twelve years

Twelve years in a parochial school can do things to you - twelve years under the tutelage of nuns with rulers and pointer sticks and erasers to be clapped after school - starched white wimples, long black rosaries cinched around the waists of long black robes topping black hosed legs atop feet in sturdy old lady black shoes.

I had those twelve years. The first eight were spent in a small 8 room brick building attached to the older, brick and stone high school building that has probably been in that location for a hundred years now. (Yes, it is still there - although no longer used as a school.) The school was within a one-mile walking distance of whatever apartment or half-double we might be living in at the time.

Grades 1-4 were on the first floor. Just inside the front doors on the right was the 1st grade class - to the left the 2nd grade class - further down the hall on the left was the third grade class and on the right the fourth grade class. Upstairs on the left were grades 5 and 6, and on the right grades 7 and 8.

I don't recall the names of any of my grade school teachers, save one. Sister Anastasia, more properly, Sister Mary Anastasia, was short and the plumpest of all of the nuns in our school. She was the one to whom my sister and I ran with our report cards even after advancing upstairs to the upper rooms. She could instill the fear of God into us with a look - that may have had something to do with her propensity to whap us on top of the head with whatever book she was holding if we got out of line, or back talked, or didn't answer a question quickly enough or to her satisfaction.

Sister Anastasia could also cause the tears to fall if we felt she was unhappy or dissatisfied with our performance. She would look at my report card and sigh and ask the air "What will your Mother think when she sees this report card?" I would have promised her the moon and the stars if only she would not be disappointed in me. And, the sudden realization that my mother would be disappointed in me as well . . . well that definitely could cause tears to fall.

Twelve years in a parochial school can do many things to a person - I was taught to respect authority - my teachers, my parents, anyone who was my elder. I learned that with that respect of authority comes responsibility - the responsibility to obey rules, to be aware of my place in the world, and to make the best of that place.

My high school years were spent at a new school 6 miles from home. I was in the fourth graduating class, although there was a graduation prior to my freshman year - but each of the students represented their own high schools. That older high school building I mentioned to you? Its last students graduated from my new school, but as alumni of the older school.

One period each year was our religion class. That class always seemed to be taught by the freshest out of seminary priests that the diocese could find to send to us. It was easy to make fun of them - and it was easy to be sorry for them. Our religion classroom had tiers - and my cousin and I generally sat in desks near the top tier.

The years I had spent with Sister Anastasia told on me during those religion classes. I would get so upset at my cousin for frittering her time there - she would either be writing notes to her upper class boyfriend, or putting on her makeup for the next class when she would see him. I would hiss at her and tell her to pay attention to the lesson. She would laugh at me and tell me that I was taking life much too seriously.

I tried hard to lighten up - even though I considered myself then, as today, to be a pretty light-hearted person. I tried hard not to let it bother me that people took classwork so for granted - or were what I considered to be rude to the teachers by being innatentive.

Now, I must interject here that I was not a top grade student. I worked hard for my grades and felt blessed if I got A's but was often made to be satisfied with B's and C's. But it was hard for me to accept that others did not take life and school as seriously as I did.

They all had a great time - or seemed to have a great time - throughout the four years we spent in high school.

I tried to have a great time - tried out for and acted in several plays - never as the lead, although I coveted that role each time. I felt called during a special presentation to go to a summer mission field, but had to let go of that dream because I would have had to pay my own way and I needed to have a summer job in order to afford my share of my tuition, uniforms and books for the following year. I wrote on the school paper, and sang in the sophomore chorus, but chickened out on the junior/senior choir because I couldn't read music - I sing by ear (much like some pianists play by ear).

Through it all I maintained a certain seriousness about me. I kept my respect for my elders, my "superiors", authority. I didn't get into much trouble because I was always afraid of being caught, of disappointing my mother. Not a saint, by any means, but always careful to stay within certain bounds so as not to cross that invisible line.

Tonight I was accused of taking life - or certain incidents in life - too seriously. Tonight I was told that I care too much about certain things.

that may be so.

Posted by Purplemoose at January 28, 2004 11:11 PM