By B. P. Gibson
Some names have been changed.
Mother sent my sister and me to private school the year I began second grade. We continued in private schools for the next several years, which I hated. I learned later our state allowed anyone to teach in private schools without a teaching certificate, which was easy to believe considering some of the teachers I had. The worst was Sister Veronica Jean.
To be fair, I came to Sister Veronica Jean’s class with a bias. Two years before, my mother and I were Downtown when I first saw those crazy-looking women, long black robes, long black hoods, big white bibs, and crosses too big to be necklace-size. Mother said something under her breath. I didn’t quite hear what she said. “What?” I asked.
She covered her sinful utterance with a liethat rhymed with what she really said, “Witches, I said witches.” That made sense. In my five-year-old brain, they certainly had the wardrobe to fit the title. I’d never met a real, live witch before, but opportunity was just around the corner. Mother enrolled my sister and me in an all-girls, Catholic school, not for Catholicism (she hated the Catholic church). Mother sent us to Catholic school for bragging rights, so she could boast we attended private school. Not only was that place crawling with those black-gowned crazies, they actually ran that school.
Oppression began with the uniform, a blah tan-gray pinafore, a daily requirement. I was assigned to bear my cross in a mixed first and second grade class under the corporal submission of Sister Veronica Jean. The message from Sister Veronica Jean was clear: We were all going to Hell, doomed to damnation. If we lied to a nun, we were going to Hell. If we were raped and didn’t fight to the death, we were going to Hell. (She actually told us this and then she had to explain the word rape.) If we disobeyed her, we were going to Hell. Sitting quietly with hands folded on desktops was one of Sister Veronica Jean’s mandated requirements. Really, who says and does these things to six and seven-year-olds? Oh right, a witch.
I hated that school. While I tried not to, I really hated Sister Veronica Jean. Now that’s got to be a mortal sin, hating a nun. I hated her intimidation. She made first grader, Susanna, show herself to every class just because color from markers were on her face and uniform. When Gloria Ann admitted missing Mass, Sister Mary Katherine took her into the cloak closet, while we sat silent and horrified, hands folded on our desks, fearing the potential of our own humiliation. I fainted dead away one time, just trying to stand as still as Sister Veronica Jean demanded. That witch thought something must be wrong with me. There was something wrong with me, alright, Sister Veronica Jean.
She told us we would burn in Hell if we missed Sunday Mass, and every Monday she quizzed us about Sunday service. All those little girls eagerly waved their hands like pennants of grace, except the one who slumped down in her seat, hoping to go unnoticed. Yep, that was me, destined for Hell. My parents were exceptional at being unofficial atheists. We never went to Mass.
One day Sister Veronica Jean broke out musical instruments. I was delighted things were going to change. Oh, how naïve I was. Sister Veronica Jean told us we needed to wait and hold the instruments silently for the time being. Another nun took pictures while we sat at our desks, each of us brimming with delight in anticipation, holding a musical instrument: triangle, tambourine, maracas, castanets. We waited with smiles and eager expectancy for the glorious moment we would be allowed to clang, thump and ring. That moment never arrived. Once pictures were snapped musical instruments were snatched away, our hopes dashed. At year’s end, a couple of those pictures showed up in the school yearbook, a memory for us to cherish. Remember the time we got to hold the musical instruments silently until the photos were taken?
At lunch, we sat outside at a picnic table. One day I finished eating before my classmates. I stood up and happened to look south. A short distance away, an ominous dark cloud of smoke rose in stark contrast to the clear blue sky. I was mesmerized by the sight and just stood there staring at rising smoke, a visible sign of menacing peril. A first grader came up to me and said, “That’s where my house is.” I thought she meant her house was in that general vicinity. I lacked social grace, diplomacy, and courtesy. I wished I had the maturity and mental wherewithal to say something kind or comforting. Not knowing what to say, I said nothing.
That afternoon Mother Theresa came to our classroom door. Next to her stood a tall man pale and numb with bloodshot eyes. “Elizabeth is going home now,” Mother Theresa announced. The first grader who spoke to me earlier, gathered her things. After father and daughter left, Sister Veronica Jean and Mother Theresa huddled in the doorway with hushed whispers.
Sister Veronica Jean reentered the classroom and announced we needed to pray for Elizabeth and her family. “Elizabeth’s younger sister and brother died today in a fire.” Sister Veronica Jean announced and then told us, “Elizabeth’s mother is expecting a new baby soon. A gift from God to replace the ones she lost.” It didn’t sound right to me. I was still numb with the realization death could come for anyone, even by burning preschoolers in a blazing inferno.