There were about 50 of us in one classroom with one nun to teach us all. Beneath her full habit was a rather plain, thin, young face with wire rimmed glasses. I knew she was a “she” but the habit took away any real indication of her gender, save the flowing black skirt. No hint of hair edged out from the severe white starched linen surrounding her face. The black wool sleeves came down to her wrists and she often hid her hands in the baggy oversleeve of each opposite ar m. She seemed very tall to me, and as one of the smallest children, I feared her but respected her; there really was no alternative - or escape.
For as young as she must have been, she knew how to strike fear in the rowdiest of boys or the sassiest of girls - though girls rarely caused any trouble. Her nun training was very effective - without any teacher aides she kept us all in line, and while her techniques may have caused tears among some of my classmates during the first few weeks, she knew how to take control and keep it.
Our room was small and separated from the next classroom by a thick folding curtain that moved along a track in the ceiling. The desks were miniature tables and chairs of blonde wood with a shelf beneath the surface for books and supplies. They touched one another on the sides, setting up the room in wide horizontal rows.
It was in this room where Sr. Joseph Ann patiently taught us all to read, write, learn basic arithmetic and begin our first instruction in catechism. One of the methods of learning to read was with a letter kit. With a box of single letters printed on heavy yellow paper, we placed them in a large card with sleeves across it for inserting the letters. We created words, then phrases, then sentences, all of which complemented the efforts in our readers and the stories of David and Ann. Over the months we progressed from “Oh, look! See Ann go.” to “Mother and Father teach the children to pray.” No early reading lesson was complete without someone knocking over a box of letters on the floor, much to Sister’s chagrin and immediate direction to “pick up each and every one of them!”
We had to line up for everything in grammar school - coming in, going out, going to lunch, going to the bathroom, going over to church - during first grade I got to know the back of Marie’s head pretty well. Many times when we were in church, however, it wasn’t just lining up and walking in, we were "pro-cessing" (as in walking in a procession) for special holy days. It was during one of these processions that I encountered a different side of Sr. Joseph Ann. As we were coming out of church into the vestibule, I dipped my hand in the holy water font, only to have Sister slap it away. “You don’t take holy water during a procession!” she scolded me. I was more shocked than hurt and managed to hold back the tears, if only because of my own pride. When I told my mother what happened, she was not happy to hear that someone, even a nun, had laid a hand on her child. I don’t know if there was any retaliation on her part, but where her kids were concerned, my mother’s protectiveness was like that of a lioness.
The church experience in those days was one filled with awe and not a little fear. We memorized basic questions and answers from the Baltimore Catechism and were taught the Ten Commandments, but to a six year old, “coveting your neighbor’s wife” didn’t hold a lot of meaning. We pretty much knew that disobeying your parents and teachers, fighting with your sister, telling lies or stealing could get you in pretty hot water with God, let alone your mother, and if you had any doubt that God called all the shots, you just had to spend a little time in church during 40 Hours Devotion or Lenten Benediction. The statues, stained glass windows, the organ you could hear but not see, the Latin prayers and hymns, incense, the big crucifix, vigil candles, all contributed to an air of solemnity and ritual that left most of us fearing for our souls if we dared let our butts touch the pew while kneeling. Talking to your neighbor was unthinkable. Of course, by the time third grade rolled around, Mass was the best opportunity to sit next to your best friends and trade holy cards.
“I already have a St. Catherine,” I would say in a whisper to my friend Helen, showing her the card placed perfectly as a marker on her feast day in my St. Joseph’s Daily Missal.
“That’s St. Catherine Laboure, this is St. Catherine of Siena," she said. "Want to trade her for a St. Patrick?”
“Oh, everyone has lots of St. Patricks. My mother gets them at wakes - you know, when your parents go to see sick people?” I had never been to a wake and when my parents dropped us off at my grandmother’s on their way to one, this was how they softened the story.
“What do you mean sick people? People at wakes are dead.” Helen was Irish, had older siblings and knew a lot more about such things than I did.
“Dead?" I was incredulous. "All of them?”
“What do you mean all of them? One person is dead and everyone goes to see them for the last time in a casket.”
“You look at a dead person?” Not only had I never thought my parents had seen a dead person, the very idea scared me silly. Helen, however, thought me the complete idiot.
“Jeesh! Yeah, they’re dead.”
“Girls! Stop talking!” Our teacher had gotten wind of the whispering and brought us immediately back to perfect form for Mass: head slightly bowed, clasped hands on the back of the pew in front of you, butts no where near the seat behind you. Unfortunately for me and Helen, it was too late. As we left church to go back to our rooms, our teacher pulled us out of line and told us that for talking during Mass we had to write the Hail Mary three times.
My parents were not pleased.
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