Hayden High School sat at the top of the Catholic-school food chain. Like tributaries into a river, every parochial grade school flowed toward it, carrying us along whether we wanted to be carried or not. Long before any of us were old enough to attend, Hayden began its quiet courtship with sporting events and social functions, small offerings disguised as harmless fun in a safe place where parents felt comfortable leaving their kids for a couple hours. But the gatherings weren’t only about fun. They were rehearsals. Gentle introductions to a future meant to feel familiar by the time it arrived. Because once a student finished their years at one of the Catholic grade schools in Topeka, the next step was already implied, waiting patiently, as if it had been decided long before any of us knew we had a choice. I’d been going to Hayden sporting events since I was a sixth grader. Not because I cared about the school or the sports, but because it was one of the few places I coul...
I thought coming of age meant growing up. On Monroe Street, it meant giving something away before I knew it was mine.