When I was younger, I attended parochial school. If you are unfamiliar with what that involves, simply put, it means that I was tortured in a Catholic school. The fact that my school was located in the heart of Gangland USA wasn’t as distressing as the fact that my oppressors were well-trusted rosary-clutching holy roller wannabes. Never mind that, I’m a survivor! In fact, I survived over 12 years’ of what seemed like ritualistic forms of religious persecution.
Let me assure you that all those years’ of laying it on thick with guilt and condemnation haven’t gone to waste. So, in an effort to avoid the flames of hell, the name of my 5th-grade-nun/teacher’s name has been changed and I will refer to the black mamba as Sister Mary Margaret.
Sister Mary Margaret was an ordinary nun like all the others; but, she was a bit chunkier than the rest. She sort of looked like a fat man in drag; habit and dangling rosary included! I could only imagine what “extra parts“ Sister Mary Margaret concealed underneath her get-up. These days, her face escapes me and I don’t even recall the color of her eyes or the pigment of her skin. Well, why would I? I’ve spent all my life trying to forget her. The thing that I brightly remember is how Sister Mary Margaret must have had a serious case of allergies. You know- the type of allergies that make your nose dry. I say this; because she was known to carry a white hanker chief and used it to dip the linen into a jar of pale-yellow colored Vaseline. She would dig deep and scoop the goo up. Then, she would insert that greasy stuff up her nose and rotate her finger in a severe attempt to cover every inch within the cavity walls. The funny thing is that while she did this, she would multitask and as she rotated her finger, she would walk, talk, and explain things. She was quite a gem as well as a rigid ruler. She was a child-choking canoness with ultimate power. These days, I don’t blame her. I mean, think about it, you’d be mad if you were emotionally suppressed, had to deal with kids all day, and the only dates that you had lined-up were with other nuns. That suppression is the epitome of women’s suffrage.
So, let me recall one particular barbarous incent in my life as a Catholic school girl. One school day, Sister Mary Margaret passed out a test. Any test given out made me nervous and so it didn’t surprise me that I accidentally dropped my pencil during the test. The yellow pencil rolled under the desk in front of me. I extended my foot underneath the desk and attempted to roll it back my way but was unsuccessful. So, I crouched down underneath my desk and reached over to grab the pencil. As I did so, I glanced to my right and noticed her tunic. “Oh crap!” I twisted my head upward to look at her. She was not at all amused. I quickly backed-up into my seat and sat up straight. It was as though someone had shoved a pole up my *utt and I was sitting straighter than an arrow. I was a mental mess and freaking out in fear of the twisted sister.
I was a skinny kid and I probably only weighed about 55 lbs. That day, my hair was parted down the middle and tightly braided. Now you have to ask yourself, why would anyone remember how their hair was styled so long ago? Well, I do! Before I knew it, Sister Mary Margaret began accusing me of cheating! What a *itch! She knew better. Nevertheless, I frantically attempted to explain my situation; but, she reached over and grabbed onto one of my braids. She then yanked my head towards the East and then towards the Western sun. My neck actually cracked during the process! Click, click, click goes the neck bone! She continued to rock my head back and forth and I became a living bobble-head doll.
Being a young kid didn’t stop me from being pissed and to help my anger along was my Latin heritage. It enabled my rage to go from zero to one hundred almost instantaneously. I had enough and I was sick and tired of these oversize doctrinal penguins always giving me the shakedown. Where’s a gallon of holy water when you need it? If I had my very own gallon available, I would have doused the cloistered hen with all of it and yelled out, “the body of Christ compels you!” I could see myself conducting my very own exorcism. Perhaps then, the black mamba would finally be exercised of all her evil. So since I had enough, I said to the rigid ruler, “Just you wait. I’m going to tell Fr. Rushing!” But my proclamation was met with a challenging smirk and it pissed me off even more. It’s on like Donkey Kong you fricken psychopath!!! I glared back at her with my evil eye; the ones that Italians give. And I knew that the duel was on! I was now a scorned pre-pubescent 5th grader and I had to take down the nun or else my social calendar; along with my popularity (which was ranking very low) would be ruined. I needed respect!
And so the days passed. I plotted, planned, PLOTTED, PLANNED, and I knew exactly what to do. I waited and knew that God was on my side. How could he not be? I mean, I’m the innocent victim and a child of God! Yes. It’s true that I cause trouble all the time; but, God always gives kids leeway. I knew that in the end, God would grant me grace even after I take down the penguin. This little Catholic school girl was entitled to some vengeance. All that I would need to do was practice the virtue of patience. So, the equation was… plot + patience = vengeance. Ok, I got it and I’m good. As I lay in wait, I did not make comments that would rouse and alert the penguin. I did not want to foil my plans; because the unsuspecting doctrinal penguin needed a can of whoopask.
Before I go further, I need to mention Fr. Rushing was the priest in charge of the church and school. He was really cool. He actually looked like Jesus Christ in the flesh. He was a real hippie. His hair rested just above his shoulders’ and it was wavy and light-brown. This little 5th grader thought that the friar was one hell of a sexy priest. Haahhaa! So since he was a hippie, I had complete confidence in the padre.
Anyways, every month or so Fr. Rushing visited the classrooms and told stories and jokes. All the kids enjoyed it when he stopped by. So, finally the day of Armageddon came and the unsuspecting penguin was sitting right on her ice-cold human glacier. As he told stories, she glossed up her nose with her goo of Vaseline. Time had flown by and storytime was soon over. He then asked, “Does anyone have any questions?” Now that was what I was waiting for! Instantaneously, I stood up. And like a child of the corn, I turned my head in the nun’s direction, pointed my accusatory finger, and said, “She pulled my hair, yanked it, and hurt me. She also swats us with a ruler!” It was then that both Sister Mary Margaret and Father Rushing’s face turned beet red. She began to babble and struggle for words. He turned to her in a rage and without hesitation, Fr. Rushing lashed out. She was seriously red in the face as he continued saying, “How dare you lift your hand and strike the children of God!” Ah ha! I am a child of God!!!! I thought. To my extreme elation, he continued to berate her. I simply smiled; inside and out and I knew that all the other nuns that paced the hallways would pray an extra decade on the rosary because of me. They would discover that if you mess with an underdeveloped hormonally-unbalanced preteen, you’re treading on thin ice and it’s going to one day crack. Yes. It got hot that day and the ice did crack. The nun was submerged and this child of the corn stood and watched, happily. Now that’s the way to train a nun; but, I wouldn’t make a habit out of it. No pun intended!
thiscougarhassomethingtosay 