My Middle School Education

For most of my childhood, I was educated in a private school. As busing was being argued in legislative chambers across the country, I avoided having to board the cheese wagon for a lengthy ride to an integrated school. I wore a uniform which identified me as a member of a select group of lucky kids. I was overseen by men and women who were committed to my education. They were so dedicated that they never married. You probably think I was privileged. I would think that too until I tell you that the private school I went to was Catholic. Now you’re likely thinking,

“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."

"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.

The Chicken or the Egg

Years ago when I was in fifth grade at Saint Joseph's Catholic School in Rhode Island, I was deemed a "troublemaker." It all started one day when Sister Mary Artifact told us a story about a boy and a scientist. She said,

One day a little boy asked a scientist, "Which came first? The chicken or the egg?"



The scientist asked the boy why he wanted to know. The boy said, "You're a smart scientist. You should be able to tell me which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

The scientist said, "Why don't you go outside and play little boy."

Sister Mary concluded her fable with the ominous warning,

You see, scientists can't tell us everything.

Sister Mary Artifact was French. She was a thousand years old and shaped like a pear. She never smiled. A lot of nuns smacked us around back then. Sister Mary insulted us often in between cracks to the head. She routinely publicly singled me out for embarrassment. Oddly, she always seemed to be coughing up phlegm.
 

I thought about her story in my eleven year old mind. My parents had a subscription to National Geographic Magazine. That was how I got all my science education during the eight years I spent in parochial school. I had recently read an article on evolution. I raised my hand.

"Sister," I began, "If God created the chicken or the egg, then the scientist would have no clue which He made first. If the chicken evolved, then the egg came first."

Sister Mary Artifact looked at me sternly.

"You think you're smart," she issued, "Bobby Languedoc thinks he's smarter than God."

I didn't think I was smarter than God just smarter than her. For some reason I spit out a question that had bothered me during all my years in Catholic School.

"Sister, why does God let babies die?"

Sister Mary was pissed. At eleven, I wasn't good at interpreting the expressions on the faces of people, otherwise I wouldn't have asked her a question. She responded,

"God is infinite. Bobby Languedoc thinks he's infinite too."

Now, I was sure I wasn't infinite. I just wanted an answer. Sister Mary added,

"It's not for you to know. Bobby Languedoc is a real troublemaker."

That label stuck with me for the rest of my time in Catholic school. Recently, a friend of mine forwarded a video of Bishop Barron, the auxiliary bishop of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. He has a very prolific online presence with his Word on Fire ministry.

Bishop Barron

Bishop Barron has a PhD in theology. He's very knowledgeable about history. He's a smart guy who offers very interesting perspectives on many religious topics and current events. I watched the video my friend forwarded me. At the end, Bishop Barron took some questions from the audience. A woman asked,

"What do you tell people who ask why God lets children suffer?"

I was very interested in what Bishop Barron had to say since after all these years this question still puzzled me, and he's a way smart dude. Bishop Barron said something like,

"God is infinite. We are a finite mind trying to understand an infinite mind."

That's it? Forty years after my chicken or the egg encounter in fifth grade, and the Catholic Church still punts when it comes to why God lets children suffer? I got the same answer decades ago from Sister Mary Artifact that Dr. Barron was now unloading on this thoughtful woman.

So this got me thinking again about why babies die. It seems so unfair. When a religion depends on an unknowable answer, then we might as well apply that to everything. I think any possible hypothesis should be able to explain most if not all of it. The incomprehensible approach is an assumption which covers the parts of the belief that don't quite fit the hypotheses. A lot of religious concepts were originated to control the masses, not to explain how things might work, like fish on Fridays, the caste system or burkas.

The Bible states that we live and die only once, and we don't marry people in heaven. A priest once told me that heaven is like a big feast. This last bit must have been a huge hit in medieval times when the average family went hungry on a daily basis. He also told me we become nonphysical beings when we die. Even the uptight Muslims believe in 88 black eyed virgins bestowed on martyrs. The problem I have with all of this is that it needs a bit of updating. No one unless they're in a lot of agony wants to die. The idea of heaven as a feast is unappealing to me. Not being married to my wife and not getting any action doesn't sound like a lot of fun. Rather than some well prepared dinner for the life after, I prefer another go around here on earth.

Many religions embrace reincarnation like Hinduism. The problem with this religion is they believe in the caste system here on earth. If you are born a peasant, then be a good peasant in this life, and in the next life, you'll be something better. The Bible says that you can't get into heaven from good deeds. Many Christian fundamentalists believe you need to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ to get into heaven. Nuns used to tell us that if Hitler asked for forgiveness he would have gotten into heaven, and if Mother Theresa stubbed her toe and used the Lord's name in vain just before she got hit by a bus, then she would go to hell. That just doesn't seem fair.

More people have died than are alive today so there must be billions of people in heaven just milling about looking for something to do. If the earth was your project, wouldn't you send people back who did a good job already? I believe if you do more good than bad on this planet, you go back for another whirl. God allows for randomness in conjunction with free will which is why bad things happen to good people, even babies. But God puts you back into the mix if you draw the short straw. A baby who dies is reborn, and God stacks the deck in their favor. Why wouldn't He? He's God.

If you kill someone or yourself, your soul is ended. That much disrespect for life, and you're done. God wants you to live in the real world, in reality, to try your best, to stay off drugs and don't smoke because those things are stupid. He wants you to bring about more good than bad, and preferably very little bad. I don't think you have to believe in Christianity. I think it's more important to not be an asshole which in itself eliminates a lot of us.

I don't think there is a hell or a devil. Those ideas just don't make any sense. Free will brings about enough trouble without a need for some horned dude sneaking about. Why would God let the devil exist? Why doesn't he snuff out that guy right off? Does God really torture millions of people in the fires of hell, or does he just dispatch them and move on? I know the Bible says God can be vengeful, but I don't buy it. Why would an omnipotent being waste time punishing douchebags?

So to answer the question which came first, the chicken or the egg? Evolution says the egg. Creationism could be either. Why do babies die? Chaos and free will add randomness to our lives here on earth. Sometimes, you draw the short straw. Make the best of it, and next time around things will be better.

There's a lot of questions that we'll never be able to answer like is the Loch Ness Monster real, are there aliens stored in refrigerators at Area 51 and what is the song, Tiny Dancer, all about? For everything else, a little logic goes a long way. William of Ockham, a Franciscan Friar, said in the 13th century to always pick the hypothesis with the fewest assumptions.

Life and death seem to make more sense to me ever since I started shaving with Ockham's razor.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on February 23, 2017.

What Did Bush Say to Obama?

Recently five former presidents gathered at Texas A&M University for a hurricane relief concert. During President Clinton’s speech, Bush leaned over to Obama and said something which cracked Obama up. Obama did his best not to chuckle, but things are generally funnier when you're not supposed to laugh. Having been raised a Catholic, I’ve been in that situation many times before.

Years ago when I was in middle school, we were discussing the Apostle Peter’s denial of Jesus after the crucifixion. My friend, Dean, looked to me and whispered,

“Jesus who?”

I immediately started smirking, then I said to Dean,

“The only Jesus I know does my car detailing.”

Dean burst out busting both of us. Sister Mary Artifact marched to the back of the room and smacked Dean on the back of the head. She sent me to stand in the front of the room in a corner with my back to the class. This wasn't a good idea. In the back, I was disruptive to only my immediate neighbors. Up in the front of the class, I had an audience. I stood up there and pretended to smoke my pencil which caused a few of my classmates to laugh. I pulled paper out the wastepaper basket which I mock read with astonishment. I discovered a small milk carton in the trashcan which I pretended to guzzle. Whenever Sister Mary wasn't looking I would turn and face the class and mouth her words as she spoke intently. When Sister Mary ventured to the back of the class to swat the closest chuckling classmate, I exclaimed,

"Biggus Dickus."

Now, if you haven't seen Monty Python's Life of Brian then stop reading and go watch it now. The scene in which Caesar, played by Michael Palin, explains to a centurion, played by John Cleese, that his friend "Biggus Dickus" had a wife named "Incontinetia Buttocks" used to make us laugh uncontrollably every time. Palin's lisp made it all that much funnier. The nuns considered the Life of Brian blasphemous so naturally we all watched the movie the first chance we got. The roman guards trying not to laugh was a familiar scenario for Catholic school kids. Most of us took a beating for laughing at some point during our Catholic education.

When Obama tried not to laugh at Bush's comments, the look on Bush's face was all too familiar to my middle school mind. As I watched the video, I came up with this list of top ten possible Bush comments that made Obama laugh.

1. Would he just die already.
   
2. Hey, Barack, pull my finger.
3. I wonder which of us use Boll & Branch sheets?
   
4. Where's Puerto Rico?
   
5. You hear Carter wants to help Trump? And to think, Larry Flynt is trying to stick it up 45’s ass.
   
6. Hillary wanted to come, but she didn’t get the email in time.
   
7. Is he introducing Harvey Weinstein?
   
8. You think Carter will make it to the end?
   
9. Beyoncé had the best video of all time
   
10. We’re all gonna get matching tats after this.

When Bush started smirking and Obama smiling, I couldn't shake the feeling that Sister Mary Artifact was going to emerge from the crowd and shuffle across the stage. She'd crack Obama in the head and send Bush to stand in the corner. Of course, in my day, Sister Mary was a thousand years old so its not likely she's still around, but you never know. Sister Mary wasn't the picture of health in 1976. She was pear shaped, and for some reason she was always coughing up phlegm. I was never molested or anything like that during my eight years of Catholic education, but I was smacked in the head more times than I care to remember.

Either way, something tells me that Bush is going to keep the laughs coming.