“You poor bastard.”
Some of my classmates were into the whole religious thing. They could recite biblical versus, were altar servers, and knew all the seven sacraments. They used words like “ecumenical” and "liturgical" in meaningful sentences. Not only did they know who the Pope was, they could list them in order all the way back to Saint Peter. I, on the other hand, flunked religion. In a parochial school failing nonsecular instruction draws out the ire of the teaching staff. Back then Catholic schools were still taught mostly by nuns, unmarried, childless women who wore dark clothing. They were called by God to live a lonely, celibate life. Their focus was supposed to be their parish, not their husband nor their kids. That was the theory anyway. In practice, raising children causes you to be more introspective. Having kids enrolls you in an upper level course on patience. When you experience birth, it softens you. Before kids, you sympathize. After, you empathize.
For the first two years of my Catholic education, I didn't say a word in school. I was too scared. All the nuns were old, mean and French in that order. They each had odd things about them like Sister Ahmad, who taught third grade, always asking,
“What did Jesus said?”
None of us kids ever corrected her grammar because we were afraid of her. Sister Ahmad was a thousand years old. She had no qualms with corporal punishment, and we all entered third grade knowing it. Most of the nuns didn’t hit us, but a few were quite adept at sparing with defenseless children. In fact, the only time Sister Ahmad smiled was when she was exercising the devil out of some hapless kid. On the first day of school we lined up in the front of the class as Sister Ahmad read off our names then assigned us a desk. When my name was called, I walked forward. Sister Ahmad noticed that my tie was black with thin red stripes, not the solid dark blue required by the uniform code. She pointed to me and angrily asked,
"Why is your tie like that?"
I froze. Sister Ahmad continued badgering the witness,
"Why don't you have a tie like everyone else?"
I tried to speak, but I could see on her face that it wouldn't matter what I said. She leaned forward then yanked on my tie as she commanded,
"Get the right one!"
Sister Madeline was the fourth grade teacher. She was very tall. She had accidentally lopped off the end of her middle finger with a paper cutter. To punish kids that got out of line she would make them hold her foreshortened digit. She once told this story to us,
A poor boy was very sad. He had to weed a large field. He didn’t think he could do it. A little angel appeared before him and said,
“What’s wrong poor boy?”
“I have to weed this field, and I can’t do it,” the boy said.
The little angel told the boy to weed a small patch which he did because it was easy. When he finished, the little angel said,
“Now do this patch.”
The poor boy weeded it because it was easy too. The little angel had the boy weed patches after patch until the whole field was done.
What’s the moral to the story?
I raised my hand. Sister Madeline called on me,
“Bobby Languedoc thinks he has an answer.”
Now here is where good judgement and youth do not intersect. I said,
“Forget the moral to the story. This kid saw an angel?”
From the look on her face I thought her habit was going to burst into flame. I was lucky though. Instead of having to clutch her amputated stub of a finger, Sister Madeline resorted to her second go to punishment, rapping you on the head with the stump.
Sister Evangeline was the fifth grade teacher. For some reason, she was always spitting up phlegm even in the summer. If she made a math error on the board and one of us pointed it out, she would say,
“Thank you teacher.”
Sister Evangeline had no need for science so she skipped that subject in favor of extra tutelage in French. My father had a subscription to National Geographic from which I got all my science instruction in grade school. Once Sister Evangaline asked us,
“What causes the tides?”
I had just read an article about how gravitational attraction between the earth and moon resulted in two bulges of water in the ocean moving around the planet. My hand shot up. Sister Evangeline said,
“Bobby Languedoc thinks he has an answer.”
Confidently, I responded, “The moon causes the tides.”
Before I had a chance to elaborate, Sister Evangeline interrupted,
“God causes the tides, not the moon.”
I thought of Galileo when the Inquisition put him under house arrest for stating that the sun and not the earth was the center of the solar system.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the moon,” I issued.
“Who made the moon?” Sister Evangeline asked.
I hesitated as I tried to recall previous issues of National Geographic.
“God made the moon!” she shot back.
I got off easier than Galileo on that exchange. All I had to do is write “God made the moon” on the board a hundred times while my fellow students mocked me.
On another occasion, Sister Evangeline was seated at her desk in the front of the room when she reminded us that Jesus was born on Christmas Day in a manger because there was no room in the inn. I had read a newspaper article that stated that the actual day Jesus was born was likely not in the winter because shepherds didn't tend sheep then. The author suggested that December 25 was chosen as a day of christian celebration to compete with pagan festivities around the winter solstice on the 20th. Quoting the article I noted,
"The Gospel doesn't say anything about the season when Jesus was born."
Sister Evangeline glared at me at length, her face flush with anger. She wheezed audibly as she labored to breathe through ample pent-up loathing. Flinging open a drawer to her desk, she retrieved a green grade book which she flipped open. Snapping up a pencil, she licked the end then peered through her bifocals as she scratched something on the page. She closed the book abruptly then returned it to the drawer which she slammed shut. She paused briefly as she glanced in my direction then said,
"The three wise men brought gold, frankincense and myrrh."
To this day I don't know what Sister Evangeline wrote in that book, but I'm sure it wasn't a praising acknowledgement of my extensive understanding of historical events.
Sister Stellar was the sixth grade teacher. She was short and had a scar on her chin. A classmate of mine once mused that her scar was from a bullwhip accident while under instruction when she was living in the order. Sister Stellar hated when any of us looked to the back of the church during mass. She would point any infraction outright in the middle of the service by yelling,
“Bobby Languedoc is more interested in what’s going on in the BACK of the church.”
The priest conducting mass would frown after Sister Stellar's frequent outbursts which she took as approval, but I was pretty certain he didn’t appreciate the frequency of the disciplinary disruption which was more distracting than some kid glancing over their shoulder towards the choir. You can always tell the Catholics who were confirmed as adults. They’re the parishioners who look about the church during mass. I alway feel compelled to tell them,
“The miracle is happening up at the alter.”
But I never say anything.
Sister Betty Ann taught seventh grade. She was on loan from a parish in Kentucky. She was tasked to venture up here and straighten us yankees out. Every Wednesday morning the whole school went to mass. After each service, Sister Betty Ann sauntered to the front of the church and critiqued our participation by grade. She would call out the fourth grade for not singing loud enough or the sixth grade for not enunciating during the Lord’s Prayer. We were all inadequate sinners not worthy of our station. Once Sister Betty Ann played The Devil Went Down to Georgia for us then asked,
“What's the meaning of this song?”
I raised my hand. Sister Betty Ann said with a twang,
“Bobby Languedoc thinks he has an answer.”
“I don’t know what that song is about, but who taught the devil how to play the fiddle?”
“How would I know that?” Sister Betty Ann exclaimed.
"Wasn't it a sin for Johnny to gamble his soul for a golden fiddle?"
"Yes, it was."
“How come the devil admitted to Johnny that he was a better fiddle player? Doesn’t seem like the type.”
“I don’t know."
"The Gospel doesn't say anything about the season when Jesus was born."
Sister Evangeline glared at me at length, her face flush with anger. She wheezed audibly as she labored to breathe through ample pent-up loathing. Flinging open a drawer to her desk, she retrieved a green grade book which she flipped open. Snapping up a pencil, she licked the end then peered through her bifocals as she scratched something on the page. She closed the book abruptly then returned it to the drawer which she slammed shut. She paused briefly as she glanced in my direction then said,
"The three wise men brought gold, frankincense and myrrh."
To this day I don't know what Sister Evangeline wrote in that book, but I'm sure it wasn't a praising acknowledgement of my extensive understanding of historical events.
Sister Stellar was the sixth grade teacher. She was short and had a scar on her chin. A classmate of mine once mused that her scar was from a bullwhip accident while under instruction when she was living in the order. Sister Stellar hated when any of us looked to the back of the church during mass. She would point any infraction outright in the middle of the service by yelling,
“Bobby Languedoc is more interested in what’s going on in the BACK of the church.”
The priest conducting mass would frown after Sister Stellar's frequent outbursts which she took as approval, but I was pretty certain he didn’t appreciate the frequency of the disciplinary disruption which was more distracting than some kid glancing over their shoulder towards the choir. You can always tell the Catholics who were confirmed as adults. They’re the parishioners who look about the church during mass. I alway feel compelled to tell them,
“The miracle is happening up at the alter.”
But I never say anything.
Sister Betty Ann taught seventh grade. She was on loan from a parish in Kentucky. She was tasked to venture up here and straighten us yankees out. Every Wednesday morning the whole school went to mass. After each service, Sister Betty Ann sauntered to the front of the church and critiqued our participation by grade. She would call out the fourth grade for not singing loud enough or the sixth grade for not enunciating during the Lord’s Prayer. We were all inadequate sinners not worthy of our station. Once Sister Betty Ann played The Devil Went Down to Georgia for us then asked,
“What's the meaning of this song?”
I raised my hand. Sister Betty Ann said with a twang,
“Bobby Languedoc thinks he has an answer.”
“I don’t know what that song is about, but who taught the devil how to play the fiddle?”
“How would I know that?” Sister Betty Ann exclaimed.
"Wasn't it a sin for Johnny to gamble his soul for a golden fiddle?"
"Yes, it was."
“How come the devil admitted to Johnny that he was a better fiddle player? Doesn’t seem like the type.”
“I don’t know."
"What key did the devil play in?"
"It's just a song."
“What does ‘chicken in a bread pan picken` out dough’ mean?'”
“What?”
"Sister, why do we get presents on Christmas when it's Jesus's birthday?"
“Because, uh...”
"Sister, do you hear God's voice in your head?"
"Yes! I mean no..."
"If God knows everything, does he need to know how to read?"
"Huh?"
By the time I had reached seventh grade, my education was complete. Sure I had a lot to learn, but I no longer feared humiliation. My parents scraped up what little money they had to send three kids to Catholic school, and we heard about the sacrifices they made often. In 1976, my father went on strike from his factory job, and mid year he stopped paying the tuition. The school sent my parents a letter stating that if they didn't resume payment, I wouldn't be allowed to take finals and would have to repeat the sixth grade.
I wore the wrong tie all through middle school receiving admonition from many of the nuns for what they believed was my brazen rule breaking. The truth was my parents were often strapped for cash even in good times. My Catholic education taught me a lot. As my parents cobbled together what they had to get by on a limited budget, I learned to absorb aversion as I stood out from the crowd, not for academic achievement but for my inability to afford conformity.
What better lesson to survive in this world today.
“What does ‘chicken in a bread pan picken` out dough’ mean?'”
“What?”
"Sister, why do we get presents on Christmas when it's Jesus's birthday?"
“Because, uh...”
"Sister, do you hear God's voice in your head?"
"Yes! I mean no..."
"If God knows everything, does he need to know how to read?"
"Huh?"
By the time I had reached seventh grade, my education was complete. Sure I had a lot to learn, but I no longer feared humiliation. My parents scraped up what little money they had to send three kids to Catholic school, and we heard about the sacrifices they made often. In 1976, my father went on strike from his factory job, and mid year he stopped paying the tuition. The school sent my parents a letter stating that if they didn't resume payment, I wouldn't be allowed to take finals and would have to repeat the sixth grade.
I wore the wrong tie all through middle school receiving admonition from many of the nuns for what they believed was my brazen rule breaking. The truth was my parents were often strapped for cash even in good times. My Catholic education taught me a lot. As my parents cobbled together what they had to get by on a limited budget, I learned to absorb aversion as I stood out from the crowd, not for academic achievement but for my inability to afford conformity.
What better lesson to survive in this world today.
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