St. Mary�s � Going to School in Hell

Chapter 3 of Telling My Story

I was raised in the Catholic church. My mother was not Catholic and my father was Catholic in name only, but in those days, if you wanted to get married in the church, the heathen partner had to promise to raise the children in the one true faith. My mother acquiesced, and after kindergarten, I went to St. Mary’s for a proper Catholic education.

St. Mary’s school was surpassed in oppressive gloominess only by St. Mary’s cathedral where we went to church. We were required to attend mass every morning before school. Girls had to wear hats in church and if you forgot your hat, you had to wear a Kleenex, pinned to your head by a scowling nun who let you know that your impiety had not gone unnoticed. The cathedral was huge and always dark. In back of the altar, Golgotha was reproduced in life size. Gray statues ascending the gray rocks of the mountain with all three crosses looming against a gray sky. It was enough to put the fear of God in my timid heart.

The nuns sat at the back of their students and they carried a long stick. If you dared to lean back against the pew during those long kneeling times, the stick would abruptly poke you in the back, reminding you that God required ramrod attendance to every Latin word.

School was an extension of church. The building was old and rundown. There was no playground. It didn’t matter. I took piano lessons during recess. The nuns were strict and discipline usually involved pain. I was an extraordinarily well-behaved child. I don’t remember being hit, although I often saw others smacked around. Humiliation was more effective, anyway. I was something of a perfectionist. So, if I made mistakes on papers, I started over. One day our teacher walked by my desk as I raised the lid to get something, and she saw all of the half-used papers inside. She grabbed them up in bunches and threw them on the floor. Then she told me to throw them away and to tell the priest in confession that I had wasted paper. I was mortified. Another time, I spent half of the day standing in the corner for whistling in class. I couldn’t whistle then and I can’t whistle still, but denial only made the punishment more severe. In the three years I attended St. Mary’s, I don’t have a single memory of a smiling nun, not one happy memory.

The priests were no better. I didn’t see them a lot. They taught only catechism. And I confessed to them, protected by a barrier so I didn’t have to look them in the eye as I revealed the sorry state of my soul. At least the catechism classes were in English.

We weren’t allowed to eat anything before taking communion. If you needed to eat for a good reason, you could get dispensation from a priest. One day, I had to take medication before I went to school, so I hesitantly walked up to the huge front door of the rectory and knocked. The priest flung the door open wide and growled that I was supposed to use the back door, then slammed the door in my face. It took all the courage I possessed to go to the back door and knock again. But I was even more afraid not to.

My mother was very displeased with St. Mary’s. To this day, she hasn’t forgiven those nuns for telling me not to sing at my first communion. I had (still do) a lousy voice and they told me to move my lips, but not to make a sound. She was furious that the sound of the song was more important to them than the innocent joy of a seven-year-old singing. But she had promised to raise us in the church, so she swallowed her anger. When we moved to the country, we changed to another Catholic school. It wasn’t as bad as St. Mary’s, but that’s barely a compliment. Eventually, my mother reached the end of her rope. There was an incident with my brother and some other boys throwing snowballs. The nun lined them up for their punishment, but my brother ran away.

Bless my mother’s flare for the dramatic. She sent us all off to school the next day as if nothing was wrong. Then she came to the school and dramatically pulled each of us out of our class and announced that we would not be returning. She enrolled us in public school that same day.

That was pretty much the end of my association with the Catholic church. Amen. But the mark it left on me lasted for many years. They taught me to be afraid in a most effective way. You can’t escape the wrath of God. I remember going to a protestant church for a wedding. My mother had to drag me crying into that church. Then I lived in fear of dying and eternal damnation until I could confess my sin. That kind of fear doesn’t just go away quietly.

It’s odd how much my own personality was involved. My brother, distant and cold, rebelled against the church. My sister, serene and self confident, ignored it. And I, impressionable and introspective, internalized it all. They say that which doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. I guess I should thank the church for the strength I gained in overcoming the wounds it inflicted on me. Somehow, I just don’t feel grateful. But neither am I bitter. I am the sum of my experiences. And I can now choose to embrace the lessons they teach and leave the pain behind.

 

October 2003 -- Telling My story

Author's Note

Comments welcome. Please let me know if you find typos.