Born: 02 December 1912, Kickham Street, Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary
Entered: 03 September 1930, St Mary's, Emo, County Laois
Ordained: 31 July 1944, Milltown Park, Dublin
Final Vows: 03 February 1947, Belvedere College SJ, Dublin
Died: 13 July 1988, St Vincent's Hospital, Dublin
Part of the Cherryfield Lodge, Dublin community at the time of death
Parents were shopkeepers and farmers.
Oldest of three boys with three sisters.
Early education at the Mercy Convent, Carrick-on-Suir he then went to Christian Brothers School also in Carrick-on-Suir (1921-1928). In September 1928 he went to Mungret College SJ
by 1972 at Manhassett NY, USA (NEB) studying marriage
Prefect of Studies at Gonzaga, College SJ, Dublin: 1950 -1965
Rector of Gonzaga College SJ, Dublin: 1965 - 1971
Director of Marriage Encounter: 1974 - 1982
Superior of Cherryfield Lodge, Dublin: 1985 - 1988
◆ Irish Province News
Irish Province News 63rd Year No 4 1988 (Final Edition)
Obituary
Fr William White (1912-1930-1988)
Fr William White, SJ, who died on July 13 1988, was a native of Carrick-on-Suir, Co. Tipperary. Born in 1912, he was educated by the Christian Brothers in the town of his birth and by the Jesuits at Mungret College, Limerick. Known as “Willie” to his family, he was “Bill” to the Jesuits, whom he joined in 1930. After the customary course of studies, interrupted by a teaching spell at Belvedere College, Dublin, he was ordained priest at Milltown Park, Dublin, in 1944.
When Fr Bill was sent back to Belvedere College in 1946, with responsibility for the preparatory school there, he expected to spend many years on the staff, so he was very surprised when the Provincial chose him as one of the four priests who, in 1949, founded Gonzaga College. Fr Bill was Prefect of Studies at Gonzaga from 1950 until 1965, when he became Rector of the college. He had to cope with all the demands of founding and building up a new school, but he never lost his sense of humour, nor his sense of fairness and never forgot any of the boys whom he had taught.
A new career began for him in 1971, when he went to Manhasset, New York, to study marriage counselling and he became one of the pioneers of Marriage Encounter in Ireland, being its director from 1974 until 1982. Apart from his formal involvement, Fr Bill was a counsellor and friend to many troubled people, always ready to give his whole attention to others and with a marvellously warm smile. Many couples, individuals (including many priests and religious) and whole families benefitted from his advice, his prayers and his friendship. His closeness to his own family was an important part of his life and he was an asset to every Jesuit house in which he lived.
Fr White's final assignment was as superior to the Jesuit Order's nursing unit at Cherryfield Lodge, Milltown Park, where he took up office in 1985. In recent months, it was obvious that his health was failing and he was in St Vincent's Hospital, Elm Park, for tests when he suffered a stroke, In the days between the stroke and his death, Fr Bill was serene, in no pain and with no worries. Even in the last hours of his life, his main concern was the well-being of others.
(Catholic Standard, 22nd July 1988).
In the quartet of Jesuits who founded Gonzaga, Fr Bill White was surprisingly identified as the Brawn, harnessing the energies of Blood (the O'Conor Don), Beauty (blond Fr John Murphy) and Brains (Fr Tim Hamilton, the only survivor). In Bill it was the brawn of the jockey rather than the ploughman. He walked like a horseman, out of his element with nothing between his legs, with a slightly limping shuffle. Though I never saw him on horseback, he seemed to belong there. He mounted his old bicycle like a hunter and rode it habitually between canter and gallop round the steeplechase of Dublin streets. He had a jockey's sense of the final furlong, hurling himself up the Gonzaga avenue just in time for dinner, or on other public occasions keeping the grandstand on its toes until the last moment. Two minutes before the house exams, which were treated with considerable solemnity, teachers, boys and desks would be in chaos until at the last moment Bill would slip into the hall, bundles of papers under his arms, restoring order just in time.
Though he founded the most urban and urbane of schools, Bill brought to it a countryman's sense of reality. He was sensitive to the moods of flesh and blood, a student of form, whether equine or human. In a school that had the reputation of being heady, he was the least heady of men. Do you remember his style of greeting? In a warm and characteristic way it was very physical. Moving towards you with a smile that was always slightly lop-sided, his hands never far from his body so that he came close enough to sense you, almost smell you, he would eye your skin, your colour, the lie of your muscles, the lift or droop of your mouth, so that when he asked “How are you?” it was with the concern of a friend who already surmised your world from the outside and was eager to know how you experienced it from the inside. At that moment, nobody else existed for him, and it is no wonder that so many found him unforgettable. The sense of loss at his funeral was tinged with intensity and often indignation. It seemed that hundreds were feeling: How could the Lord take a man who was so important to me - and to whom I was so important? At the ripe age of three score and fifteen, it still seemed grossly premature.
Bill is said to have been appalled at his appointment to Gonzaga in 1950. His old guru, Fr Rupert Coyle, had trained him to run the Junior School in Belvedere, and fingered him to succeed in the Senior School. He felt himself ill-equipped to launch, albeit in distinguished company, a pioneering educational experiment. He was reflective, wise and supportive, but not an originator - he left that to his talented staff, who always sensed his ungrudging support.
From the beginning he liked to teach the youngest class in the school, to get the measure of them from the start. While his staff gradually shaped a new style and curriculum, Bill was the one who knew the individual pupil, knew the dynamics of his family, sensed where his promise and his limits were. When I wrote school reports with him in the late sixties, I marvelled at his sense of how our words could impinge on the family, to build up or to destroy; how they would affect the depression of a mother, the driving ambition of a father, the vitality of a boy. The document finally put into the envelope was not just an objective assessment, but a communication to a family that was known, with a clear sense of how it would be used.
He ran a tight ship, and wielded the biffer in the fashion of the time, but with a fairness that is still remembered. Two small boys were heard discussing which teacher they liked best. “I like Fr White best” said Peter. “But he biffs you!” protested his friend. “Yes, but that's his duty” said young Sutherland, with that sense of order that makes him a formidable European Commissioner. In fact it was often the wayward who sensed most vividly the largeness of Bill's heart. More than once he stood under the great copper beech on the front lawn calling young X, a fugitive from the classroom, to come down out of that - and X has now joined the forces of law as a thriving solicitor.
To those who have, more will be given, says the Gospel, ironically, and Gonzaga's early pupils were manifestly blessed in the Dublin of their time. Fr White succeeded in saving these fortunate ones from an enervating sense of privilege. He challenged the clever to be more than clever: to be good. It is the task of every teacher, to build up children without pandering to narcissistic illusions, to confront their selfishness without destroying or depressing them, to forge an alliance with the good in them. This was a central theme in Bill's work with boys: to reach the truth in them, and not allow them to take their blessings for granted.
Every school principal knows the four am feeling that there is a serious chink in his armour, some point where the dyke can be breached and chaos break out. Bill's chink lay in the formalities of administration. He ran his files on what we called the deep litter system, then a popular method of poultry farming. Bill dropped letters, application forms, telephone messages, reports, departmental documents to form a carpet, sometimes ankle-deep, on the ample floor of his room. He was confident that he knew where things were, and we marvelled to find that this was sometimes true. But at a time when paper-work was multiplying, and applications for a place in the school were often made from the nursing-home as soon as the baby was identified as a boy, it was inevitable that the deep litter system sometimes let him down, with often painful consequences. In general he was ill at ease with the administrative aids that are now taken for granted: secretaries (he never had one), typewriters, cars, files, computers, VDUs, all the paraphernalia of yuppiedom, that shield one person from another. For him the only essential 20th century appliance (apart from the bicy cle--but his machine was more redolent of the nineteenth century) was the telephone.
If Fr White is ever portrayed or sculpted, it must be with a telephone to his ear, listening, murmuring, reassuring, cheering, and as the minutes lengthen saying: “Goodbye ... goodbye again” (even on one occasion “Goodbye at last”). It was an instrument he could not resist. His car was attuned to pick up a phone's ring from quite a distance, and he would move automatically towards it. It was a symbol of his accessibility that he laid himself open to. In the community we were jealous of his attention, and often saw him exhausted by his unwillingness to protect himself. One remembers him slipping through the Gonzaga hall, summoned to the first parlour by one lady, to the second parlour by another, and to the telephone by a waiting caller - all on the way to dinner, or on another occasion reaching the community house for six o'clock dinner after a working day that began at six a.m., to be grabbed by a parent with the pretty ruthless remark: “I knew I would catch you now; Father”. Others might fume, but not Bill, his face would light up to the visitor and he was listening again.
Not merely listening, but containing. He took bad news on board in a way that metabolised it, made it easier to bear. He could listen to tidings of hopelessness, depression, sickness, estrangement, and by sharing the bitterness, heal some of the pain, though he knew that no practical solution was in sight. When someone remarked on his gift of empathy, he traced it to his father, who he said was much better than he: old Mr White was known in Carrick-on-Suir as the man to contact in the aftermath of some particularly cruel tragedy, a man who would not shrink from the pain but could place himself alongside the sufferers, sharing their cross. As the years passed, Bill moved more and more into work (in Marriage Encounter, and with sick Jesuits in Cherryfield) that engaged his extraordinary gift of compassion.
A dear friend who revered Bill used to speak of the “other dimension” that he revealed: the BMW cruising down the avenue through the February rain gets a wave and smile from Bill White cycling up from a hospital visit or, as Rector, carrying across hot coffee to the staff room for the teachers break; among us as one who serves. His life would not make sense if God did not exist.
His faith sustained him to the end, with a manifestly aching body, but a face that became more radiant and transparent as his health declined. He had resolved as a young Jesuit that if ever there was an apparent conflict between the religious rule and the Gospel, he would opt for the Gospel, which for him was summed up in one or two truths: “I have loved you with an everlasting love” - his favourite phrase from Scripture; and the need to cast out fear, which he saw as the most damaging and pernicious effect of original sin.
We will not run out of administrators, or teachers, or priests. Fr Bill White was more; he was a healer, and the gap he left is still felt with pain by hundreds of friends.
(By courtesy of the Gonzaga Record).
◆ The Belvederian, Dublin, 1988
Obituary
Father Bill White SJ
Fr. White was not a past pupil of Belvedere but those who were here in the 40s and 50s will remember him as a scholastic (1939-41) and, in the latter period, as Prefect of Studies in the Junior House (1946-50). He was a man of very unusual goodness and personal quality.
The following appreciation appeared in The Catholic Standard (July 22nd 1988):
Fr William White SJ, who died on July 13 1988, was a native of Carrick-on-Suir, Co Tipperary. Born in 1912, he was educated by the Christian Brothers in the town of his birth and by the Jesuits at Mungret College, Limerick, Known as “Willie” to his family, he was “Bill” to the Jesuits, whom he joined in 1930. After the customary course of studies, interrupted by a teaching spell at Belvedere College, Dublin he was ordained priest at Milltown Park, Dublin, in 1944.
When Fr Bill was sent back to Belvedere College in 1946, with responsibility for the preparatory school there, he expected to spend many years on the staff, so he was very surprised when the Provincial chose him as one of the four priests who, in 1949, founded Gonzaga College. Fr Bill was Prefect of Stud Gonzaga from 1950 until 1965, when he became Rector of the college. He had to cope with a demands of founding and building up a new school but he never lost his sense of humour, nor his sense of fairness and never forgot any of the boys whom he had taught.
A new career began for him in 1971, when he went to Manhasset, New York, to study marriage counsellling and he became one of the pioneers of Marriage Encounter in Ireland, being its director from 1974 until 1982. Apart from his formal involvement Fr Bill was a counsellor and friend to many troubled people, always ready to give his whole attention to others and with a marvellously warm smile. Many couples, individuals (including many priests and religious) and whole families benefitted from his advice his prayers and his friendship. His closeness to his own family was an important part of his life and he was an asset to every Jesuit house in which he lived.
Fr White's final assignment was as superior Jesuit Order's nursing unit at Cherryfield Lodge Milltown Park, where he took up office in 1985. In recent months, it was obvious that his health was failing and he was in St Vincent's Hospital, Elm Park, for tests when he suffered a stroke. In the days between the stroke and his death, Fr Bill was serene, in no pain and with no worries, Even in the last hours of his life, his main concern was the well being of others.
At his funeral in Gardiner St Church, Fr Senan Timoney SJ said in his homily:
“He was a great Christian, a great human being. His humanity never suffered because he was Christ like. He was wise and yet not solemn. You can all recall his infectious laugh. He was authentic - there was nothing spurious, nothing artificial about him. He was fully himself. He was that elusive thing a man of God whose scale of values were those of Christ. A graced person, he was gentle. He had time for you. When he was talking to you no one else counted - this whether it was on the telephone or in the parlour. A man of immense compassion and at the same time a shrewd judge of any situation, He was in the words of Fr Pedro Arrupe ‘a man for others’. One phrase I can recall his using quite often - especially if you enquired after his well-being - ‘And now, tell me how are you?'’ He was selfless”.
One of those who cared for him in his last days said: “It was a joy to look after him. He died as he lived - a man for others”.
◆ The Gonzaga Record 1988
Obituary
William White SJ
In the quartet of Jesuits who founded Gonzaga, Fr Bill White was surprisingly identified as the Brawn, harnessing the energies of Blood (the O'Conor Don), Beauty (blond Fr John Murphy) and Brains (Fr Tim Hamilton, the only survivor). In Bill it was the brawn of the jockey rather than the ploughman. He walked like a horseman, out of his element with nothing between his legs, with a slightly limping shuffle. Though I never saw him on horseback, he seemed to belong there. He mounted his old bicycle like a hunter and rode it habitually between canter and gallop round the steeplechase of Dublin streets. He had a jockey's sense of the final furlong, hurling himself up the Gonzaga avenue just in time for dinner, or on other public occasions keeping the grandstand on its toes until the last moment. Two minutes before the house exams, which were treated with considerable solemnity, teachers, boys and desks would be in chaos until, at the last moment, Bill would slip into the hall, bundles of papers under his arms, restoring order just in time.
Though he founded the most urban and urbane of schools, Bill brought to it a countryman's sense of reality. He was sensitive to the moods of flesh and blood, a student of form, whether equine or human. In a school that had the reputation of being heady, he was the least heady of men. Do you remember his style of greeting? In a warm and characteristic way it was very physical. Moving towards you with a smile that was always slightly lop-sided, his hands never far from his body so that he came close enough to sense you, almost smell you, he would eye your skin, your colour, the lie of your muscles, the lift or droop of your mouth, so that when he asked 'How are you?' it was with the concern of a friend who already surmised your world from the outside and was eager to know how you experienced it from the inside. At that moment, nobody else existed for him, and it is no wonder that so many found him unforgettable. The sense of loss at his funeral was tinged with intensity and often indignation. It seemed that hundreds were feeling: how could the Lord take a man who was so important to me -- and to whom I was so important? At the ripe age of three score and fifteen, it still seemed grossly premature.
Bill is said to have been appalled at his appointment to Gonzaga in 1950. His old guru, Fr Rupert Coyle, had trained him to run the Junior School in Belvedere, and fingered him to succeed in the Senior School. He felt himself ill-equipped to launch, albeit in distinguished company, a pioneering educational experiment. He was reflective, wise and supportive, but not an originator — he left that to his talented staff, who always sensed his ungrudging support. From the beginning he liked to teach the youngest class in the school, to get the measure of them from the start. While his staff gradually shaped a new style and curriculum, Bill was the one who knew the individual pupil, knew the dynamics of his family, sensed where his promise and his limits were. When I wrote school reports with him in the late sixties, I marvelled at his sense of how our words could impinge on the family, to build up or to destroy; how. they would affect the depression of a mother, the driving ambition of a father, the vitality of a boy. The document finally put into the envelope was not just an objective assessment, but a communication to a family that was known, with a clear sense of how it would be used.
He ran a tight ship, and wielded the biffer in the fashion of the time, but with a fairness that is still remembered. Two small boys were heard discussing which teacher they liked best. 'I like Fr White besť said Peter. ‘But he biffs you!' protested his friend. 'Yes, but that's his duty said young Sutherland, with that sense of order that makes him a formidable European Commissioner. In fact it was often the wayward who sensed most vividly the largeness of Bill's heart. More than once he stood under the great copper beech on the front lawn calling young X, a fugitive from the classroom, to come down out of that - and X has now joined the forces of law as a thriving solicitor.
To those who have, more will be given, says the Gospel, ironically, and Gonzaga's early pupils were manifestly blessed in the Dublin of their time. Fr White succeeded in saving these fortunate ones from an enervating sense of privilege. He challenged the clever to be more than clever: to be good. It is the task for every teacher, to build up children without pandering to narcissistic illusions, to confront their selfishness without destroying or depressing them, to forge an alliance with the good in them. This was a central theme in Bill's work with boys: to reach the truth in them, and not allow them to take their blessings for granted.
Every school principal knows the four a.m. feeling that there is a serious chink in his armour, some point where the dyke can be breached and chaos break out. Bill's chink lay in the formalities of administration. He ran his files on what we called the deep litter system, then a popular method of poultry farming. Bill dropped letters, application forms, telephone messages, reports, departmental documents to form a carpet, sometimes ankle-deep, on the ample floor of his room. He was confident that he knew where things were, and we marvelled to find that this was sometimes true. But at a time when paper-work was multiplying and applications for a place in the school were often made from the nursing home as soon as the baby was identified as a boy, it was inevitable that the deep litter system sometimes let him down, with often painful consequences. In general he was ill at ease with the administrative aids that are now taken for granted: secretaries (he never had one), typewriters, cars, files, computers, VDUs, all the paraphernalia of yuppiedom, that shield one person from another. For him the only essential 20th-century appliance (apart from the bicycle — but his machine was more redolent of the nineteenth century) was the telephone.
If Fr White is ever portrayed or sculpted, it must be with a telephone to his ear, listening, murmuring, reassuring, cheering, and as the minutes lengthen saying 'Goodbye....goodbye again' (even on one occasion, 'Goodbye at last). It was an instrument he could not resist. His ear was attuned to pick up a phone's ring from quite a distance, and he would move automatically towards it. It was a symbol of his accessibility that he laid himself open to. In the community we were jealous of his attention, and often saw him exhausted by his unwillingness to protect himself. One remembers him slipping through the Gonzaga hall, summoned to the first parlour by one lady, to the second parlour by another, and to the telephone by a waiting caller - all on the way to dinner; or on another occasion reaching the community house for six o'clock dinner after a working day that began at six a.m., to be grabbed by a parent with the pretty ruthless remark: 'I knew I would catch you now, Father'. Others might fume, but not Bill; his face would light up to the visitor and he was listening again.
Not merely listening, but containing. He took bad news on board in a way that metabolised it, made it easier to bear. He could listen to tidings of hopelessness, depression, sickness, estrangement, and by sharing the bitterness, heal some of the pain, though he knew that no practical solution was in sight. When someone remarked on his gift of empathy, he traced it to his father, who he said was much better than he: old Mr White was known in Carrick-on-Suir as the man to contact in the aftermath of some particularly cruel tragedy, a man who would not shrink from the pain but could place himself alongside the sufferers, sharing their cross. As the years passed, Bill moved more and more into work (in Marriage Encounter, and with sick Jesuits in Cherryfield) that engaged his extraordinary gift of compassion.
A dear friend who revered Bill used to speak of the other dimension' that he revealed: the BMW cruising down the avenue through the February rain gets a wave and smile from Bill White cycling up from a hospital visit: or, as Rector, carrying across hot coffee to the staff-room for the teachers' break; among us as one who serves. His life would not make sense if God did not exist.
His faith sustained him to the end, with a manifestly aching body, but a face that became more radiant and transparent as his health declined. He had resolved as a young Jesuit that if ever there was an apparent conflict between the religious rule and the Gospel, he would opt for the Gospel, which for him was summed up in one or two truths: 'I have loved you with an everlasting love' — his favourite phrase from Scripture; and the need to cast out fear, which he saw as the most damaging and pernicious effect of original sin.
We will not run out of administrators, or teachers, or priests. Fr Bill White was more; he was a healer, and the gap he left is still felt with pain by hundreds of friends.
Paul Andrews SJ
Remembering Father White
In 1976, to stimulate interest in the activities of the past pupils' union, a 'Gonzaga Dinner' was advertised in The Irish Times and attracted 100 guests, the largest number that could be accommodated in the dining room of the University Club. There were rumours that an Alternative Gonzaga Dinner had to be convened around the corner in Captain America's for the late applicants. If so, the latecomers missed what for the participants in the real Gonzaga Dinner was the high point of the evening: the few words spoken by Fr White.
Fr White spoke that evening about freedom. I seem to remember some remarks about how much freedom the boys could use!. I seem to remember too that Fr White said that looking back, he could see ways in which it might have been safe to allow a little more freedom in the school than had been the case. But it was not primarily his words that made Fr White's appearance that evening so memorable. It was the sudden explosion of applause that greeted him as he rose to speak. It was heartfelt applause, deliberately prolonged. It had overtones of shared triumph. Fr White, in his person, seemed to represent the contribution of so many teachers, pupils, and parents to the decades of endeavour in Gonzaga. He represented the sense of belonging that each of us seemed to enjoy.
What was the secret of Fr White's enduring rapport with all the boys, and all the families, who were part of Gonzaga? As someone who came to Gonzaga only after Fr White became Rector, and who therefore had direct dealings with him only on a few occasions, I can speak on this subject as a member of the rank-and-file. Even at that distance, it was always clear that Fr White was someone who paid attention to individuals. He knew people by name and he knew what was important in their lives. He was a man with a heart, who by thinking things mattered made them matter. The school's concerns were Fr White's concerns. It was an example of joyful service that like other gentle features of our youthful landscape, we noticed too little.
One personal memory that I do have of Fr White is of the time I sat the entrance examination for Oxford in one of the two sitting rooms on the left off the hallway of the priests' house. Fr White himself was my supervisor. Each morning of the exam he brought me tea and biscuits on a tray, an impish smile of complicity conveying the support of the school - once again one finds it easy to identify Fr White with the school.
The supportive community which Fr White laboured to create in Gonzaga made the school the complement of a good home atmosphere. The certainty of being known and valued, the stability and predictability of school routine, the very high standard of dedication of the staff, were easy to take for granted, as was the absence of bullying and conflict among the pupils themselves. The consistent success of the school in these seemingly small things are a reminder of the truth of William Blake's dictum that he who would do good to another must do so in minute particulars'.
If Gonzaga had a particular intellectual stamp, it was a belief in the value of open discussion. In Fr Joe Veale's English class, we gave our own reactions to the works under study and were warned off potted summaries or appreciations. John Wilson, teaching Spanish, tolerated lengthy excursuses on the bullfight or the Spanish Civil War. In fifth year, in Religious Knowledge class, Fr Cull ran a sort of open forum on the question of whether God existed, with the result that the young university student a year or two later had an acquired immunity to some of the ruder challenges he faced. Whatever else one could say about the doubts of the Gonzaga past pupils on matters of faith, those doubts would never be the mere product of a “generation gap, or a young person's means of escape from a too-rigid authority.
In this sense, the spirit of the school ran counter to the tendency in many parts of Irish life to accept reality as one might accept the absentee landlord: as a force to be obeyed, cajoled, or evaded, but never tackled directly with argument, much less brought to account. It was a great blessing in Gonzaga that we felt free to delve into the truth and that we never felt, as perhaps so many have felt, that probing the causes of things is like tinkering with an unexploded bomb. Gonzaga, like Fr White, was always ready to listen.
I am told by a reliable source within the Jesuit Community that in his years as Rector, Fr White permitted himself only one concession to the flesh. My source discovered what this weakness was one Thursday afternoon in March. The Rector had failed to answer on any of the usual telephone extensions and was located by a search party in front of the television, engrossed in the Cheltenham Gold Cup. That was in 1967.
It is only one of the many memories of Fr White that have surfaced this summer wherever Gonzaga people have been together. Everyone has his own story to tell and yet each story blends perfectly with the next and each conversation has a lightness that is surprising considering that the topic of discussion is a death, a departure. Fr White's presence, like the presence in nature that ‘veins violets and tall trees makes more and more', seems still with us.
A few years ago, I was back in Ireland after nine years abroad and found myself confessing to a colleague that gaps and discontinuities had emerged in my relationships with my friends. “The truth is”, my colleague said, “that you never come home”. As we spoke, I realised that there is an exception to that rule, if it is a rule. On each of my Gonzaga friends I could lean as heavily as before, discover the same easygoing acceptance communicated with the same humorous certainty as before. Fr White would have wished it so. Perhaps that is what Thucydides meant when he wrote of good men, that the whole world is their memorial.
Philip McDonagh
An Appreciation
Father White was, in my opinion, the single most important figure in the history of Gonzaga. He was Prefect of Studies for fifteen years from the School's foundation and Rector for six years after that. He and Father Charlie O'Connor, our first Rector, were a perfect team. Fr O'Connor was a stickler for administrative detail and had a real feel for the development of the School. But he was a distant, slightly aloof figure.
Fr White, on the other hand, was hopeless about records and correspondence and other office work; he was a man for the here and now and had a genius with people. He was good-humoured, buoyant and had immense powers of sympathy. The other teachers found him supportive, especially those who were wilting under the strain.
With the boys he had a robust, slightly hectoring way and would not take too much nonsense. “You're only deceivin' yourself, he would say through clenched teeth, simulating exasperation. But he was too sensible to get really annoyed. He had the uncongenial task of dispensing corporal punishment but this did not diminish his popularity among the boys by whom he was known affectionately as ‘Walley'. To not a few of them he became an invaluable counsellor to whom they looked for advice and support long after they had left the school.
He was the kind of man who turned up when he was most needed, generally on his old bicycle which he mounted as if it were a steed. To meet him was always a happy experience. When you were with him, you were all that mattered. But there was more. Beneath the bustle he had the tranquil contentment that goes with deep faith. That was very impressive. He had immense insight into his fellow humans and he used this to serve them. He gave of himself totally and never thought of the cost, let alone count it.
I last met him in Gonzaga at the Mass for Fr O'Connor when he rendered a superb appreciation. Recalling small but significant episodes from those early days he re-captured his subject to perfection. I remember that he concluded by expressing the wish that Gonzaga boys would regard their education as a privilege to be shared, not a property to be defended. It was a characteristically generous thought. He himself had contributed mightily to making it such a privilege. He has left with us the challenge of proving worthy of it and an inspiration and example for applying ourselves to that task.
Charles Lysaght
