John ‘Joey’ Jordan was an Old Boy who had come back to his alma mater to practice his profession: history. I rated him as a teacher and my admiration is undiminished: in my mind, he was on par with John Wilson. Joey was intelligent and insightful. He once lent me a book on the Enlightenment which had his uncle’s name written on the inside cover: this indicated his genealogy. In his own way, he was as much a product of Whitefriars, with all of its limitations, as we were. He taught us Year 9 American History in 1980 and served as the Year 12 Co-ordinator in '83 which was his final year at the school. He had a refined sense of humour. But he was not a man to be trifled with; in the classroom, he ruled with an iron-fist. In retrospect, his toughness - as we shall call it - was a calculated projection on his part - after all, how else does one bring semi-pubescent boys into line – but we swallowed it hook, line and sinker and we loved him for it. It's only fitting that he should command a chapter in his own right for the following reasons.
If there was a legendary figure in our year, it was our classmate Stephen Andrews, otherwise known as Steff. His exploits have echoed down the years (and they feature elsewhere in the Secret History). While the Class of 83 was a wimpy lot, Steff had a physical presence that daunted even the thugs in the Year above us. For instance, he always stood in the back row of any classroom photo with an air of bravura. There was more than a touch of the ‘Wild Colonial Boy’ to Steff. Anyway, sometime during 1980, Joey Jordan was finishing up a class in American History in Room 12. From memory, it was sunny. As we were about to leave the room, there was a commotion in the back corner. Orange smoke filled the room. Somewhat stunned, we gathered around. Steff was on his knees, frantically trying to zip up his school-bag. Dan Burgoine was standing nearby, looking distraught. Seconds later, Joey Jordan pushed his way through the impromptu gathering. Much to our astonishment, the butt of a sky-rocket was sticking out from the bag and attempting to consummate its purpose in life: burn and fly. Why so? Towards the end of the class – as we later learnt - Steff had surreptitiously shown the skyrocket to Dan and had pretended to ignite it with a cigarette-lighter. A miscalculation had ensued – the wick had caught fire and in a moment of panic, Steff had attempted to stash it in his school-bag. His efforts were to no avail: the skyrocket burnt on. In astonishment, we gazed back at Joey: his lower jaw had swung open like a gate to a paddock. We were all thinking: Joey will nuke Steff for this misdeed. My memory fails at this point. As I can best recall, Joey was too stupefied to exact retribution; all of us, Steff included, were meekly ordered out of the room as the smoke dissipated. I've seen many skyrockets over the course of my life, but that one humble specimen has resonated more strongly in my mind than any of its more powerful counterparts.
One day, again in 1980, our class strolled down to Room 12. Joey was nowhere to be seen but he was surely on his way. The classroom itself was empty. Surprisingly, the door that led into the locker-room was shut. We looked more closely: some goose from another year had impaled a sanger on the door-handle like a club-sandwich. It was no mean specimen: it contained an array of condiments, not least pickle sauce. We drew a collective breath; while the guilt lay elsewhere, Joey’s reaction would be atomic in scale. Our teacher did not disappoint. He rolled up a few minutes late, only to be confronted by the sandwich. With thirty eyes upon him, Joey became still; his facial muscles twitched ever so slightly; his skin-colour reddened as blood coursed through his veins. The universe and all that it contained were ignored as he focused on the intruder. Drawing a deep breath, he glared at us, much like a Grand Inquisitor. Unable to detect guilt, he imperiously strode forward, seized the item and cast it to the ground as if it was Satan. Again, that sandwich, much like the skyrocket, could have ‘gone the way of all flesh’. But it defied destiny and its memory lives on.
There's a lot to be said for American History. On my part, I enjoyed it more than its Australian counterpart (bugger the gold-rushes and ‘The Old Bark Hut’ with Tim Ellis). Joey used a meaty textbook to illuminate the subject. Unfortunately for the textbooks in question, they came with dozens of photos that were too enticing for a group of fifteen year old boys to leave untouched. Throughout 1980, a legion of boobs, dicks, beards, swastikas and jokes were progressively added to the books – in this task, we had been prepped by our Indonesian classes of the year before with Brother Leo whose textbooks had likewise invited modification. I cannot remember any one insertion but it was a collective effort and we were proud of it. Certain books acquired nicknames like a Mozart symphony and were eagerly sought out at the commencement of class. Come the end of the year, the textbooks were our Sistine Chapel – such was the accomplishment. Thereabouts, Joey seized a copy to check a reference: his face went alabaster. Was it Abe Lincoln with an enormous wanger? Had JFK been adorned with a Hitler moustache? I cannot say but he threw the textbook to the table, seized another copy and beheld our handiwork a second time. Much like the episode of the skyrocket, I cannot remember there being much fallout: perhaps Joey had been yorked by the severity of the event. I daresay a decision would have been made afterwards to replace the entire set; only God knows where they lie – perhaps they are turning into humus at the bottom of some landfill – but make no mistake: those textbooks served their day.
Whitefriars had many shortcomings as a school, not least, its failure to expose us to the opposite sex in a staged and constructive manner. Those among us who made it to the end of Year 12 were invariably wearing a Big V jumper, where V, I can assure you, did not stand for Victoria. It was hardly surprising that come the end of school, some of us abruptly procreated. True enough, there was the occasional ‘sex-talk’ but such gatherings – often conducted by earnest, middle-aged Catholic housewives - were greeted with derision. Anyway, having fathered a progeny – young Liam - sometime in 1983, Joey stepped up to the plate and conduct a ‘birds and the bees’ discussion with our class. While I cannot recall the bulk of his address, his comment that 'it' – whatever 'it' was – ‘sort of expands’ could have been better phrased. Bedlam followed. His imperiousness notwithstanding, Joey realised that he had committed a cardinal error and there was no point attempting to impose order on chaos. While most of us – me included – did not exactly know what we were laughing at, oh, how the wind blew.
Tony di Pietro joined us in 1980 for a short but memorable stay at Whitefriars. It is fair to say that Tony had wider issues in life; the College at the time made no such allowances with its ‘one size fits all’ approach to student welfare. Breaking Johnny Wilkens’ arm in Religion - a tale in itself - was the stamp on Tony’s departure-visa. Pre-exilic, one day he was sitting down the back of American History. The bell had just gone but Joey ignored it; he wanted to finish up discussing the Great Depression. He asked us if anyone could think of an Australian equivalent of Tennessee Valley Authority: namely, a public-works program that was implemented to stimulate economic activity. Being the shit-stirrer that I am, I lent over to Tony and provided him with a ‘helpful’ suggestion. Unthinkingly, Tony raised a hand in response. “Mister Jordan, I know, I know!” Joey quietened the class in wait for the answer. Tony gulped in excitement before continuing: “Yep, it was . . . it was . . . it was the Footscray Railroad Bridge.” I have never seen anyone being hit by a dum-dum bullet but the look on Joey’s face at that moment was approximation enough.
Excursions were always eventful even if they were no more than a trip to the Nunawading Pool. One day, we were returning back to the College in a bus when twittering could be heard: a porno had been smuggled onto the bus and its delights were being savoured by the rank and file. Now Joey was on the bus, sitting near the driver. Joey was no fool: he did not need to be told that something was up (in more ways than one). He leapt to his feet and turned to face us.
“Ok, where is it?” he demanded baldly.
Now sitting in the middle of the bus as I was, the identity of the perpetrators were unknown to me; but whoever they were, they did not want to be nabbed. To evade detection, the culprits passed it backwards through the gap in the seats. On the hunt, Joey strode forward, scanning one row after another. Like a baton, it came into my possession. Being a goody two-shoes, I went into a state of shock. Then whoever was sitting next to me – it might have been Tom Sabatino – hissed: “Get rid of it, you idiot!” With Joey bearing down upon us, I passed it to the guys behind me. Eventually it made its way down to the ‘toughies’ down the back, and as good as Joey was, the porno was safe in their possession.
Another tale comes to mind. One day we were asked to write up a paper on a famous battle. Joey was not interested in what happened – he wanted an analysis. Sitting next to one another, Big Gav and I jointly selected the Battle of Austerlitz as a book on that subject had recently come my way. We wrote up the same document. I received a mediocre mark which was more attributable to my overall standing with Joey than the intrinsic excellence (or otherwise) of the paper itself. Big Gav, however, was torched. His paper had been written up with a black-pen; by the time Joey had finished with it, red was dominant as a colour. To this day, Big Gav's essay on Austerlitz is the most famous document penned by anyone in our Year.
Joey has claims to being the best teacher at Whitefriars in our time and he features in more anecdotes than any other – but there was another teacher who was more memorable for all the wrong reasons: Doc Walsh.
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