Growing up in a small rural German-Catholic community and having Jesus as an imaginary playmate, are just the tip of the iceberg in explaining why, a few short years later, I entered a convent. For 12 years, I attended parochial school staffed by the very Sisters I was to later join. These years and exposure to the Sisters helped prepared the way for my decision.
At the ripe old age of six, I entered first grade at St. Boniface Grade School. While, I pretended to be brave at home, at school my fear of everyone and everything wasn't hidden. I was horribly shy and withdrawn. I was afraid of my peers and even more afraid of those in authority. As fortune would have it. my first and second-grade teacher was a young nun who gave me no reason to fear her. She was gentle and kind, the perfect type of person to work with young children. I looked upon Sr. Marianne with a blend of intense fear and adulation.
I was a tiny first grader. My daughter who was also tiny as a young child was referred for a bone scan at the age of six to determine her bone age. Apparently, as a small child your growth may lag behind the calendar. At six, my daughter had the bones of a 3-year old. Writing/printing was hard for her. She hadn't developed the motor skills to really hold the pencil in the right way. Emotionally, she was very ready for school. In this way, I was very different. I was a mess most of my first-grade year.
I cried often. Funny, how a tiny, shy slip of a thing could be so high maintenance. One day at Mass before the school day began, I started to sob because I suddenly remembered I hadn't finished coloring a picture of a lamb. I was convinced it was the end of the world. Kindly, Sr. Marianne took a sobbing child out of church to see what could be so horribly wrong. In between sobs, I told her, I . . . didn't . . . . finish . . . . coloring . . . my LAMB! I still remembered her puzzled look as if she couldn't believe a child could be so upset about something so insignificant. I threw myself against her and clung to the folds of her long serge habit. I had found comfort within what I feared most.
There were a lot of tears that first year. I had a hard time printing and often saw the "angel slipping on a banana peel" stamp on the top of my papers. Some days that was enough to make me cry. I was really trying and trying hard but just couldn't get the "happy angel floating on a cloud" stamp." A broken Alvin and the Chipmunk thermos, that had contained milk and spilled out of my locker was the cause of more crying. Not once and at least twice, afraid to ask permission to go to the bathroom, resulted in the inevitable. The other children teased me and laughed at my humiliation. I cried harder and once again clung to Sister's long black habit. Her large wooden rosary beads that darted in and out of the folds of fabric smelled like wood and incense. They smelled like church. I couldn't resist touching those beads and rubbing them between my fingers as I chocked out sobs. In my mind, I can still remember how Sister smelled, the smell of the heavy dark fabric and wooden beads adding mystery to the clean smell of soap and lotion. I wanted to get lost there in those folds, with that smell. I want to shut out the world, the teasing, my fear, feeling like I didn't belong. I wanted it to all go away.
The summer of '64 brought many changes. When I returned to the same classroom to begin second grade, Sr. Marianne's long habit was gone. The changes of Vatican II had hit the fan. No more memorizing questions and answers in the Baltimore Catechism, in second grade religion class was often spent coloring in the outlines of Jesus and assorted saints. Flowers seemed to always be at their feet. When the class drew pictures of themselves and what career they wanted to pursue as adults, I drew a nurse but inside I secretly wanted to be a nun. I was embarrassed by this pious intent and even then felt terribly unworthy. As a girl in 1964, there weren't a lot of career options for females. It was teacher, nurse, mommy or nun. To me, nun looked like the most rewarding of the four. It also looked like a way for me to acknowledge to my imaginary playmate, that I appreciated his spending time with me. I wanted to give something back.
After second grade, we did tackle more meaty bits of Catholic theology. We seemed to spend the entire 4th and 5th grade studying about Moses. I hated Moses. Even now, the mere mention of his name causes my mind to wander elsewhere. I know that the teachers and the curriculum designers had some master plan behind all this Moses talk. To this day, I resist figuring out what it was. I just want to move on. Wandering around for 40 years in the desert was just too much. Moses wasn't perfect but I thought God's not letting him into the promised land was a really bum deal. It didn't jibe with my personal hearts and flowers theology.
By second grade, I had gotten my uncontrollable crying in check. I still felt like crying sometimes as often as every day but I no longer wanted to draw negative attention to myself. I was learning to cope in a more socially acceptable way. I was also learning to hide my feelings. Even then, life was a hopeless jumble of good, bad and indifferent rolled into almost every situation. I was drawn to the black and white rigor of much of Catholic teaching. I wanted to know the right answer, the right choice so that I could avoid making mistakes. I wanted to do the right thing in a desperate effort to feel "right" inside. Feeling wrong was slowly destroying me. It was fueling my fear of others. It was keeping me apart. I wanted to belong. I just couldn't seem to figure out how.
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