Twenty-something years ago, I was a second grader at St. Agnes Seminary, a small convent school in Brooklyn, N.Y. Classes were taught by the sisters of St. Joseph, the Roman Catholic equivalent of a terrorist hitsquad. The nuns were a strict, grim-faced group of androgenous "enforcers," bent on recruiting the babes of the affluent by means of intimidation, assault, imprisonment, and mind-wiping.
Unlike my peers, my family was not quite affluent, and both of my parents worked. This immediately red-flagged me as a walking "scarlet letter" - and a frequent recipient of punishment and humiliation. My mother, however, was determined that I receive a similar education to the one she'd had (poor thing) - and so it was that I found myself in the classroom of Sr. Bernadette, a seasoned bully whose eyes glittered with malice behind thin-rimmed spectacles. Walking into that room every day was something akin to facing Judgement Day. It was also around this time that I began wishing I were a Jew.
There were twenty-two of us dubiously blessed with the misfortune of daily contact with "Her."
I sat in the third row, second seat - when I wasn't confined to the coat closet counting the hooks, or, God forbid, in the corner, on display and repenting for some major infraction like not having my pencils - or being in possession of textbooks lacking proper bookcovers. Sr. Bernadette was the scorekeeper in the Sin Department, and after doing ten months of hard time in the hole with her, I was convinced of my unworthiness as a candidate for Heaven. I feared this nun more than any bogeyman my mind could conjure up. She was the bogey-nun of subsequent nightmares, stalking me as I slept, shaking a fistful of Rosary beads in my face.
The schoolday rituals always began with 45 minutes out in the fenced-in playground, which in itself was an immaculate deception, because no actual "play" ever took place there. It wasn't allowed. We all just sort of stood around, zombies in uniform, until the brass bell was rung by hand, calling all good zombies, er, Catholics, to line up for morning prayers. And I mean a string of them, followed by at least three songs, both religious and patriotic. This program lasted about 25 minutes, during which time the nuns were undoubtedly sharpening their pointers and poisoning the tips of pencils.
Finally, after a visual inspection of our uniforms, Sr. Katherine, the mini-skirted principal, would dismiss the student body from the "yard," and we would file silently indoors to our respective cell blocks, er, classrooms. By this time, the nuns were positively itching for us, especially Sr. Bernadette, whose little white chin hairs would be all aquiver with excitement. Once we were all settled in our seats, the real praying began in earnest- this time for the day to end as quickly as possible, or short of that, for Jesus to perform some miracle of salvation. Neither of those things ever came to pass, for the days were long and Jesus never made an appearance. Maybe He was afraid of her too. As a class, we spent our days genuflecting before the Altar of the Hitnun, who tolerated nothing beyond silence and submission.
I became a popular target of her scathing criticisms when she introduced us to the Metric System. I committed the mortal sin of needing help with my centimeter squares. This cost me a couple of rosaries and six whacks with the weapon of choice, a wooden yardstick. It is truly heartening to see what a few well-placed lacerations will do to enhance the learning process. I finally learned my centimeter squares, coupled with the holy truth that if I wanted to survive the second grade, there would be no more of this "pretending I didn't understand" business. Meanwhile, my parents, (God bless them and their rosy eyeballs), were very pleased with the excellent education I was receiving. It was unthinkable to "tell" on the nuns in those days, and no one would have believed it anyway...unless of course, you were a student.
Upon breaking the BIG RULE of blowing Bazooka bubbles, considered a Cardinal sin at the Seminary, I was ushered to the Principal's office one day. I paid a heavy price for this insurrection and, despite some serious power-praying, no angels rallied around me. They were not allowed in the Office. It was then and there I knew my number was up, and that I had popped my last bubble.