A Second Chapter for Chapman House

Written by Jason G. Macioge, BCS’88

During graduation weekend, Tony Carter BCS’88, Keith Tinker BCS’88, and I found ourselves doing what I suspect countless Chapman boys have done over the years — we walked back across the rugby pitch to Chapman House.

We stood beneath the Chapman House sign and took a photograph together.

As we stood there, I couldn't help but notice how quiet the house had become.

It no longer echoed with the voices of boys, the sound of boots on the wooden stairs, laughter drifting from the common room, or Robert Common calling us to attention. Instead, it stood empty. To my eyes it looked tired, almost forgotten, waiting patiently for someone to remember what it once meant to Bishop's College School.

Although we did not go inside, I knew exactly what remained beyond those walls.

The photographs of generations of Chapman boys still hang where they always have. The hand-carved wooden plaques bearing our names are still there. Together they preserve nearly ninety years of Chapman history.

Those photographs are not simply house pictures.

They are the faces of boys whose lives were shaped within those walls.

Among them are Chapman boys who would later answer Canada's call during the Second World War and never return. Before they became soldiers, they were simply boys living together in Chapman House — sleeping in those bedrooms, walking the Chapman House path, gathering in the common room, and unknowingly becoming part of the remarkable history of Bishop's College School.

Those photographs are not decorations.

They are history.

The plaques are history.

The house itself is history.

When I arrived at Chapman House in 1984, I thought I had drawn the short straw.

My older brother, Nick Macioge BCS’87, spent the weeks before our drive from Massachusetts convincing me that I had been dealt a terrible hand. The moment he learned I had been assigned to Chapman, he did everything he could to terrify me. In Nick's eyes, Mr. Common was an absolute psycho, Chapman was impossibly strict, and my boarding school experience was destined to be far more difficult than that of my friends in the other houses.

By the time we arrived on Moulton Hill, I was convinced he was probably right.

We were the smallest residence at BCS and certainly the furthest from the main campus. Every winter morning we trudged along the Chapman House path through darkness, deep snow, and bitter Eastern Townships cold. Looking back, I honestly don't remember us complaining very much. It was simply what Chapman boys did.

By today's standards, Chapman was wonderfully primitive.

Four boys shared tiny bedrooms. Toilet stalls had curtains instead of doors. The showers had no partitions — we stood shoulder to shoulder every morning preparing for another day. Nineteen boys somehow squeezed into one small common room every evening for tea during Prep Break.

Yet none of those things mattered.

If anything, they brought us closer together.

We built igloos in winter, sweat lodges in the spring, and every Chapman boy knew the story of the Chapman House Ghost. Robert Common's legendary fire drills involved cutting the electricity and filling the corridors with smoke from his beekeeper's smoker. Daily inspections were expected. Sunday inspections were conducted with white gloves. Laps were never given one at a time. Robert's rule was simple:

"If you're up there, you'll do two."

One winter night after a tremendous snowfall, Robert woke all nineteen of us beneath a brilliant full moon. He instructed us not to speak. Each of us carried a torch fashioned from a cut-off hockey stick with a Campbell's soup can attached to the top, filled with old socks soaked in kerosene. We lit our torches and silently walked around the grounds and every residence on campus before returning to the rugby pitch beside Chapman. Only then did he allow us to break our silence. We ran across the snow shouting into the night.

Nearly forty years later, I can still picture it.

Those memories belong to Chapman House.

But there is something I have only come to understand with the passing of time.

When I was fourteen years old, I thought Chapman House was too strict.

I envied my friends in Grier North. Their lives appeared easier. They seemed to have fewer rules, more freedom, and far less scrutiny. At the time I couldn't understand why Robert Common expected so much from us.

Nearly forty years later, I realize how completely wrong I was.

Without Robert Common, I would not be the man I am today.

The discipline he taught us, the expectation that details matter, the pride in doing things properly, the understanding that your name is attached to everything you do, and the belief that character is built through hundreds of small daily habits remain part of my life every single day.

Perhaps the greatest testament to Robert's influence is this: for more than fifteen years Robert and I have exchanged handwritten letters every month.

What began as the relationship between a House Parent and one of his boys has become one of the deepest friendships of my life.

I consider Robert one of my closest friends, and even today I continue to seek his wisdom.

That, to me, is the true measure of a great educator.

One story captures who he was better than any tribute ever could.

In 1984, my roommate Keith Tinker drew Boris the Spider in permanent marker on his desk.

When Robert discovered it, he did not simply punish Keith.

Instead, he gathered us together and said something I have never forgotten.

"If you want to be remembered, don't be a vandal."

He sent Keith to the local Rona hardware store to buy a pine board.

Then, in his beautiful handwriting and careful carving, Robert carved the words Chapman House 1984 across the top.

Each of us then carved our own names into that board.

The following year another class added theirs.

Then another.

Today, those boards still hang on the walls of Chapman House, carrying the names of generations of boys.

Had Keith simply vandalized that desk, it would almost certainly have ended up in a landfill decades ago.

Instead, because Robert chose to teach rather than merely discipline, he transformed a thoughtless act of teenage mischief into one of Chapman House's finest traditions.

That single board tells the story of Robert Common.

It also tells the story of Chapman House.

It was never simply a residence.

It was a place where boys became men.

I understand completely that schools evolve and that buildings sometimes outlive their original purpose.

I am not suggesting that Chapman House once again become a residence.

What I am suggesting is that Chapman House deserves a meaningful second chapter.

A place where prospective students and their families could spend a night while visiting the school.

A place where alumni could gather for reunions.

A place where the photographs remained on the walls.

A place where the carved plaques continued telling their story.

A place where future generations could experience what boarding life at BCS once meant.

Too often institutions preserve buildings but lose the stories that gave them meaning.

Chapman House already possesses nearly ninety years of stories.

If those walls could speak, they would tell of frightened fourteen-year-old boys arriving for the first time, lifelong friendships being forged, young men leaving to serve their country, unforgettable educators like Robert Common shaping generations of students, and thousands of ordinary moments that quietly became extraordinary memories.

The true measure of a great school is not only how well it prepares its students for the future, but how faithfully it preserves the people, traditions, and places that shaped its past.

Chapman House shaped hundreds of young men.

I know.

Because it shaped me.

With my deepest gratitude and affection,

Jason G. Macioge BCS’88