First Grade in Catholic School

School was about to start and I would be attending first grade at St. Francis Borgia. I was both excited and a little apprehensive. I certainly didn’t want to start the same way I did in kindergarten.

The ritual of preparing for school was exciting. Although I grew to hate school I loved getting ready for the first day. Mom piled the three of us in the car and took us shopping at the local Kresge Five & Dime.

She had a list from the school of what to buy for the year. Brand new pencils, notebooks, pens, crayons and vinyl coated book covers. I remember picking covers with college logos on them. I liked Purdue’s Boilermaker Pete the best. Shades of things to come.

The night before the first day we went to sleep all excited despite the temperature approaching that of the sun. In the distance I heard a train then drifted off to a sweat covered sleep.

Mom woke us up, washed our faces and ears. She didn’t trust us to get clean enough on the first day of school. That habit of hers faded as the year wore on. We quickly dressed and ate a breakfast of cereal. I liked Cheerios, Alpha-Bits and Sugar Crisps, no milk. Nothing like a little sugar in the morning to calm the kids for school!

Of course being in Catholic school we had to wear a uniform. Tan shirt, brown tie and brown pants. Some of the boys and girls had a diamond shaped patch sewn over the pocket on their left breast… the letters SFB inside the shape stood for Saint Francis Borgia. Mom would never allow that. She wasn’t going to spend money buying the patches and sewing them on. Of course the kids with the patches became favorites of the nuns.

Mom walked us to school that first day, probably to see if I was going to have a conniption fit. It was only five blocks. Tom, Judy and I goofed around the whole way. Maybe it was that sugar high.

Finally there it was, St. Francis Borgia. Unlike Canty where I attended kindergarten it was a very modern, state-of-the-art building. Red brick and gray stone construction with ample windows. It looked very inviting. Next to it was the convent with matching construction where the nuns lived and there were a lot of them. Their population would slowly decrease in the following years.

We were herded onto the parking lot and separated by grade. A nun was there with clipboard in hand. The nuns were an imposing lot with their black habit and veils. Their black skirts extended down almost to the ground. White collars covered their necks and upper chests. A white cap shielded the sides of their faces extending up and covering their hair. A black veil covered it all. They wore a cross on a black cord around their necks and huge black rosaries that encircled their waists and fell down near their knees. I could only imagine how long it took to get dressed in the morning. Maybe they slept in these clothes?

A few of the nuns were smiling, most looked like they were about to have a stroke. They divided each grade into three groups. Fifty to sixty kids in a class. It was pandemonium! As I arrived at my assigned group I noticed my mom had slipped away. She didn’t want to be anywhere near me if I had a meltdown.

“Get in line! Single file!” the good sister hollered.

We were herded into the school like cattle and led to our assigned class room. I don’t remember my nun’s name but I think it was something like Sister Mary Wrinkle-Face. Close enough. She spoke loudly in an oddly mannish voice.

“I am your teacher this year. You will do as you are told and no nonsense. If I call your name you will rise and say ‘Here’.” She strode around the room like Adolph Hitler with a long rubber-tipped wooden pointer in hand. I had survived Davey’s brick to the head but would I survive her?

“I will now call the roll. I will do this every day. You will stand when called so I know you are here. Am I understood?”

“Yes Sister” we replied with the precision of platoon of recruit soldiers.

She slowly called the names and finally: “John McCabe.” I just sat there. She called again, louder this time “John McCabe!” Once again I just sat there. “JOHN!” she yelled. She hurried over to my desk, her black Rosary jangling as it ricocheted off the desks as she proceeded down the aisle. She stared at me, eyes wide open with lightning bolts protruding. I thought for sure she was going to strangle me with that killer black rosary she wore around her waist. “Why didn’t you answer me?” she screamed!

“Gee Sister my name is Jack” I replied timidly. All the kids gasped and stared at me in horror. Sister Mary’s eyes bulged almost out of their sockets.

“There is NO Saint Jack! You will answer to John when I call you! Understand?” she hollered.

“Yes Sister” I quietly replied. Holy cow I thought. I will never live through first grade.

Little did I know that I had A.D.D. Of course. that was not diagnosed back then. You were just a moron. I would often be called a moron by the good Sister of Providence. Usually when I was looking out the window and paying no attention to Sister Mary Wrinkle-Face. She would yell “Pay attention moron” and slap her wooden pointer on my desk.

It wasn’t long after this I received the first threat of a wasted life. Staring deep into my soul she said “This will be on your permanent record, John. It will follow you throughout your entire life.” OH MY GOD, WHAT WAS A PERMANENT RECORD? I could imagine a fat old priest or nun with warts and moles all over their face in the school’s basement scribbling away in my permanent record “Moron doesn’t even know his name is John.”

We were instructed that after the roll was called we would all rise together, face the flag hanging in the room, place our right hand over our heart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Of course none of us knew it. On the threat of death it was quickly learned.

I learned other things that year too. I was taught that all my friends who were not Catholic were going to hell. Yep, do not pass go and do not go to heaven. I didn’t think I even knew a Protestant or Jew. I obviously did know a few because they were not here at St. Francis Borgia. Maybe their parents were just smarter than mine and kept them out of this hell-hole. I guess if you were a Protestant you could murder someone. I mean what difference did it make? You were going to hell anyway. Might as well steal a candy bar or two while you’re at it.

I also learned we were all born with original sin. Original sin? That is a pretty interesting idea. How could I have sinned if I was just born. Is kicking mom in the womb a sin? It must have been.

So, we were born sinners but this was all erased when we were baptized. Baptism was the magic that purified our soul, at least until we learned how to sin. And as Catholics we learned in a hurry. Sinning became a hobby.

One of the smart kids in our class questioned this, a girl I am sure. The boys were all pretty stupid and clueless. (A trait that didn’t leave us until at least our twenties.) At any rate, one of the girls asked “What happens if a baby dies before it is baptized?”

“Well” Sister Wrinkle-Face replied “They go to Limbo.” Limbo? What the heck is Limbo? It sounds like a dance or a sandwich. I will have a Limbo on rye with mustard please. “Limbo is where babies go when they die and are not baptized” she replied. I thought hard about this in class. Thought as deep as a first-grade kid with A.D.D. could. My mind pictured babies floating around in space, bumping into each other and bouncing around like 3-D billiard balls.

“When do they get out?” the smart girl asked.

Sister Wrinkle-Face narrowed her eyes and never answered. “Open your reading books to page 78.” Another Catholic mystery.

Purgatory was another mystery. If you died and you had sinned you did not go to heaven. You went to purgatory. Purgatory? This was hell but only for a limited period of time. You serve your penance then are let out on parole. In the meantime you suffer hell-fire. How long are you in there for? I thought to myself. If you steal a candy bar and die do you serve for a day? A year? I had no intention of asking Sister Mary Wrinkle-Face. I saw how she dodged the Limbo question. I will let someone else ask that question. No one did.

Sister Mary Wrinkle-Face had an unusual habit. In her desk she kept a box of different colored foil lick and stick stars. When a child answered what she deemed a hard question she would take out a star lick it and stick it on the forehead of the lucky student. The girls would sometimes be adorned with five or six stick on stars. I think I may have gotten one. Of course Tom and Judy laughed at how stupid I looked with a green star stuck on the middle of my forehead. I immediately tore it off. This practice of hers didn’t last long as the whole school laughed at the kids with the stars stuck to their head.