…but is being myself really okay?
I have a good memory. I have a great memory. If someone said something about me in the past, I remember it. If someone commented on my appearance at some point, I remember it. Positive or negative, these memories are so vivid that I remember the faces and the names of the people who said them to me. This is the first half of a very long read, summarizing my Catholic school experiences from Kindergarten through High school. I am not a person of faith; but it’s part of who I am. As you read, I hope you come question my actions, my reactions, and the actions of others. Let my memories be a reflection. How can this upbringing impact a person? Is it a good thing? Am I a better person for it?
At the end, it’s probably going to sound cliché. Something out of a movie – but this was my reality. This history will tie in with the mental health section of my blog later.
The fear of self expression
Kindergarten, 1993. First day – Catholic school. This is the place my Father went to school. My father was proud. My father is proud – this is where he “grew up”. Line up outside. Single file. A class size of a mere 15 children. Most of these children would be my peers for the next 8 years.
I learned to share. I learned to clean up after myself. I learned letters. I learned colors. I learned that everyone was special. What I really learned that day, is that everyone is different. I learned that being different isn’t ok. I learned that expressing yourself got people to laugh at you.
I wore a Barney backpack my first day (something like this).
Grabbing my backpack ready to go home, I turned to a voice behind me.
“Haha, you still watch Barney?” Kyle pointed and exclaimed loudly. Shame wasn’t something I had felt before. My heart sank into my stomach. I didn’t react, because I didn’t know how. That was the last day I wore that backpack. I got a plain pink backpack instead. I learned that pink is for girls.
Conforming
First grade, 1994. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. I had to wear a uniform this time. Yellow sweater vest over a white blouse, green pleated plaid skirt. The boys wore navy sweaters and pants, along with a tie. I didn’t mind. In fact, I grew to like it. Nobody was different. We were all the same. One boy next to one girl, two desks side by side if possible; alphabetical. We wrote our names and folded the paper like stand so the teacher could see. We got sent home with paper workbooks to write in. I liked learning cursive. My parents helped me when I got home with my homework. They were proud. I felt happy being the same.
Belonging
Second grade, 1995. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. I was wearing the same uniform. The desks were a little bigger. They were 4 by 4 now. I sat with two boys and one other girl, if possible. Sometimes, we changed seats with other classmates. The girls liked Barbies. The boys liked cars. I liked the computer at home, my Game Boy, my NES. I tried to talk about these things. I got strange looks. I didn’t understand how it made me feel, or what I was feeling. Sad? Empty? A tinge of embarrassment. This feeling started to slowly seep in. I stopped talking about things I liked. I got quiet. I didn’t try engage anyone anymore. At least some of the girls liked beanie babies.
One day, I had to sharpen my pencil in class. There was a sharpener mounted on the wall near the sink and the closet where we hung our coats.
A boy was sharpening his pencil. He was there for a while. I got up and asked if I could sharpen my pencil. “Sure!” he said, turned around quickly, and blew on the top of his freshly ground pencil right into my face. He laughed. The wooden shavings hit my left eye. It hurt. I rubbed on it a lot. It made me cry. I had trouble seeing. The teacher sent me to the office. They asked me if I was okay. I apologized. I said I was sorry. I said I was okay. I said I was fine.
The rest of the afternoon, it felt like a sharp blade was cutting my eye every few minutes. It felt like there was pieces swimming around my eye. I rubbed it. It was fine. I went home, and my mother noticed my eye was red. I told her what happened, and said I was fine. We went to the doctor. They put strange drops in my eye. They shined a light into my eye when the lights were off. They put water in it. It felt better. They said my eye was scratched. The doctor said I had to wear a pad over my eye. My mother was very upset. She went to the principal, a nun. I was overwhelmed with guilt. I would never want to cause my mother trouble. “How could you let her stay in school?” she screamed. “She said she was fine.” the nun replied. This would not be the first time I encountered the nun.
The next day, I came to school wearing white gauze and tape as a makeshift bandage over my left eye. Every morning, we said the pledge of allegiance. Every morning, the students went around the room and were asked: “What are you praying for today?”. One by one, they looked in my direction. “Her eye” they said. I started crying. I didn’t want the attention. I was fine. I was overwhelmed with guilt. Surely this was my fault, I don’t deserve prayer. I don’t belong.
That weekend, the boy and his mother came to my house. They sat me down across from him in my living room. His mother had her hand on his back, then folded her hands in her lap. She had a furrowed brow and a frown, looking down at him. My mother sat across, staring his mother down. Her arms were folded. I felt her anger. Ryan looked up at me, and then looked back down at the floor. “I’m sorry for blowing pencil shavings in your eye”. He sounded disappointed. “I forgive you.” I said. Guilt overwhelmed me. I started crying. Surely he shouldn’t have to apologize for harm he did not intend. This is just what we were taught: “Reconciliation”. Ryan didn’t commit a sin. I wasn’t a priest, nor am I “God”. I wore a patch over my left eye for a month. Ryan transferred schools the next year. I never saw Ryan again. It was my fault.
Indoctrination
Third grade, 1996. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. I was wearing the same uniform. My teacher was new to the school. This was her first year teaching. She had just moved to the neighborhood. She was really excited to get to know us. She let us talk as a group, not one at a time. When someone did well, they got a star. When they got enough stars, they could add macaroni noodles to the jar. When we got enough noodles in the jar, we got a treat. It was fun. I felt important. I wanted to do well.
We would go to mass a lot. I learned more about special holidays. Colorful candles. Not eating meat. Stories about Jesus. I was already used to communion. Sometimes it hurt to kneel. One day, we were all given a necklace with beads, and a cross hanging from the end. I thought it was a necklace, but the teacher called it a rosary. We learned that each bead was a different prayer.
During some days of the week, the nun would speak over the loud speaker. The whole school could hear it. The class got quiet, and we prayed the rosary together. We all spoke in unison. It took a long time. I learned this was only for a certain few days. One time, we went to mass, and came back with black ash on our foreheads in the shape of a cross. I learned about heaven, I learned that if you were a good person, you went there when you died. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I wanted to make sure I ended up there. We were asked to write down questions to “God”. I asked how many angels were in heaven. I became increasingly curious about these creatures and concepts.
At the end of the year, we went to a special mass. Everyone in the school was there. The older kids were to my left. The fourth graders stood up and sang a special song for the eighth graders. The eighth graders were wearing long blue gowns and a strange hat. The mass was longer than usual. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. Sad? But also happy. It was a celebration, but a goodbye. Everyone went home right after. Bells from the church were ringing.
The final day of school, my teacher said goodbye to us. She was crying. We were her first class, and she thanked us. I didn’t want to leave her. Guilt overwhelmed me. I started crying.
Fear incarnate
Fourth grade, 1997. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. I was really bored at school. My teacher this year was the parent of one of my peers. I thought them lucky, maybe they got off easy. She was a very tall lady. Much much taller than the other teachers, but she was stocky. I didn’t talk much. The class was less engaged with one another. We were there to learn. Our heads were down, it was quiet most days, except for the familiar sound of white chalk grazing over a green board. Every year, I had different colored notebooks and folders for subjects. There was a lot of paper. I had to write a lot. I didn’t like writing. I started to draw. My notebooks were empty, except for the odd drawing.
We had art class. I was “good” at art class. I was “good” at drawing. Everyone seemed to pay more attention to me in art class. I wasn’t sure if I liked it, but it made people happy. So I drew a lot. There was a boy in my class that liked to draw, too. We both would draw during class. I felt like I could relate – but he was targeted. It seemed like he was a trouble maker. Maybe my teacher didn’t like him. She asked him to stop drawing some times. He was so engrossed in drawing, he didn’t even hear the teacher speak sometimes. He was moved to the front of the class.
One day, he was drawing again. It was in our religion workbook. She said his name, and told him to stop drawing. He didn’t respond. His head was tilted to one side, resting fully on his hand while his arm spread completely over the desk. She said his name again, he didn’t reply. Looking over, it seemed like he was quietly humming. My teachers eyes got wide. She stomped up to his desk, and spoke his name much louder – it sounded like a roar. He looked straight up, still slumped, mouth agape. She was much taller than most of the teachers. She was hovering right over him. She had a pen in her hand, gripping it like a dagger. She slammed the pen down in the center of his workbook with full force. She dragged the pen across it, tearing the book nearly in half. “I told you to stop drawing and pay attention” she hissed between her teeth. Thomas looked down at his book, shocked, both hands up at his sides. The class looked from Thomas to the teachers son. The son looked up with a glassy eyed stare. That was the first time I have ever heard such a deafening silence. I stopped drawing that year.
Radicalization
Fifth grade, 1998. Line up outside, single file. The line was in a different place this time. The younger kids were to my left. My teacher was much older. She had been a teacher at the school for a very long time. I was given a lot of books to read at home. Some kind of readers digest subscription for kids. Short stories, usually with some underlying moral to the story. I enjoyed books as a pass time, not yet a passion. I read the standard fare – all of Shel Silverstein, Roald Dhal, C.S. Lewis. We had an open library at work, so I could borrow these books at any time. A new book came out that year, my mom got a hard cover copy of it. Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone. My mom read it first, then gave it to me. Enamored by the art, the slow pacing of the story didn’t catch my interest at first. Once the whimsy began, I finished the entire book within a few days. At school, everyone had also read it or heard about it.
We were sheltered. Me and my peers didn’t know about witches or wizards or spells. Now, we had all these ideas. The parish sent a letter with each child to their home. Harry Potter was banned from the library, and not to be discussed at the school. The next few religion classes, my teacher fear mongered us about these concepts. I learned that wizards, and witches, and spells, were “occult”. False idols. Devil worship. Selling your soul. Of course, this only made me more curious. After all, Harry Potter was good and defeating an evil. What was so bad? I tried to understand, so I started to read the Bible. That’s where these rules came from, after all. What was the consequence? My fascination with angels, demons, and the occult deepened.
Before the school year ended, the class learned my teachers daughter died. She was gone for a few weeks. We never learned what happened. My teacher would cry during class sometimes. She told us stories about how “God” helped her in life. She said that one time, she was stranded on the side of the road. A group of motorcyclists came and helped her start her car. She said when she tried to start her car again, it worked, and they were gone. She looked up at the ceiling and had her hands folded in front of her. “They had to be angels. I know “God” saved me that day”. Her fealty to God and faith was immense. After her daughters death, her faith seemed stronger. I learned why people turn to faith, but I had my doubts. Everything I learned about Jesus and the Bible came into question.
Our classroom was the last classroom on the first floor. After this year, we went to the second floor, upstairs. There were lockers upstairs. I was always afraid of going up there, that’s where the big kids were after all. Everyone had high expectations.
Yes it’s all rather dramatic. That’s what it felt like though; I never wanted to be the center of attention – but I was paranoid that I always was. In a small space with strange rules, I was not able to be myself. So I stayed quiet.
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