THE TRIQUETRA OF LIFE: Wisdom, Wealth, and Wellness

A Chapter Thirteen Excerpt

Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous

A True Story of Elitist Discrimination

At the gates of Andover Academy, I learned that pedigree alone—not ambition, not money, not merit—decided who entered, and who was turned away.

My father thought he’d found my golden ticket—sending me to Andover Academy, one of the most exclusive private schools in the country. To him, it wasn’t just an education; it was a shortcut into the elite world of Boston Brahmans. He imagined me rubbing elbows with the future power brokers of America. It would cost a fortune, but he didn’t care. He was willing to stretch the family finances to the breaking point if it meant securing the future he envisioned for me—or one he could live vicariously through me.

So he arranged an interview with a Board member at a stately house in Andover. The place had all the markings of old money: a circular gravel drive, towering colonial columns, with effortless grandeur that whispered of generations of wealth.

I, on the other hand, felt like I’d stepped into a realm that had already decided I didn’t belong. The gray-bearded man who interviewed me was polite, his words smooth and measured, but his gaze was cool, detached. He asked about my academic grades, my interests, my any ambitions. It felt less like a conversation and more like a dissection—peeling me open to see if I merited the privilege I was supposed to crave.

Dad didn’t see it that way. He couldn’t. He believed money could buy access, that ambition could land a seat at the aristocrats’ table. My father had spent his life being proud of his hard work, independence, and his ability to build something from nothing.

Rejection came later, wrapped in polished politeness under the Academy’s letterhead. Its message was clear despite the mincing of words: we don’t take your kind.

My father was furious. He refused to believe that an Italian surname—our family name—was enough to shut that exclusive door in our faces. But to me, it was just another lesson I didn’t fully understand yet. I wasn’t the kind of kid who played the social game. I had no instinct for it, no desire to maneuver my way into higher circles. At Melrose High, I was surrounded by kids like me—Irish and Italian, from families that expected nothing but hard work, who earned everything they had.

The boys from Andover weren’t going to like me much—not then, not later, not ever.