Sr. Kathleen Marie was the first
real heartthrob of my life, after Mom, of course. I was smitten by the tall,
thin, young blonde Irish nun and began festooning the top of my assignment
sheets with cartoon ‘gifts’ such as hearts, flowers and coins. About the third
time she firmly ran them through with a red-pen ‘X’. Welcome to first grade,
fella.
She
also tried to pull me over on a couple of other quirks that would indicate the
psychological direction I was taking in life. My insecurity required attention
and I was forever either cutting up in class or acting like the Frankenstein
Monster on the schoolyard. I also took to putting together makeshift Monsters
for show-and-tell. When I took to talking to them instead of classmates at
recess, Sister Kathleen squashed that routine as well. Eventually I fell in
line, yet continued to lose my place by following the lead of my first boyhood
chum, Edward Colander.
Ed was a tall
skinny kid who bore a striking resemblance to Alfalfa of the Little Rascals. He
was a real dork and a prankster who was forever getting me in trouble though I
was only six months younger than he. His Dad was a big doofus who I suspect was
much smarter than he let on but got no respect from his peers in the ‘hood, my
Dad included. His Mom, Mary, was a street-wise peasant with a loud mouth who
had an earthy sensuous quality about her, like many Italian women in the
neighborhood. His brother was an endearing little kid whose world somehow went
sideways, resulting in a pre-pube drug addiction which turned him into the
local laughing-stock and whipping boy known as Dilapidated Joe.
Ed
was forever looking for a prank and scheme to pull off, and more often than not
I was either his cohort or target as the case might be. As I had a proclivity
for channeling at even that tender age, I was imitating Ed at home and school,
which aggravated Mom and Sister Kathleen no end. So it was no surprise to
anyone but me that, at school’s end, we were split up as Ed was assigned to
class 2-2. I got 2-1 and the trauma of my young life under Sister Rose.
Sr. Rose Marion
was a wizened, hunched-over battleaxe of a woman who was the first of the SPS
‘serial killers’ I had the misfortune of serving time under. Obviously Sister
Kathleen saw the need to split Ed and me up, yet in doing so I was cast into
the lake of fire, in which Sister Rose was the chief demon. Her favorite tactic
was slapping one’s face with both hands, which made the double-slam worse as
the jaw could not recoil. All in all, she wasn’t as bad as some, including Mrs.
O’Shaughnessy in fourth grade, who would take students in the hall and bounce
them like ping-pong balls off the wood-finished walls; or Sister Mary Vincent
in sixth grade, who would beat your outstretched palms with a thick ruler; or
Sister Elizabeth Marie in seventh grade, who used the boys’ neckties like dog
leashes. These frustrated women had no qualms whatsoever in subjecting victims
to vicious tongue-lashings as they saw fit, and the daily ordeals were often as
psychologically punishing as physical.
My own psyche was
so delicate through these tender years that my greatest dread was not of the
nuns, but of what would happen if word got home. Just as at school, there was
not as much physical punishment as psychological, and I had fearful reactions
to the thought of being masticated by my parents. There was a psychological dissonance
created by this perfect self-image my Mom reinforced, conflicting with the fact
I was trapped in this scrawny body and tormented by a spirit of rebellion that
made me a chronic underachiever. Throughout the years, Manny chalked it up to a
lack of discipline. I realized over the decades that it was his negligence in
stepping in as a role model and a patient, loving voice of reason. We never
really did discuss it, however; the damage was done and it did no good to open
old wounds that had finally healed in time.
(To Be Continued...)
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