Michael Piche

Michael Piche went to St Columban Catholic School with me. My first memory of him starts in the 4th or 5th grade. His family was large, eight kids at least. His Mom would drive them all to school in a pretty beat up older station wagon that rode low to the ground and was always scraping the cement when it turned out of the driveway. His Dad drove a pickup truck. He was a laborer of some kind, I think.

Michael’s school uniform was often unclean, and he always appeared somewhat disheveled. He was quiet mostly, and softspoken when he spoke at all. He didn’t quite fit into the crowd, but instead would dissappear into it. You’d forget he was even there.

I don’t remember what year of school it was exactly, but Michael started hanging out with my best friend Bill Standley and me during lunch and recess, and even after school occasionally. We didn’t object. Michael wasn’t a real popular kid, but neither was Bill or I. The popular kids were the Cheryl Rapson’s and Kevin Tagney’s and Tommy Walker, Sue Cook, Kevin Roach, Valerie Springer, Mike Montgomery, Dan Phillian, among others. They were the group you wanted to break into.

They were also, as 10 year olds can often be, the cruel kids. Boy, get on their radar the wrong way, and it could be a school year from hell. Those kids could tease with no mercy. I was in their cross hairs on occasion myself, having the misfortune of a Mother that worked at the school who would often take it upon herself to discipline the kids if no nuns were around. Oh yeah, I became a real target at St Columban. The kids would be pissed off at my Mom, and would take it out on me. But I eventually worked my way up to second tier status in the class food chain. I wasn’t in the popular group, but I wasn’t in the geek zone either. I was right in the middle, which means I mostly got left alone.

Michael was down there in the geek zone. He had this annoying habit of mooching food at lunch time. We’d all gather and unpack the goodies, and as soon as we did, Michael would spring into action. He’d start working the table for odds and ends that the kids wouldn’t want. If you had two sandwiches, look out, Michael would be after half. If you had a sandwich, a banana, carrots and a pudding,Michael would just stare at you with his sad eyes until you finally threw him an item, which he would devour in an amazingly short period of time. He was the foodinator.

This became a daily occurance. He was always mooching. At first, it was funny, then annoying, then it really became something that would piss us off. We started being mean to Michael, mostly verbally, but eventually we’d not only NOT give him any of our lunch, but we’d hide his lunch and he’d spend the entire break searching out what was his.

We were horrible. We just didn’t get it. 10 year olds don’t have a clue, and it wasn’t until years later that I realized the truth. Michael Piche was hungry.

I remembered his thin body and face, the sunken eyes. Michael Piche was undernourished. He had eight brothers and sisters, plus his parents and not much money. While my lunch always consisted of two sandwiches, and cookies, and pudding or some other delicious items, Michael’s lunch might have half a sandwich and an apple, or maybe just the half sandwich. Michael was always hungry.

None of us kids ever understood it. I found out later that St Columban accepted any Catholic family into the school, whether they could pay or not. Michael Piche’s family couldn’t pay. Michael Piche’s family struggled to survive life. They struggled to put enough food on their table.

And I helped hide his lunch.

Nowadays, my kids, especially my son, often tell me I am too nice to people. I give second and third chances. I look deeper than the surface when trying to understand a persons behavior. I try hard to see the big picture because there is always more to the story than what we can see. There’s always more to people than what we can see.

If I am too nice, it’s partially because of Michael Piche, who I went to grade school with, but who turned out to be one of my teachers.