Hail Mary
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The next morning, i set out on my bicycle toward Ave Maria Town, the future site of the university. It was a long ride from Naples—and a journey into a different economy. When I detoured into the town of Immokalee, just six miles from the new Ave Maria, the houses lining the road were decrepit and had peeling paint, and the businesses on the main drag—La Michoacana, El Paraiso Restaurant—had bars on the windows.
Immokalee is the hub of southwest Florida's agriculture industry, and during growing season upward of 35,000 people live here. The residents are migrant laborers, most of them from Mexico, Guatemala, and Haiti, and often they're housed miles from town, in trailers chockablock with bunk beds. One Justice Department official has called Immokalee "ground zero for modern slavery." His agency has successfully prosecuted six cases of involuntary servitude involving Immokalee-area workers in the past decade. A local advocacy group, the Coalition of Immokalee Workers, has earned the ardent support of Catholic groups such as Pax Christi. But when I visited ciw's offices, it was clear that their relations with Ave Maria were icy. No one there would speak on the record about Monaghan's project.
I rode on toward Ave Maria Town, anticipating a pleasant, if cloistered, new urbanist mecca. On the development's website, avemaria.com, it says that the community "has been designed to human scale. Street networks, distinctive character, and environmental sustainability are integral to its planning." One future resident, construction manager Darryl Klein, who has six children, had told me earlier that he'd moved his family from South Carolina because Ave Maria represented "the ideal American community. It'll be a place where you know your neighbors. We'll be around like-minded people. The kids that play with my kids—they'll go to the same church as us. And we'll be accepted."
I came around a curve in the road and saw the steel skeleton of the oratory rising out of nowhere, giant and irrefutable above the flat orange groves. The concrete shells of the university buildings surrounding it were gray blobs in the distance. I turned right, following a phalanx of construction rigs—at a distance because I'd been denied a tour of the town, too. Then, as I neared the security gate, I saw my moment. The guards, not hearing a motor, were looking away, so I bent low and pedaled all-out for the holy land. For roughly a quarter-mile I was in the clear. But then a security truck pulled up beside me, its yellow roof lights aglow and fluttering. "Who are you with?" said the guard, sternly. "I'm just, like, on a training ride," I said. A few seconds later I was back on the road to Naples.
I visited the makeshift ave maria campus one more time, on a quiet Tuesday evening, when I went back to the library to leaf through a book that many regard as the manifesto for Catholic educators: The Idea of a University, written by Cardinal John Henry Newman in 1852. The church "fears no knowledge," Newman says, "but she purifies all; she represses no element of our nature, but cultivates the whole." Elsewhere, Newman writes, "I wish the intellect to range with the utmost freedom."
Soon after I jotted down these words, there was a rustling behind me: Someone was stepping in through the library door, and I turned to look. Lantern Jaw. For a second, our eyes locked. And then, not two minutes later, a dapper student security guard in a black tie was stooping beside my study carrel and speaking in murmurous tones: "I'm sorry, sir, but..."
I'd read about Ave Maria's uniformed forces earlier, in the Angelus, where the school's director of physical plant and security, Thomas Minick, was quoted saying that, in their vigilance, his boys were "no different than the 18- and 19-year-old Marines, sailors, and Army centurions who are guarding posts all around the world for the military." I did not have a fighting chance. And so, without protest, I let the guard escort me outside, to my bike.
Then I rode away through the dark. Ave Maria was behind me, a bright island of light in Naples' endless archipelago of separate, gated, green-grass communities, and I thought of the students sequestered there. I imagined them all huddled together, far from the rest of the world, in fear of their God. And I did pray for them, yes. And for my church.
