Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Child - 6th Grade - Sweet Little Catholic Girl vs. Sr. Delores Theresa -continued

People want to know what Sr. Delores did to me to make me go ballistic.

It was many years ago but the fact that I remember the incident quite clearly is tell-tale.

It affected me profoundly. As I became older and wiser I began to realize more of the implications. Young children and adolescents are fragile beings and are deeply affected by what those in authority say or do to them.

Shortly before I reacted so wildly - I mean really what catholic school student sticks her tongue out at a nun even if her back is towards her? - Sister Delores had come down the aisle and ripped the shirt off my back. Unprovoked. The reason why? I had committed the horrendous sin of wearing something other than the uniform navy blue cardigan. It was a cold day and to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I even owned a navy blue cardigan. Our school uniform consisted of a navy blue jumper and a white blouse with a peter pan collar and a little clip-on navy blue bow tie and a stupid looking navy blue beanie (even though silly looking - I loved the beanie). I remember washing the blouse out and hanging it up on a hangar almost every day after school. I probably owned only two white blouses. We weren’t rich. My Dad was the lab assistant and an adjunct professor in the Physics Department at Queens College and my Mom did not work outside the home. I had three siblings. Besides a scarcity of money, my mother didn’t drive and we lived a distance from any worthwhile stores. Also, my father thought clothes were a necessary evil. People would tease my Dad, saying that he was still wearing the same suit his mother bought for him when he graduated from high school. The joke of it all was that it wasn’t too far from the truth.

Good Catholic girl that I was, I wouldn’t think of asking for things that I thought my parents couldn’t afford. Besides, I had learned from my father that clothes were not important. My father is German, did I mention that? Wanting fancy clothes and other material things that might be glamorous or unnecessary in any way, bordered on sinfulness.

So typically, I just didn’t wear a sweater over my uniform and this was fine. You didn’t need to wear a sweater to be considered in the proper school uniform. But then, one winter day, it was cold. I mean really cold. I found a flannel shirt lying around the house and I put it on over my uniform. I wore it to school under my coat. Since we had to walk several blocks from our house to the city bus and then take the bus for several stops and then walk a couple of blocks again to reach the Catholic school, I was still feeling cold when I arrived at school. Oh how I wished I was still “Public” – but then again that’s another story. So when I got to my classroom, the flannel shirt was feeling so warm and cozy that I simply left it on. Big mistake! My nice, warm, cozy feeling was short lived.

Possibly, it was Sr. Delores’ time of the month, or maybe she was feeling a bit lonesome that day, but I happened to be the target for her discontent. She suddenly appeared beside my desk and before I knew what was happening to me, she pulled the shirt from my body and slapped me across the face. I was shocked and humiliated. How dare she assault me like this!! But what could I do – she was a nun and I was a kid. I don’t remember tears and for me, the big cry baby, that was unusual. I guess deep down I knew that Sister’s behavior was horrendous and unacceptable. Looking back now, I wish I had been able to speak up for myself in a mature manner. But then again, I was a child and she was my teacher and a nun. Even though my reaction was childish, my anger was justified and the fact that I reacted with instantaneous fury says to me that I still had a bit of self respect and I thank God for that.

I don’t know if I ever forgave her and I don’t think she would even care or notice.

Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Child - Sr. Christiana and the Horrors of 5th Grade. Part 6 -The Final Blow

When Sr. Christiana handed me my Report Card at the end of the school year, she also landed her last drag-down, knockout punch to what little was left of my self-esteem. A grade of 75 was the passing grade and when I looked down at my Report Card I noticed that she had given me a final average of 76. But it was what she said to me that was especially damaging as she shoved the report card into my hand. Then with a particularly nasty look on her typically unpleasant face, she said spitefully, “I’m passing you for one reason and one reason only. I’m doing it as a personal favor to your father for chauffeuring me around.” Sister Christiana, how vicious could one woman be? Did they teach you nothing when you were studying to be an Elementary School Teacher? Did you not realize that you were telling me I was a completely incapable human being? How can I forgive you for this? But, as I reflect on this incident I try to analyze things that happened at this time in my life to help me better understand and resolve my anger and find some level of forgiveness. When I look back, I realize that some of my anger is probably directed at my parents as well as at you, Sr. Christiana. You see, the year before, while still a student at PS 76, my entire class was tested (an IQ test of sorts) and it was determined that my aptitude was in the gifted range. Therefore, I was invited to attend another public school that had a special program for talented and gifted students. The way I see it, the decision that was made regarding this educational opportunity was influenced by two things. First of all, the public school with a program for talented and gifted students was further away from our home and my mother didn’t know how to drive. Actually, my mother never learned to drive which, by the way, she lamented until her dying day. My father didn’t see the need for my mother to learn to drive, and my mother didn’t pursue lessons on her own. My father was the master of our house and my mother went along with his wishes (most of the time), which in that era wasn’t very unusual. The bottom line was I was only eight years old and my parents didn’t think I could safely get myself to a school farther away from my house. Basically it would have created a family hardship to transport me to and from school. Secondly, my brother was scheduled to graduate from the 6th grade at PS 76 one year later and my parents were planning to transfer him and me and my younger brother, Marty, to St. Michael’s Elementary School where they believed we would be safe and sound under the tutelage of the dear Dominican Sisters until we graduated from the 8th grade. My parents’ reasoning was clear to me. They, and in particular, primarily my father, viewed the prospects of sending Charlie and the rest of us kids to a Public Junior High School dangerous physically, mentally and spiritually. In their minds, a public Junior High was a frightening, sinister place where evil reigned supreme. He thought the Good Sisters could guide us on the path to righteousness and keep us from all harm and danger. Possibly, Sr. Christiana, the nun he chauffeured all around town, (see, my Mom wasn’t the only woman who didn’t drive back in the 1950’s) had promised him as much. I can almost hear her saying, “don’t worry, Mr. Fries, I’ll make sure your daughter is in my class and I’ll keep her in line.” I’m not saying I was a bad child, but I was rambunctious and bright and I asked a lot of questions. I dare say from my Catholic educational experiences, the principles that abound and keeps one in good standing are “Accept what I say without questioning it” and “Sister knows best”. Ask for a clarification on such things as the “Immaculate Conception” or the meaning of “Three Persons in One God” and you’re in deep trouble! I wander off my topic a bit, but the point I am trying to make is that, for a few different, somewhat complicated, not particularly clear reasons, a decision was made to turn down the invitation I received for a unique educational opportunity. I don’t remember having any say in this decision making, after all I was only an eight year old child at the time. I do however, remember feeling disappointed and helpless. I also bring up the subject of my IQ test results not so much to brag but as a way to show how the intelligence of a bright young person can be squelched in the hands of an inept teacher and parents who were somewhat blinded by misconceptions about religion, obedience, and good and evil. While going through boxes of old photos and memorabilia retrieved from my parents’ basement after they died I was surprised to discover the formal photo of Sr. Christiana, her prayer card when she died, and even a photo of her mother and father. It makes me question what kind of relationship my parents, and most especially, my father, had with Sr. Christiana. I do remember going with my parents and Sr. Christiana for a ride to Rockaway for a visit with Sr. Christiana’s brother. I remember his house was lovely with a large front porch and I remember Sr. Christiana seemed pleasant enough to my parents. I remember being a bit invisible. And, I remember it felt better to be invisible than to be looked upon as an incompetent moron. So, I’m finished with 5th grade and Sister Christiana now. Do I forgive her? I guess I’d have to say that I no longer want her to have such power over me. She was terrible to me and I was justified to be angry. I hope she is sorry for what she did to ruin my fledging self-esteem. But, then again, I doubt she was even aware that she was hurting me to the core. I also see that she, as well as my parents, existed in a very different pre-Vatican II church. One positive thing that she probably left me with is the gumption to speak out against evils when I see them. I am no longer a powerless child and even though she left permanent scars on my self-esteem, I do my best to speak Truth to Power. RIP

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad

Eighty years ago today, on October 19th, 1940 my parents were married at Our Lady of Good Counsel Church on Putnam Ave in the Bushwich section of Brooklyn. Their breakfast/luncheon reception was held in the Solarium of the Hotel Granada. My mother was delighted to be a married woman and many times over the years, in her own ethereal way, she expressed to me the joys of conjugal love. I think my Dad was happy to be married too but my mother was typically more verbal about these things. We actually have video of their wedding day outside of the church and at the reception which have now been preserved on a DVD. Happy Anniversary, Mommy and Daddy. We miss you but feel your presence and your influence with us still, both the good and the bad ( as in all things in life ). I sure hope that you are somewhere enjoying the bliss of eternity.

Today, while wading through the mountains of junk on my Dad's back porch, I came across a notebook that contained some stories that my mother wrote for me years ago.  I put some questions on each page in the notebook and my mother answered some of them.
Here is one such question and my mother's answer:
What do you remember about your wedding?
On the night before our wedding our apartment was crowded with out of town guests.  Aunt Nellie invited me to sleep in her apartment upstairs. Before bedtime, Aunt Nellie gave me a glass of wine to drink to assure that I would have no trouble getting to sleep.  The wine did the trick and I fell asleep immediately. In 1940 the Eucharistic fast began at midnight and nothing to eat or drink could be taken after that time.
The next morning at 8 a.m. I walked around the corner to our beautician to have my hair combed.
Mass was at 10 a.m.  Maureen, Dad, and I left at 9:30 to be on time.  Although I had wanted the song, "Believe me for all those endearing young charms" sung during the Mass, I was told since it was not a hymn it could not be used at the ceremony.  As it turned out I am happy to say the hymn, "Panis Angelicus" was sung in its place.  It is a beautiful hymn that I heard for the first time at our wedding.  A friend on my cousin Gene O'Donnell was the soloist.
I remember how grateful and happy I felt.  My heart was filled with joy and gratitude to God for giving me the man of my dreams that day, and I was surrounded by the people I loved and were close and important to me.
I felt a tinge of sadness when all the unmarried, young people left to continue partying while Charlie and I felt obliged to stay at home with the married folk.  At close to midnight Uncle John and Aunt Rose dropped us off at our new apartment on 1492 Bushwich Avenue.  I remember it was snowing when we reached our apartment.  When we reached our door Charlie carried me over the threshold. 


Here is the Announcement from the Newspaper: Miss Rita Mary O'Donnell, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas J. O'Donnell of 1017 Putnam Ave., was married to Charles Anthony Fries, son of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Frries of 64 Interboro Parkway, yesterday. The Rev. James Bulger performed the ceremony at Our Lady of Good CounselChurch. A wedding reception and dinner took place in the Roof Garden of the Hotel Granada. Miss Maureen O'Donnell, sister of the bride, was maid of honor. Miss Gene O'Donnell, cousin and Miss Rosemary Fries, sister of the bridegroom were the bridesmaids. Joseph Fries Jr., brother, was best man. Benjamin Tishscler and Joseph O'Donnell, brother were ushers. Noel Krebs, cousin of the bride, was ring bearer. The bride was given in marraige by her father. She wore a gown of white slipper satin, trimmed with pearl medallions. Her long illusion veil was attached to an irredescent pearl tiara and she carried white chrysanthemums. The maid of honor wore a gown of gold net over taffeta and a heart shaped halo matching the gown. She had a bouquet of golden yellow chrysanthemums and autumn leaves. The bridesmaids wore gowns of rust net and heart-shaped halos to match. They carried chrysanthemum bouquets. After a motor trip to Washington and through the South, the couple will make their residence at 1492 Bushwich Ave.

My beloved Uncle Joe rests in Cypress Hills National Cemetery KIA in Korea October 13, 1951

The night before my Uncle Joe O'Donnell left for Korea, he and my Aunt Marie stayed up all night talking. They wanted to spend every possible moment together, as they knew there was a possibility that Joe might not return. The trip to La Guardia airport the next day was solemn and somber. We were all so terribly sad. I was only 6 & 1/2 years old at the time, but until this day, whenever I pass the airport, I still feel the blanket of sorrow that covered us, Joe's family, as we hugged and said our final good-byes. When Joe arrived in Korea, he had no way of getting to his post. Since there was a desperate need for officers at the front, Joe arranged to share a jeep with an Army chaplain, the Rev. James Meeder. During their quiet ride together, Joe told Father many family stories about his wife and two little girls and spoke unabashedly of his tremendous love for them. The next day, Joe shared in Mass and Holy Communion with Father Meeder and the rest of his platoon before leaving for the front. Even though he was a strong and brave young man, my Uncle Joe was not what I envisioned as a warrior. Although he had served his country for three and a half years during World War II as a member of the 325th Glider Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division, and had fought in and survived the Battle of the Bulge, when I think of Uncle Joe, I remember a kind, sensitive and unusually gentle man. I remember a man who drew pictures in letters home so his two little girls would get some idea of the people and places their Daddy was seeing. I think of a devoted son, a son who composed an original poem for his mother one Mother's Day, adding a note of apology at the end because he wasn't able to get to a store to buy a real Mother's Day card. I have no doubt this little poem meant more to my grandmother than all the most elaborate, expensive cards she ever received. On Oct. 13, 1951, 1st Lt. Joseph T. O'Donnell was killed in action while leading his men, soldiers of the 38th Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division, up a hill called Heartbreak Ridge. On the day the news of Joe's death reached us at our home in Brooklyn, my Grandma, a reserved and ladylike woman, ran out in the street screaming, attempting in vain to run from the most horrendous news any mother could ever receive. Joe was her only son and just 29 years old. I remember the bitter cold day in January when we brought Joe's body to its final resting place. I hear the loud and frightening 21-gun salute and the final, mournful sound of a bugle playing taps. But most of all, I still feel the sadness on my Aunt Marie's face as she was handed the flag of a grateful nation. Now, many years later, I walk up State Street and pass a memorial to another forgotten war, Vietnam. There on the silent, dark monuments are names written in bronze, too numerous to count. I slow my steps and purposely allow my eyes to fall reverently on the names of the young Americans who gave their lives in service to our country. I offer a silent prayer for them and for their families. I learned at an early age the pain and sadness that lingers forever when one so young, one so beloved falls on a battlefield. I think these thoughts once again. May we continue to remember them. May we never look lightly on war and may we work feverishly to maintain the freedom and peace they died to preserve. Mary Beth Buchner

Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Child - Sr. Christiana and the Horrors of 5th Grade. Part 5 - One Weird Memory and the Ultimate Final Insult

 

 

I don’t remember anything good about 5th grade. Surely something positive must have happened during an entire school year. I do remember making one friend, a girl who lived across the street from the church, by the name of Lorraine Fischle (spelling?). I believe I might have been her only friend and because she was as desperate for a friend as I was, we got together. Possibly because she came from a German household and my father was from a German household, we had some things in common. However she was an avid NY Yankees fan and I was a diehard fan of those Brooklyn Bums. Her team beat my team every year and she loved to laud it over me. Thank God for 1955, that one glorious World Series when the Dodgers finally won. Even so, this one glorious moment of victory occurred the following Fall when I was finally finished with Sr. Christiana. So before I tell you how my year in 5th grade ended, I want to share one very weird thing that Sr. Christiana taught us to do. She told us that every night when we got into bed, we should lie perfectly still with our arms folded across our chests and pretend we were dead and lying in our coffins. She said this would motivate us to behave. Honestly, what kind of fruitcake tells 9 year old kids to do such a thing? I believe I may have tried it once, but once was enough for me.

This Blog entry might be a bit longer than usual but honestly, I’m tired of Sr. Christiana and 5th grade so I want to get this part of my story over with. I’m sure that you, my reader, have had enough of her too.

I’ve often tried to remember if I told my parents what was happening to me at school and how I was feeling about. I don’t remember any specific conversations with them although I knew or at least I thought I knew that my parents and especially my father thought that the nuns and priests could do no wrong. The prevailing attitude was, “ whatever sister said, is right “. I can see now why young kids who were sexually abused by clergy, might not have reported it their parents. I learned not to respect people simply based on externals such as a Roman Collar or a uniform or a title or position, but rather on the basis of their integrity and the contents of their heart. A very good example of this is Father Godfrey Leuchinger, OFM Cap., who I considered to be one of the greatest human beings I had the pleasure of knowing. I respected him because he was a man of integrity and he possessed a kind and loving heart.

Actually this blog entry is getting a little too long and it is almost midnight so I’ll have to get out of Sr. Christiana’s Class tomorrow or the next day.

Good night.

Sharing my Story to Heal the Broken Child - Sr. Christiana and the Horrors of 5th Grade. Part 4 -

                                          

Before I speak about Sr. Christiana’s final insult as I left her 5th Grade class, I’d like to share some thoughts I had about the previous Blog Entry regarding the incident involving Louis. 

It occurred to me that I do believe the nuns generally valued the boys more than the girls, and this may have been the reason Louis got away with his misbehavior while I got punished for simply defending my rights. When I thought more about it, I guess I realized it is not too surprising. Only men could be ordained deacons or priests, and they were “given steak and wine at dinner” while the nuns “drank water and ate chopped meat” ( figuratively and probably realistically). Have you ever seen the movie, Doubt? Back in that era in our church history, there were many more restrictions on the Sisters than there were on the Priests. And, although it is somewhat better now, the women in our church are certainly not where they should be. So getting back to the nuns at St. Michael’s in the 1950’s, I strongly believe that the way people view us and treat us, mirrors back to us who we are, or at least who we think we are. When others see and treat us as inferior, we start to see ourselves that way. I believe the nuns, because they were females, saw themselves as less valuable than the males. After all, that was most definitely how they were treated. Possibly this realization can help me to find some level of forgiveness for Sr. Christiana. 

Sharing My Story to Heal the Broken Child - Sr. Christiana Part 3

Sr. Christiana - Part 3 Possibly some of you reading my story may think I was just too sensitive and the incidents I describe were really no big deal. Of course that is your prerogative. Nonetheless, they were terribly traumatic to me and I need to continue to write them down in an effort to better understand what I experienced and in an attempt to rid my self of certain painful memories. One day I sitting at a desk that was physically connected to the desk of a boy named Louis. I was minding my own business and attending to the lesson, when Louis leaned over and grabbed my ruler off the top of my desk. The lesson being taught did not require a ruler and it was obvious by the smirk on his face that Louis was just trying to “bug me”. When I attempted to reach for my ruler, Louis jerked it from my grip and moved it further away from me. I said “give me my ruler back” just as Sr. Christiana turned around from the blackboard to see what the commotion was about. Louis smiled innocently while Sister told me to stand up. When I tried to explain honestly what had just happened she shut me up immediately, saying she wasn’t interested in hearing what I had to say. Instead while the entire class sat gaping at me she demanded I gather up all my books and other belongings and move to the last seat in the last row in the back corner of the classroom. My classmates watched in dead silence as I gathered up everything from my desk and vacated my seat. I felt like the biggest fool on this earth as, loaded to the gills, I struggled down the isle and across the back of the room to my place of banishment. Louis sat at his desk gloating. Sr. Christiana did not say one word to Louis. What happened to me that day was completely unjustified. I did nothing wrong. Why was I the one being punished? In retrospect when I try to analyze Sr. Christiana’s behavior I can’t understand her reasoning. Did it have anything to do with the fact that she might have liked the boys better than the girls? I’ve heard that said about certain nuns. Or was it something about me that she didn’t like? Could it have been that she was simply working on the premise that a kid from Public School was somehow inferior and needed to be broken down and reformed? At this point in my life, I was quite innocent and I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble. But Sr. Christiana was doing a damn good job of breaking me down! Can I ever forgive her? I don’t remember how long I was in that last seat in the last row in the corner. Some days I feel as if I’m still there. to be continued.... possibly the worse is yet to come.

Sharing My Story to Heal the Broken Child - Sr. Christiana and the Horrors I experienced in her 5th Grade Class - Part 2

Before I continue, I would like to take a moment to add an important caveat. In the distant past and in more recent years I have had some wonderful relationships with nuns. In the last few years I even sought spiritual guidance from a Sister of St. Joseph of Carondelet by the name of Sister Bernice and it has been a tremendously positive experience. I also want to reiterate that these are my memories and as such, they may be quite different than the memories of others. Also past experiences are remembered differently by the individuals who went through them, even if they were in the same room at the same time. Sr. Christiana is long gone and she is not here to share her side of the story, nonetheless, I am writing about these things in the hope of healing some of my hurt and also to document my reality. One of my first memories from 5th grade was standing up in the front of the class for the purpose of reciting a poem I was assigned to memorize. I panicked and the words got all jumbled up in my brain. I looked like a fool, a complete idiot. I was never very good at memorization to begin with and here I was, the new kid in the class, trying to calm myself and restart the poem. I did not yet have any friends in this new school and I could sense that my brand new teacher obviously didn't like me for some reason. She showed no mercy! She didn't say, "Okay, take a deep breath and start over again". Instead, I heard her say, "Oh sit down, you're making a fool of yourself." I walked back to me seat with my head hanging in shame and my eyes squeezed tightly to prevent the tears from rolling down my cheeks. It took me until my last semester in college before I could speak in front of a classroom again. Even then, my Professor, a kind and understanding man, who was aware of my phobia, had two strong young men from the class on either side of me, ready to catch me if I fainted. All I needed, Sr. Christiana, was a little encouragement, kindness and support. Why weren't you there for me? I was nine years old, and you failed me. Sr. Christiana, I've often wondered if you thought you were doing my parents and especially my father, a favor. (I'll explain this sentence in my next Blog entry.) Did you think I needed reform having just transferred from the Public School system? Did you think the education at the Catholic School was so superior that you needed to get me up to snuff? The following incident might not have happened in your classroom but it happened at St. Michael's and it will give the reader an indication of the subtle and not so subtle innuendos that an alert kid would observe. One day, just before being released from school, I remember the nun saying very clearly that we were not to leave anything valuable in our desks and we were to make certain that our books were packed away securely because the Public School kids were coming for released-time Religious Instructions. It didn't take a Rocket Scientist to read between the lines that the kids who attended Public School couldn't be trusted. I had recently transferred from PS 76, one of these dens of iniquity, so I guess it followed that I was in need of reform. Is that why you treated me like a second class citizen, Sr. Christiana? to be continued.... the best or should I say the worst is yet to come.