, careful not slip on the icy sidewalks. The lights from stores and streetlights made the wet asphalt glisten. The night air felt so crisp and clear.

The blog “Going Coastal” has a wonderful post about the Staten Island ferry. Going Coastal is a nonprofit dedicated to connecting people and coastal resources by raising awareness of the immense value of the coastal environment. For those who have ridden the ferry without thinking much about its beautiful journey or for those considering taking the ferry to Staten Island and back to lower Manhattan, read this piece, which covers history:

“People have been traveling to Staten Island by some sort of boat for centuries. In 1609 Henry Hudson, the explorer, named it Staaten Eyelandt, in honor of the Dutch Parliament. The American Indian population on the island resisted settlement attempts in three battles: the Pig War, over accusations that Raritan Indians had stolen settlers’ pigs; the Whiskey War, over a distillery; and the Peach War that erupted when a woman from the Aquehongan tribe allegedly stole a settler’s peach. Though the indigenous peoples didn’t believe in owning land, they would soon enough be edged out by the Dutch and then the English.

Launch of a landmark

The first regular ferry service was a sailing ship set up by 16-year-old Cornelius Vanderbilt in 1810. He eventually built a transportation empire worth $100-million. By 1816, steam ferry service was available, but because the fare was 12½ cents each way, it was mainly used by wealthy Staten Islanders. Staten Island became a borough of New York City in 1898, and then, in 1905, the city took control of the ferry.

Though the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, completed in 1964, connects Staten Island to Brooklyn, the ferry remains the only link to Manhattan. It used to carry cars, too, but that service was discontinued after 9/11.”

Literary ties:

“The poetry of memory

Edna St. Vincent Millay immortalized the Staten Island Ferry in her poem Recuerdo, which means “memory,” written in 1919. The first two lines of her poem are printed in large letters on the wall of the Whitehall Terminal, which opened in 2005:

We were very tired, we were very merry

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.”

I grew up in Manhattan, but have two distinct memories of the Staten Island ferry. One was going to and from Catholic boarding school, which was on Staten Island. More often, my mother’s husband drove us over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. I remember riding the ferry home in the middle of the week from school. The school called my mom to have her pick me up. Fortunately, she worked in lower Manhattan, so the ferry was a quick walk from her office. I’d come down with what was then called German measles, now better known as rubella. On the trip back to Manhattan, an elderly woman leaned her face into mine, which was covered with red spots. “Your kid has something wrong with her,” she said. My mother replied, “She’s contagious.” The woman pulled back quickly and said nothing more as she walked away. I missed about another week or two of school. When I returned to SJVA, several kids in my class were absent. They too had rubella. I had been the first.

I’m sad to find out that the ferry no longer allows cars and other motor vehicles. My other memory is of a happier time, two years later when I was enrolled in the Educational Alliance (Edgies) day camp. Every summer weekday, we’d board school buses, which were driven onto the ferry, on the Lower East Side. After our ferry ride, the buses drove–more like raced each other–through the island to Henry Kaufman Campground, where we spent the day. For lunch, I brought cream cheese and grape jelly sandwiches, which tasted so good after a morning of arts & crafts, games and other activities.

I hope to start a conversation with women who were sent away to a Catholic boarding school, especially if you attended St. John Villa Academy in Staten Island, NY. Ours was a unique experience. I can still summon myriad feelings of isolation, abandonment, loneliness, fear, etc., even though I was a boarder back in the Sixties. My time there for two years (1967-1969) and at St. Mary’s Academy (1966-67) in Lakewood, NJ, have stayed with me always. I loved attending grammar school, but hated being a boarder. I long dreamed of the day I would become a day student, someone who could go return to a real home every day after school and be greeted with love, not a stern nun, strict regulations and more regimentation.