The Honorary Classmates

By John Cantwell ’05

My classmates—some of my best friends in the world—are in their 80s. I am 23.

Outwardly, we don’t appear to have much in common. They graduated from Holy Cross in 1948—at a time when women were still not admitted to the school. I graduated in 2005, a time when it only seemed that women were not admitted—primarily because most refused to speak to me.

But, when I was a first-year student in 2001, I, along with two classmates, Maggie Fontana and Katie McCarthy, was invited by the Class of 1948 to become an honorary member of the class. Each of us had grandfathers who had graduated in 1948, all of whom are now deceased. To honor our grandfathers and welcome us to the school, the surviving members of the class would embrace us as their own.

At first, it was hard for Maggie, Katie and me to appreciate exactly what inclusion in the Class of ’48 meant. All three of us had received calls early on a Saturday morning in September from John Becker, the chair for the Class of ’48, asking if we were interested in becoming members of the class. As Mr. Becker’s rich New England baritone filled the phone, I remember thinking, “Who is this man? And why is he calling me at 7 a.m.?” I did not vocalize any of these concerns, of course, but agreed to attend an upcoming Class of ’48 function at the Hogan Campus Center.

The function was a ceremony in honor of a fallen classmate, William “Rocks” Gallagher. Rocks, who lost his sight as a boy, came to Holy Cross and went on to become president of the American Federation for the Blind. Many of Rocks’ classmates were gathered that day to dedicate a plaque that still hangs in the Hogan Center.

Much of the dedication was a blur—lots of silver hair and smiling, wrinkled faces. Maggie, Katie and I stood against a wall in the back of the room in silence. At the end of the dedication, Mr. Becker came over to us with the entire class in tow.
“These are our new friends,” he said, beaming.

We were mobbed. Hugs and handshakes from the men, kisses from the wives, everybody bringing out pictures of our grandfathers, red-faced and happy, at parties and reunions held long before. We went down to the baseball field afterward and tailgated along the third baseline, sipping homemade lobster bisque and getting to know our new friends.
There was another ceremony the following February—Maggie, Katie and I were officially inducted into the Class of 1948. A luncheon was held in Hogan and our families were invited. Each of us was presented with a framed certificate bestowing upon us “a standing invitation and welcome to participate in all reunions, special events and the fellowship and communications of this class.” It was a proud, complex day. We were all so happy, so touched to be included in the class the way we were, but the feeling that certain people were missing could not be denied.

In the years that followed, more honorary classmates were added—and the Class of ’48 kept tabs on all of us. Maggie starred for the women’s basketball team, and members of the class established the “Maggie Fontana Fan Club,” complete with a gigantic banner that they hung from the railing over the bleachers during home games.

Around my third year, I started doing standup comedy at Holy Cross. When Mr. Becker found out—and he had a way of finding out about everything—he insisted that I perform a routine for the class at the next meeting. Upsetting, terrifying, inappropriate— these were the words I thought the class would use to describe me after I’d performed for them. But it didn’t go that way. My 1948 classmates became my biggest supporters.

The amazing thing was how seriously the class took our inclusion. We weren’t just invited to Homecoming tailgates and mini-reunions. We were in on meetings and micro-meetings and organizational meetings to discuss future meetings. And we were given the opportunity to say what we thought was best for the class: During one of the last events I attended as a student, the subject of giving a gift to the graduating honorary classmates was brought up. When the issue was put up for a vote, I voted emphatically in favor of receiving a gift!

Of course, nothing stays the same forever. Maggie, Katie and I graduated in 2005 and spread across the Northeast. When we came back to Homecoming the following September, we couldn’t tailgate along the third baseline because of the upgrades made to the baseball field. This past Homecoming marked the first time in 10 years that the Class of ’48 didn’t host a mini-reunion—conflicting schedules and the increasing strains of age made it difficult for many of the classmates to attend.

I was in my final year of high school when my grandfather died. I had visited Holy Cross only once, when I was much younger, and had no intentions of going to the school. At the burial, a classmate of my grandfather’s, Bob Mulcahy, gave a brief speech. Honestly, I don’t remember everything he said. I know he spoke of loyalty and devotion and friendships that spanned lifetimes. I remember the sun shining through the trees and Mr. Mulcahy leaning against a post to support himself and my thinking that Holy Cross—for reasons I could never have known at the time—was where I needed to be.

Sometimes I wonder what the class thinks about the honorary classmates. Obviously they are happy and proud to have us around. But I think that when the original ’48ers look at us, they must really be thinking of the past and the future. They see Maggie or Katie or me, and they remember their classmates—our grandfathers—whom they knew as young men and probably always thought of as young men, even as they all became adults with jobs and families. And they think of the future, too, because one day the honorary classmates will be the only ones left to carry on the legacy of the Class of 1948.

In a way, it is the same for the honorary classmates. We look at the original members and think of our grandfathers—men whom we continue to love and miss. And we get a glimpse of our potential future lives. We see a group of people who, almost 60 years after their graduation, with whole lives and families and histories that existed outside the walls of Holy Cross, still find time to meet at a small school on a hill in Worcester, because the place is essential to who they are.