Sharing My Story to Heal the Broken Child - Sr. Christiana and the Horrors I experienced in her 5th Grade Class - Part 1

I recently discovered a formal photo of Sr. Christiana in an old box containing photos and other memorabilia that was hidden away in my parents basement. I inherited a lot of these kinds of boxes 📦 when my father died in 2013 shortly before his 98th birthday. My parents kept every photo ever taken, every letter or card they ever received, every canceled check, basically everything that came into their house during 60 years of marriage. Considering the vast amount of stuff I inherited, I felt it was interesting and a bit providential that a picture of this particular nun, Sr. Christiana, popped up at this particular moment. I had recently joined a Facebook group entitled “Highland Park- East New York, Brooklyn”. My old Parish, St. Michael the Archangel on Jerome Street fell into this category. The photos and some of the recent group discussions about St. Michael’s Church and the elementary and high school opened a floodgate of memories for me. Being confronted by the unexpected but crystal clear professional photo of Sr. Christiana was like being slapped across the face. Unwillingly it pushed me into some rather unpleasant memories. Actually “ unpleasant “ is way too weak a word to adequately describe my first year at St. Michael’s Elementary School. When I first stepped foot into Sr. Christiana’s 5th grade classroom, I was a well adjusted, happy little 9 year old girl. I was also a smart and inquisitive child who had just transferred from a public school. I had no idea what was about to hit me and I wasn’t the least bit prepared for the horrendous emotional abuse that was about to break my spirit and ruin my self- esteem. Six and a half decades later, at the ripe old age of 75, I still harbor anger and resentment. I’d like to resolve my negative feelings once and for all and thus I hope to use reflection and the written word to help me reach this goal. I also think it is important to share the information as a way of increasing awareness so that nothing like this ever happens again. Because my older brother, Charlie, was graduating from the 6th grade at PS 76, my parents transferred him and, in turn, me and my younger brother, Marty to St. Michael’s. My parents made this decision to transfer us to Catholic School in order to save Charlie from the evils of a Public Junior High. It seemed they believed the public school would be dangerous to him physically and would possibly lead him to lose the “ one true faith”. Back in the 1950’s, it was commonly accepted knowledge - at least by us Catholics- that we were the only ones who had the right idea about God, the only ones who would easily be accepted at those pearly gates. Not too arrogant, huh! I recall being excited that I was going to be able to wear a school uniform for the first time in my life and I was especially enamored by the cute little navy blue beanie with the school initials, SMS embroidered in the front. I quickly came to realize that this superficial stuff meant nothing because shorthly after entering this new environment the "shit hit the fan" and the uniform and the beanie meant only punishment and heartache. Let me step back for a minute. In my years ( K- 4 ) at PS 76, I really enjoyed myself. I honestly don’t ever remember being reprimanded or scolded for anything. I loved learning new things and after an IQ test was administered in 3rd grade, I was even invited to transfer to a nearby school that catered to “ gifted” students. My mother didn’t have a driver’s license and there were no school buses in my area, so logistically transporting me to another school further away just wouldn’t work. Therefore my parents declined the invitation for me and a year later, I found myself on the front steps of St. Michael the Archangel Elementary School. I was nine years old when I entered the realm of “dear”, old Sr. Christiana. Some of the details are a bit foggy, since it is so many years ago - 66 years ago to be exact ( September 1954) - but certain memories remain crystal clear. I can still see the shape of the classroom and the way the desks were arranged. I can still hear certain words, certain things that were said to me. Obviously they were branded deeply and permanently into my brain. But the looks of disgust and the feelings of hurt, shame and anger are sadly, the most lasting memories of all. I must admit that Sr. Christiana looks almost angelic in this recently discovered photograph, but this is not how I remember her. I do not remember her in any sort of angelic way. To be continued.......

Sharing My Story to Heal the Broken Child - "The Only True Religion"

As a member of the Roman Catholic Church, I was told quite clearly in my younger years that I belonged to the only true church . Outside of my church, it was very tricky - actually high near impossible - to get into heaven. It was considered heretical, and you would certainly run the risk of eternal damnation in hell, should you leave and seek spiritual fulfillment elsewhere. It seems a bit outrageous to think this is what I was taught, but I promise you I was. I was told that I shouldn't date anyone of another religion for fear that we might fall in love and then I would run the risk of wanting to marry outside of my church. In the event such a catastrophe occurred, the non-Catholic partner had to just about swear on their life that he or she would allow the resulting children to be brought up in the Catholic Religion. My husband's mother actually had the nerve to fall in love with a guy who belonged to the Dutch Reformed Church and they weren't even allowed to get married in the church - the rectory was as close as they got to the altar! When my husband, Bob, was a little boy, my father-in-law, Bob, Sr., (so I heard as he died before I had the pleasure of meeting him) came to the basement of St. Francis of Assisi School in Astoria, Queens, NY, where a Cub Scout's meeting was being held. Bob, Sr. was there with a contingency of Boy Scouts from the nearby Dutch Reformed Church. He came that day specifically to welcome his son who was aging out of the Cub Scouts into his Boy Scouts' group. The priest at St. Francis of Assisi Church, Father Joe Schuck, met Bob, Sr and the handful of Boy Scouts accompanying him at the foot of the stairs. The priest told Bob's father that he was not welcome and that he could not be accepting his son into the Boy Scouts since it was held at the Protestant Church. Bob's father responded maturely to this negative reception and left the church basement without causing a scene. Sadly, my husband, Bob Jr., never became a Boy Scout. Interestingly, Fr. Joe Schuck, was eventually defrocked for child sexual abuse. I too, had a similar, albeit a little less dramatic experience, when I wanted to become a Brownie. I remember the feeling of disappointment even though I don't remember a lot of the details. I went to a nearby Protestant Church basement in East New York, Brooklyn to join the Brownie group in my community, but for some reason I was rejected. Can you imagine carrying the psychological stigma of being rejected by the Brownies?! Possibly, they had a big enough troop already and were only accepting the girls from that church? I honestly don't remember but I remember feeling rejected. My current concept of God although not clearly defined ( truthfully, who really understands the concept of God? ) does not allow me to accept such a prejudiced Deity.

Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Heart - Being Catholic

I had some really awful experiences in Catholic School and yet I am still a Catholic. Some people have asked me why. First of all let me say that honestly Catholic School wasn't all bad. I had some good experiences, too. But the main reason I am still a Catholic can be summed up in the following description of why I wanted to remain a Eucharistic Minister when our Church, St. Francis de Sales, merged with another Church, Our Lady of Mercy. When we became a new entity known as Christ Our Light Catholic Church each Eucharistic Minister was asked to submit a statement as to why he or she wanted to continue being a Eucharistic Minister. I know there are problems in the Church just as there are problems in every human endeavor. I guess that is why we are called human rather than divine. In spite of everything that has transpired, the statement that I submitted should give you a pretty good idea of why I am still a Catholic and plan to remain a Catholic. Being a Eucharistic Minister is the most important thing I do in my life. It is an extension of who I am in my daily life - One important way that I nurture my family and loved ones is through food and sharing around the table. Eucharist is the primary reason I am Catholic. I feel Christ’s presence very strongly as I share His most precious Body and Blood. I feel love for each and every member of the congregation as they come forward to receive Christ in the Eucharist. This is not because I am the sweetest, most loving individual in the world or because I always have loving, positive thoughts about everyone. Rather, it is because God creates this change in me as I share Him with the other members of His Body. I am also encouraged by the fact that so many other members of both parishes are Eucharist ministers too. I can only guess and hope that it is because that they realize the centrality of the Eucharist also. It is a tremendous, awesome honor to be a minister of the Eucharist. Although I am absolutely not in any way worthy, nevertheless I hope I can be a Eucharistic Minister for the rest of my life. Mary Beth Buchner PS. The photo above was taken of me on my First Communion day in early June 1951. I refused to open my mouth when I smiled as I was missing my front teeth. I was stubborn even as a kid. I received my First Holy Communion at St. Michael the Archangel Church in the East New York section of Brooklyn, NY. I had just turned 6 years old three months earlier (March 9th) and I was a student at PS 76 at the time. Back in those days, once a week we left our Public School early in order to go to the Catholic School for religious instructions. It was referred to as "released time" since we were released earlier that usual from school. I remember that one day the nun in my "released time" class called me up to the front of the class so that the priest could ask me questions. Since I was younger than most of the other kids they wanted to see if I was ready to receive my First Holy Communion. I remember that this nun ( I don't remember her name) and this priest seemed very kind. The priest,Father Paschal Ahearn, O.F.M.Cap, asked me if I knew who I would be receiving when I was given the host. I was very clear about who I was receiving then and I am very clear about who I am receiving now. Plain and simple, this is all the reason I need to remain a Catholic. Honestly what better reason could there ever be?

Addendum: Recently I am coming to the realization that it is not just Catholics that have Jesus in their midst. Christ is indeed, Universal, and is present to all who seek him with an honest heart ❤️. Forgive me for my arrogance in believing that the Christ belonged only to us Catholics!

Ellen

Ellen and I do not share any DNA or even a drop of blood so it might surprise you that I’m in front of you today sharing my thoughts about her.  What we did share, however, was a very deep love for the same man.  I loved my older brother, Charlie, and she fell in love with one of NYPD’s Finest, a guy she called Chuck.  Although our names for him were slightly different, he was one and the same man.

After dating for quite awhile, Ellen and Chuck married and they bought a house on Long Island.  If Ellen happened to answer the phone when I called their house on Gun Lane in Levittown, she would give me a cursory “hello” and then quickly turn the phone over to Chuck.

When Charlie died suddenly on July 30, 2011, after suffering a freak accident the week before, my husband, Bob, and I took Ellen under our wing.  Not long before Charlie passed away, we vacationed in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Nashville, and Memphis and visited Tupelo and Graceland together and this led us to discover how compatible the four of us were. On that trip we decided we would make a regular routine out of traveling together.  Death, as it oftentimes does, quickly put an end to our beautiful plan.

Nonetheless, Ellen agreed to be our travel partner on our next trip to Florida and as we drove together all the way from Levittown, Long Island, to the Villages in Central Florida, we really began to get to know Ellen.  After all, she was a captured audience, surrounded by luggage in the back seat, with no other option.  Out of shear boredom, we communicated.  And, as we learned more about Ellen, we started to “fall in love”.

Although the lengthy car ride proved not to be her “cup of tea”, every year after that, we shared the month of February in Florida.  From the time we pulled to the curbside pickup area at Tampa Airport on February 1^st until we said good-bye in the wee hours of the morning at the end of the month, Ellen was ours.    

We had an amazing time together.  She was agreeable, easy-going and a pleasure to be with, even when I pushed her to the very edge of her comfort zone.  When Bob golfed, we went our own way and I even coaxed her into some of the many thrift stores and secondhand shops that are abundant along the Tamiami Trail. 

Throughout the entire month Ellen would be looking for the perfect gift to bring home for her beloved little granddaughters, Abby and Kate.   It had to be exactly the right color and the right design.   In fact, one year we went all over creation to find a special Mermaid costume since she knew that this was her granddaughter’s heart’s desire. 

Ellen would patiently tolerate all the company that we had coming and going throughout the month of February as well as the many over the top, outrageous things I planned.  When we invited a bunch of people into the house for a spur of the moment dinner for 12, she’d give me that deadpan look and groan, “Oh, no, Mary, what are you up to now?!”  Nevertheless, she’d go along with the program and would immediately get busy alongside of me with the cooking and then the cleanup.  

There are so many things that bring Ellen back to me. 

Ellen loved a good cup of coffee and, in February, she was the only one allowed near the coffee maker.

She was an amazing cook.  I was cooking some homemade tomato sauce the other night and the smell of garlic simmering in the pan, made me smile. 

Ellen liked quality products.  Our first order of business when we arrived in Sarasota was a trip to the local Publix Supermarket to stock up on supplies.  I knew we’d be “eating good” in the neighborhood when Ellen was with us because she insisted on only the best.  It had to be Hellman’s Mayonnaise and Boar’s Head meats!  Even our laundry products were top shelf. 

Ellen was a smart woman and an avid reader.  Shortly after putting our food supplies away, Ellen and I would visit the local library’s book sale section and she’d almost always return to the house with Mary Higgin’s Clark.

Ellen was quite content to sit quietly and entertain herself.  Her perfectly manicured nails would click away on the painting app in her phone and before you knew it, she had created a beautiful, colorful masterpiece.   She was a wiz at crossword puzzles, and enjoyed helping Bob when he got stuck on the daily Jumble.  And, over coffee, we’d share a laugh each morning looking at the outrageous headlines of the New York Post.

Although Bob and I still support the loosing Mets, Ellen was definitely our All-Time favorite, Yankee Fan.  Growing up an avid follower of the Brooklyn Dodger, I could never support their arch rivals, the New York Yankees.  But, loving Ellen as I did, I found myself being happy for her when the Yankees won. 

Ellen didn’t care very much for fish, but wouldn’t think of depriving us.  When Seafood restaurants were recommended, she’d say, “I’m sure I can always find something on the menu to eat.”   I can attest to the fact that Ellen ate a hell of a lot of burgers and fries during the month of February.

Although I never once saw Ellen don a bathing suit or put a toe into the water, we did go to the beach, and we took quite a few long walks together.  Several times we attended “Drumming Down the Sun” events on Siesta Key Beach.  She watched with amusement from the sidelines of the large circle that formed as I, on the other hand, weaved my way into the middle of the circle and began dancing around like a silly fool.

At a certain point, Ellen felt safe enough to share with me some of the challenges and heartaches that she experienced over her lifetime.  I felt honored that she trusted me this much.  Her openness and honesty with me, in turn allowed me to share my deepest secrets with her.  Oftentimes, Ellen and I would be the last two up at night and we had the opportunity to chat in private.  When we said Goodnight, we would add, “I love you”. 

Ellen died before we made it to the hospital on Sunday.  Something tells me she wanted to be alone with her dearly beloved, son, Richie, when she took her last breath.   Bob and I had our last visit with Ellen the week before on a quiet Sunday evening.  She seemed happy to see us and we were glad to see her also.  We spoke on the phone regularly, but we hadn’t seen her in person since dropping her off at the Tampa Airport the last day of February.  While we visited, an R.N. hooked up the first dosage of chemotherapy to her IV.   Although I knew her prognosis wasn’t good, this gave us some hope.  Honestly, I really wanted to believe in some sort of radical miracle.   Ellen still had her sense of humor and unique way with words.  She asked the nurse if the chemo would cause her to lose her hair and then followed up with a question about other possible side effects, but when the nurse started to mention a few more of the side effects, Ellen gestured with her hand to cut it as she said, “Okay, that’s enough, TMI (too much information).    Over our two hour visit, Ellen’s phone rang several times.  On one occasion she noticed that the call was from someone she rarely heard from and as she looked up at us, she gave us her roguish smile as she made an exaggerated circular wave and commented, “Well, I guess this must be the Big Good Bye.”

I really didn’t want to leave and I don’t think she was ready to let us go, but darkness was descending and driving in the dark scares me lately.   Ellen knows how I am, and she understands and accepts me.  So, she didn’t try to hold us back.  The last words she said to us as we left her hospital room, was “drive carefully and get home safely.”

While we were in Sarasota, we found a lovely church near us by the name of St. Thomas Moore, and we attended Mass together every weekend.   This year, for some reason, Ellen started receiving Holy Communion, and it warmed my heart for all of us to walk together to the altar of God.  I believe that anyone with a sincere heart is welcome to the table of the Lord and I told Ellen so.  By this time in our relationship I knew Ellen had a sincere heart, a loving heart and a beautiful spirit.  I felt absolutely certain that Jesus wanted her to come to Him. 

I feel privileged and I thank God that Bob and I got to know Ellen in such a wonderful, intimate way.    

I also felt that the loving relationship of Ellen and my brother, “her Chuck”, gave me a very real glimpse into God’s unconditional love for each one of us, and for this reason I would like to conclude my remembrances of Ellen with the words that Chuck shared in a card that he gave to his wife Ellen on July 16, 2011 less than two weeks before his death.

“Dear Ellen,

 Know that I’ll love you forever….

Even though it is hard for me to describe how much you mean to me,

Know that I love you more than any man has loved a woman before

Know that I love you with all my heart….

Your smile, your touch, your caring nature…

Everything that combine to make you a one- of- a- kind person,

A once-in-a-lifetime love,

Know that I’ll love you forever…

Because the best part of my life began the moment I fell in love with you.

Love, Chuck"