Thursday, April 5, 2018

MAY YOUR HEART BE LIGHT

There was to be a mandatory school Merry Christmas party after Sunday mass. Most mandatory events had never felt like a party or fun, held in the damp basement of the school, an old red brick building with a tall black iron fence around it and a paved over recess yard. I dreaded going, but knew I had to be there or there would be consequences. 
    School events were always mandatory, even Sunday mass which we had to attend with our class. Often we were called to "volunteer" for school events to collect coats, serve food, help set up or clean up. Fun? I don't think so. Sometimes parents were asked to donate food to be sold at a mandatory event and then families had to pay for the refreshments they themselves had provided.  
     On our way to our lessons in the morning we climbed the creaking wooden stairs and entered the high-ceilinged, spartan classrooms, white concrete block walls, desks anchored to the floor in straight rows, a cloakroom in the back and side and front blackboards. The  only color in the room was provided by the statues of the Blessed Mother or The Sacred Heart of Jesus. These were more sentinels than saints, part of whose purpose was for children to kneel before them to ask forgiveness for not knowing an answer, chewing gum, a sideways glance at another student, a fidget or a whisper. Such “penance” might come only after a swift, sharp whack of a ruler across the hands of the little offenders.
    All these associations, including that certain smell and a mood permeating the building were enough to make a child wonder if any activity at the school could be fun. Also, a child would wish to be at any event without fear, worry of accusations and/or humiliation, though I could not put all of this into words back then, but all of the above must have created a feeling of uneasiness and hesitation about attending another mandatory school event. 
    My idea of fun, if I could have thought in comparisoin/contrast mode, movement, color and light,  with games, music and a certain freedom to interact with one another, which might happen in the school yard before class, or at a brief recess after lunch. We might see a bright yellow dandelion growing up through a crack in the concrete and there were the blue sky and clouds above, under which we played, skipping, playing tag or jumping rope—until the nun standing watch rang the brass bell to call us into prayer before the afternoon lessons. All was regiment and requirement—including the mandatory Merry Christmas party.
    I cried on Friday afternoon when I got home when my mother told me I was to spend the weekend at my aunt’s house, which I also never thought of as a fun place, despite her fancy furniture and bottles of 7-up in the refrigerator. Not only would I be marked absent for the party, but also for Sunday mass. If I could have articulated it then, I would have said, "There will be blood!"
   "But, Mom, Mother Mary Canice said we have to go! please, please.”
    I don’t remember what my mother said in response to my plea, but it was also mandatory that I be left at my aunt’s musty smelling row house on Gratz Street in North Philadelphia. I cried all the way there, knowing there would be a reckoning on Monday in the third grade classroom. I cried again that night in the small spare room at the top of the stairs that doubled as a storage space of sorts. I was homesick and heartsick, surrounded by stacks of books and piles of clothes here and there. I stared at the tan wallpaper printed with red tennis rackets or at the ceiling, where strange shapes danced, illuminated by the streetlight shining in from the window facing the alley behind the house. 
    I don’t remember what else happened that weekend or the trip back home,  but I would never forget  what happened on Monday morning. 

    Seated at her desk our stern nun, who at some point had grown a cold stone in place of a heart, held in one hand a short list of the children who had not attended mass and/or the fun event. It was literally a “hit” list as it turned out, which became apparent when she began to call the names of children, who (for whatever reason) were "no shows."  In her other hand she wielded what she often referred to as her “buddy,” a metal ruler. One by one, my classmates were called to stand beside her. James went first, then Ann Marie, then Rosalie—all disappeared behind the desk as she turned them over her lap, and the whacks began. I knew I was last according to alphabetical order.
    As I walked up to the desk, I looked to the stature of Mary in the corner whose face shone down in kindness. I lay face down across a lap over the nun's black garments. She lifted my school uniform, pulled down my underwear to meet out my punishment for not attending and having fun at the Merry Christmas party.  
    I kept my eyes Mary's countenance, and, with each strike, I quietly said one of her beautiful names chanted at the church alter in the litany of saints in honor of the loving Holy Mary Mother of God, to which the children responded, "Pray for us."
    Tower of Ivory
    Joy of the Just
    Comforter of the Afflicted
    Mirror of Justice
    Mother of Sorrows
    Cause of Our Joy
AMEN



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