Can you believe that school has started. Where did the summer go? In N.Y. schools wait until after Labor Day to incarcerate, oops ! I mean to educate our children. I guess I am still very immature making a remark like that, and from what I see on the news schools today have changed radically. What would I do today if I had school age children? I am not sure, it’s a difficult question. I am glad that aspect of my life is over although I don’t have negative memories from my school days or from when I sent my children to school. Children went to school and that was that. School was not something to be questioned or rejected. That said, let me walk you down memory lane to share a bit of history in the life of a woman who not only survived school but enjoyed herself.
When I was in the first grade my parents relocated from Queens to the North Shore of Long Island. While touring the local Catholic School, we happened upon a Christmas party in the cafeteria. When asked if I would like to go to school at St. Peter’s, my answer was an immediate Christmas Party “Yes.” In January I developed a serious attendance problem. The first grade was located in the basement of the school building. New York basements have poles conveniently placed throughout. Poles that I would desperately cling to while my mother attempted to pull me toward the classroom door. Hearing the commotion, a nun would come out and my struggle was over. The Sisters were an authority not to be challenged. Defeated, I was firmly led to my desk, sniffling but submissive.
And just what was this cruel fate? We wore uniforms, walked in a straight line, and sat silently in rows with our hands folded on top of the desk. We stood when spoken to or when we were called on to answer. There was no noise. We ate in silence in the cafeteria. We played on a playground without equipment, or even balls. It was the church parking lot. Guess what - WE HAD FUN!
One day during recess, for some reason unknown to me, I knocked on the door of the rectory. I was about eight or nine years old, and the rectory is where the priests live. The door was answered by a Chinese butler (this was not a poor parish) and I was quietly ushered inside. The Fathers were eating lunch and I was soon sitting at their table enjoying freshly baked popovers and answering an occasional question. The priests did not eat in total silence but trust me it was a subdued atmosphere. Let me interject that none of this was within the range of normal. Children did not knock on the door of the rectory. I have no idea what I was thinking but after additional years of being me the best I can offer is that I wasn’t thinking– I just did it. Behavior patterns start young.
In my neighborhood, my Catholic School friends and I were referred to as The Catholic Kids. I remember one non -Catholic parent being very upset thinking that this was somehow not appropriate. It never bothered us. After all, weren’t we the Catholic kids? We went to Catholic School, we didn’t eat meat on Friday, we went to confession on Saturday and fasted on Sunday morning until after communion. You don’t get more Catholic than that. And then it happened! Mid-year in the fifth grade, my mother enrolled me in public school. Main Street School was the local elementary school and what the name lacked in creativity was accompanied by a culture that was foreign and confusing. Students ran from their desks when the bell rang. No one stood up when spoken to and where were the lines?
Did I adjust? No. I will always be a product of Catholic School. I like quiet, order and structure. It was worth wearing a uniform, substituting PE with tap for boys and ballet for girls. We were not taught science, and there was no art or music or gym. Today, I can read, write and occasionally do basic math. Who says the earth isn’t flat? It looks flat to me, as I ballet step across the room to happily sort my earrings into neatly labeled zip lock bags.
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