Wednesday, August 28, 2013

A Baptism by Fire


(Continued from August 21, 2013 . . . )

The fight on the Omaha playground took place on Friday. The next day, I expected to board the train for Walsenburg, Colorado, where I’d spend the rest of the school year. But that morning, Sister Brendan, the Omaha superior, summoned me to her office.
         I knelt by her chair as did all nuns when a superior wanted to confer with them. It was a sign of obedience to what would be said or asked.
         “Sister Innocence,” she said, “you won’t be going to Walsenburg. Instead you’ll stay here and teach a section of seventh graders.”
         I must have looked confused because she added, “The nun who’s been their teacher is returning to the Mount.” I nodded, still not understanding. She riffled through some papers on her desk and said, not looking at me, “She’ll be sent to Council Bluffs.”
         Leaving her office, I went to the basement to do the convent laundry. Sister Mary Norbert followed me. She asked what I knew about my new assignment.
         “Nothing really. Sister Brendan just told me I’d be teaching seventh graders because their teacher was being reassigned to Council Bluffs.”
         Norbert grimaced. “Not reassigned. It’s not a school she’s going to. It’s a mental facility. Saint Bernard’s. Run by the Mercy nuns.”
         Now I was totally confused.
         “It’s where the Mount sends all the nuns who’ve gone off the deep end,” she added. As she ascended the steps, her final words drifted down to me like wisps of smoke from dying embers. “She’s nuttier than a fruitcake. And she’s taught those seventh graders to be Nazi storm troopers.”


This is a psychiatric hospital in Michigan.
But if you’d like to see an early photograph of St. Bernard’s,

         On Monday morning I followed Sister Brendan up to the second floor of the grade school. She pointed out her eighth-grade classroom on the left and then motioned me to the door on the right. On its glass window someone has taped dark construction paper so we couldn’t see in.
         When we entered, Sister Brendan immediately removed the construction paper, and with seeming satisfaction, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it nonchalantly into the wastepaper basket. Then she strode to the front of the classroom.
         Meekly, I followed, gazing nervously at the fifty-five seventh graders sitting there. Seeing me, many smirked. Nudged one another. Gave one another a high-five. Rolled their eyes. Whispered out of the sides of their mouths.
         Out of those mouths had tumbled the violent words that had catapulted me into the middle of their violent circle the previous Friday. They’d certainly acted like Nazi storm troopers then. I saw the boy who’d done the bopping; I saw the boy who’d lain on the ice. He had two butterfly bandages on his shaved sculp.         
         “This is Sister Innocence,” Sister Brendan said as I stood next to her. “She’ll teach you the rest of the year.” When Ron asked where their “real” teacher was, Sister Brendan said, “She’s returned to the Mount due to ill health.”  
         Gleefully, twenty-eight boys and twenty-seven girls in six rows stared at me as if I were a hen to pluck. They knew, as did I, that I was a rookie. Easy pickings.
         My heart began to pound; fear inched its way through my veins. Sister Brendan smiled at me encouragingly and then walked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
         Hearing the latch click shut, the seventh-graders hooted. Howled. Their din hurt my ears. “Quiet, please,” I said, over and over. I could hear the plea in my voice. The weakness. I trembled as their voices thundered round me.
         Bewildered, I sat down at the desk and simply gazed at them. One by one. They fidgeted. Shrugged their shoulders. Began to throw balled paper at me and to roll spitballs. Still I stared at them, saying nothing. Slowly quiet settled round us.
         Now began the task of teaching. This was to be, I feared, a baptism by fire.
                                    ( . . . to be continued next Wednesday, September 4.)

Psychiatric hospital from Wikipedia.

58 comments:

  1. How scary facing a group of destructive kids. sounds like you got your job cut out for you. Just staring at them seemed to work to get quiet.
    I'd rather be out in the garden, hoeing.

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    1. Dear Manzanita, staring did the trick that morning, but there were 4 1/2 more months of school to get through and I felt like a Christians in the Coliseum! Like you, I'd rather be out in the garden . . . hoeing. Peace.

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  2. LOL nuttier than a fruitcake, never knew they had a place to go when going off the deep end. I guess you whipped the nazi storm troopers into shape, as you aren't off the deep end.

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    1. Dear Pat, yes, whenever I hear the name Council Bluffs I always immediately think of nuns in mental wards. When I finally left the convent on Christmas Eve, 1966, I knew that if I didn't leave I, too, would be sent to Council Bluffs. That terrorized me. Peace.

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  3. Fifty-five students??? Oh my goodness- that's incredible! And what a tender irony that you were Sister Innocence.

    You know, the teacher who took my place this school year walked out and quit the second week of school. Teaching is definitely not for the fainthearted. I am wishing and hoping that those Nazi storm troopers came around quickly...

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    1. Dear Shelly, yes 55. When I looked out over them I saw a sea of faces. I can believe that taking your place would be really difficult for someone because you were/are such an outstanding teacher. After teaching those seventh graders, I got a reputation in the convent for being able to work with troubled students and so several times I was given difficult classrooms. But never again did I have Nazi storm troopers!!! Peace.

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  4. That's frightening. It reminds me of my attempt at teaching. I thought the kids were going to beat me up. In the end, the principal let them win.

    Love,
    Janie

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    1. Dear Janie, I always knew that Sister Brendan would back be up when things got touch. She'd go along with my decisions. I'm sorry that didn't happen for you. Having a supportive principal makes all the difference. Peace.

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  5. How many students??

    My first class: I was the 18th substitute they had. Their teacher also went to Mount. I was there for the rest of the year, loving each student until they could trust me.

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    1. Dear Susan, what a task--to have 18 substitutes before you. And yes, the building of trust is so important. Unfortunately as my stories of Omaha will reveal, that didn't happen with these particular students. Peace.

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    2. My students were miserable and complained that their teachers kept quitting. Although many of them gave me a hard time, I promised not to quit. I was starting to make progress with them when the principal told me to resign or be fired because so many kids complained about me. They were upset that I had rules, such as, Sit in your seat.

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    3. Dear Janie, somehow this comment ended here instead of with your first one. I'm almost shocked to learn that the principal believed the children and let you go because you established some rules. And yet when I was in New Hampshire the principal there called me in when the students complained and demanded a full explanation. I was fortunate my words put him in the picture.

      What a bad experience all this was for you. Peace.

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  6. Oh my, there is no way I could do what you had to do. I wonder if the class of hooligans drove her off the deep end. That would have been my first thought.
    I was a new girl once in a class just like that. They even set fire to the waste basket. Kids can be down right scary. Looking forward to how you conquered those wild beasts.

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    1. Dear Arkansas Patti, I, too, wonder if the students drove her off the deep end. I never again saw her. She was at St. Bernard's all the rest of the time I was in the convent--until Christmas Eve 1966. I never asked any of the other nuns if she'd been acting "normal" before the school year started with those students. Peace.

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  7. I'm with Shelly - fifty-five students was far too many, Dee. You described it so vividly that I felt your fear, but also the determination and patience shown by your instinct towards quietness and waiting. Can't wait for next week.....

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    1. Dear Perpetua, in that school, at that time, 55 was normal. The next year, I also had 55, but what a difference--both in age and in attitude on the part of the students. You know, Perpetua, I didn't really know that silence would quiet them down. I just sort of collapsed in the chair, not knowing what to do. And then slowly they the hooting and taunts stopped.

      Of course, as I said in my response to Manzanita's comment, I now had 4 1/2 months of school left and silence wasn't going to work every day, all day, so I had to come up with a plan. That happened four weeks later when another nun helped me. But all that will be part of the story. Peace.

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  8. Anxiously awaiting the conclusion!!

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    1. Dear Fishducky, I bet you're not awaiting the conclusion nearly as much as I was awaiting the end of that school year!!! peace.

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  9. Oh, this story will be very interesting, and how you get ahold of them and become a teacher will be thrilling... at least I hope so, since you kept at it! :-)

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    1. Dear DJan, I did keep at it and I think I'd need about three more Wednesdays to complete the story. Maybe four. It truly was a baptism by fire and even today I don't know how I got through it. Peace.

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  10. I love this... (not the horror, but the anticipation) ... can't wait until the 4th! :)

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    1. Dear Juli, thanks for your enthusiasm for this story. It took place fifty-three years ago and yet I can still remember, so vividly, walking into that classroom and seeing the faces of the boys fighting on the playground that previous Friday. Peace.

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  11. Oh Dee. You might have been young, and untried but you hit on the perfect introduction. Silence - from which (too slowly sometimes) comes peace.
    I am so very glad that you survived. And very sure that your presence was a blessing for many of those Storm Troopers...

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    1. Dear EC, silence was the perfect introduction. It just happened naturally. Instinctively. I do hope that the next four and a half months were a blessing for at least some of the seventh graders in that room. As the story unfolds in the next few weeks, you'll have to consider whether that might or might not be true. Peace.

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  12. I have been told by a few friends who are/were teachers that the seventh grade is the most difficult one to teach and, more importantly, to control. Many accountants who sit in small cubicles wiith blank stares on their faces once taught seventh grade. It is not for the meek of heart and can bring the strongest to their knees. However, I just know you gave it your all and somehow turned around that unruly class.

    I remember being in classes of 55 and more. That could never happen in today's times.

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    1. Dear Arleen, seventh grade is difficult. The students are aware of new power within themselves. And they are so unsure of how to use it. And so they test the waters and often dive right in the pool and the water splashes everyone around them.

      I so loved your image of the accountants with the blank stares having taught seventh graders. That just tickles my funny bone!

      You're right that 55 is a big number now. It wasn't then, as you remember. Peace.

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  13. What a way to make sure we come back next week, to find out more.........have to say the silent treatment works more often then not

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    1. Dear Jo-Anne, I tell you I was surprised that the silent treatment had worked. But I'd just come from the Mount where I'd spent eighteen months pretty much in silence and so that's where I retreated. Peace.

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  14. Oh, Dee, it is mind-boggling to me how such a young nun, untrained in teaching, could be expected to just pick up and teach such an unruly, large body of pubescent youngsters on such short notice. That was really so unfair to you, and to the students, though I'm sure you rallied to the cause. Your silence was masterful.

    Tom was in classrooms of more than 50 students in grade school. I have more than a few friends and relatives who have told stories of nuns being driven out of classrooms in much the same way as the sister you replaced. The sixties, with such a large population of baby boomers, and changing mores, was a difficult time.
    I will anxiously await your next installment, Dee, and appreciate all that you write.

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  15. Dear Penny, part of this whole series will be my discovery--when I got back to the Mount Monastery that summer --of why the Mother Superior assigned me that classroom.

    You know I've never heard of nuns "being driven out of classrooms." But from what you indicated I think you mean that they went as Sister Mary Norbert said, "around the bend."
    That wasn't my experience in the convent except for this one nun but the Mount staffed schools in only a few big cities--Omaha, Kansas City, Topeka being among them. And I do think that most often city schools can be more difficult than country ones. I'm not sure of that, but at least at the Mount that would seem so. And of course this is all taking place in 1960 and that was a different time for young people than today is.

    Actually, I'd seen the movie "Blackboard Jungle" before entering the convent and that's what the seventh grade classroom always reminded me of. Peace.

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    1. Dee, when I mentioned nuns being driven out of the classrooms, I meant by the taunts and misbehaviors of the students, not the sisters. Some of these kids were ruthless in what they did, not unlike the boys you separated on the playground. I think that the country school and those in small towns probably had it a little easier, especially in areas where everyone knew each other.

      Your writing is so compelling. I know all will be revealed as you continue.

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    2. Dear Penny, children truly can be ruthless and the future episodes in this series I'm recalling from back in 1960 will reveal that I think. All of this is so vivid in the mind. And yet I'm not sure what I had for supper last Thursday a week ago. Go figure! Peace.

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  16. What an awful beginning, but I have such faith in you that I am sure it all worked out. You mention the Blackboard Jungle above, this made me think of Frank McCourt's book about teaching highschool in one of the boroughs of NYC, I think it was the Bronx. Cant' wait to hear more.

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    1. Dear Inger, several other readers have also expressed faith in my ability to make everything work out in that classroom. As I post the rest of this story, you may be surprised at what happened. It's going to take two or three more postings before you've see how it all played out.

      I did read Frank McCourt's marvelous memoir about his life in Ireland, but I didn't read the one about his teaching. It will go on my "to read" list. Thanks for mentioning it. Peace.

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  17. You must indeed have been stunned to learn you were going to stay! After the previous day and the violence on the playground you must have wondered what in the world you would do. You write so vividly of the experience I can see and feel the smirks as you walked in to be the "new" teacher. I can't wait for next week's installment. What a remarkable story this is. I taught little ones in a very easy environment. I can't even imagine what skills you had to hone, and the strength you pulled from! oxo Debra

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    1. Dear Debra, I was stunned. I wanted to turn around and walk out of that classroom and get on the train and return to the peace and quiet of the novitiate. I wanted to hide. But I'd taken vows, one of which was obedience. And I meant them and so I stayed and went, tremulously into that classroom for the next four and a half months. Peace.

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  18. How horrible that 'they' put you in that situation... Was that the norm back then? Seems like they were purposely putting you (and maybe other rookies) in BAD situations just to see how strong or how weak you were. I truly think that was terrible... Even IF you were able to do it and make it through that year, it's just hard to believe that the hierarchy would allow any NEWBY to be in that position... Hope the situation got better for you--as you progressed with that group...

    Have you thought about writing a book? You should....

    Hugs,
    Betsy

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    1. Dear Betsy, part of this series of Omaha episodes will be the explanation that was later given to me for why the monastery sent a rookie into this classroom. The explanation still astounds me. Talk about a non sequitur. You've find that it's a perfect example of one. Peace.

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  19. This situation is fodder for my nightmares. I always felt badly for the new or substitute teacher in school. What an experience, Dee, especially when you expected to go somewhere else. I'll be back to read what happens next.

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    1. Dear Deanna, thanks for saying you'll be back for more in this Omaha series. I suspect that the weekly postings for it will take me through September! And I hope you have no nightmares caused by this posting. Peace.

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  20. Wow, Dee! So scary! But perhaps sitting quietly, doing something they didn't expect, helped?
    (My first patient in therapy was a real handful and I was scared, but sat quietly, pretending calmness I didn't have inside, and hope it would be catching. It was.)

    This wonderful post also brought up another memory: the class sizes in Catholic schools. When I was in Catholic elementary school in the 1950's, it wasn't at all unusual to have 55-60 kids in a classroom. And we all learned. It amuses me when some teachers complain about having classroom sizes with more than 24 kids these days.

    I can hardly wait for your next post! I love these serials!

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    1. Dear Kathy, I suspect that both you and I were scared to the quaking voice and kept silent and somehow that was the right thing to do. Perhaps we both have good instincts. Or intuitions.

      And yes, all through grade school at St. Mary's in Independence, Missouri, I was in a double classroom--two grades in one room. And there were probably 60 students in 6 or 7 rows. The nuns who taught us managed to teach two different classes throughout the day. So 50 or 60 students wasn't unusual. And we learned! Peace.

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  21. What a huge class, for one thing. I will be waiting to hear how you sorted this out. Knowing you, I am betting that treating them with fairness and respect (even when they don't act like they deserve it) and being concerned with them as individual souls will have something to do with it. ;)

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    1. Dear Rita, huge now, but not unusual in 1960. I've always tried to be respectful toward and to students and to respond to where they are at the time, but I'm telling you, Rita, I was just beginning as a teacher and I knew so little. Peace.

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    2. that's how big my classes were in parochial school in those days too. 60 kids in a class. Since i was well behaved they put me in the back even though i was tiny..

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    3. Your stories remind me of how feral children are. I can remember being in 8th grade filled with glee because we drove a mild mannered music teacher out of the school. I was never an aggressor, but i can remember so clearly the lack of sympathy we had for that teacher, whose major short coming seemed to be trying to teach us from an ancient song book filled with ridiculously sappy songs.
      As we were treated to a short list of substitute teachers until they found a replacement for poor Mr Kemp, we were like hungry wolves in a den, ready to harass and make miserable the poor soul chosen to teach us that day.
      We were finally won over by a smart and impossible to intimidate older woman who taught us Peter Paul and Mary songs. She tamed the beast.

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    4. Dear Mimi, I haven't applied the word "feral" to children since I taught the novel "The Lord of the Flies" to seniors in high school back in Baileyville, Kansas, in 1965. But it does apply sometimes and your description of what happened in your class helps me really see the "feral-ness" of that 8th grade class you write about. That final teacher, the one wise enough to Peter Paul and Mary songs, was exceptional. Peace.

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  22. Although I know you didn't, it feels like you've told this story just for me at the beginning of a new school year. What an amazing experience - I can hardly wait to hear what comes next. You've also made me even more grateful for my mostly sweet and wanting-to-please fifth-graders.

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    1. Dear Deb, when I write about what came next, I hope I can convey just how scared I was. And I bet there's seldom a time you aren't grateful for those fifth-graders before whom you sand each day. Peace.

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  23. That you were scared is sad but also natural reaction to not having been given any coaching. What were your peers thinking?

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    1. Dear Heidrun, I don't know what the other nuns were thinking. Until about four weeks later, no one said anything about what I was doing in the classroom or what might be happening. Peace.

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  24. when i was in 4th grade at Saint Ann's School in Newark, NJ, I finally had a sister teaching us who was loving and kind instead of mean and ferocious. I was in my ugly duckling phase, just two years after my parents' divorce. This nun, Sister Helen Marie, promised that in the following year we could all be in the choir, even me with my difficult voice. She taught us the Kyrie, a very baroque version that i can still sing. Well next year came, and Sister Helen Marie was gone. They had sent her away, the other kids gossiped that she was crazy and they sent her to that place for crazy sisters. I was devastated, yet another disappointment for my young self. That was the end of my singing career. :)

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    1. Dear Mimi, I wonder what did happen to Sister Helen Marie. You did have so many hard things happen to you as a child. I wonder how you overcame those early years? Peace.

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  25. I’m with you, waiting for the next instalment.

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  26. PS:
    fully expecting you to go ‘nutty as a fruit cake’ too.
    But you are going to prove me wrong, aren’t you? You are made of sterner stuff.

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    1. Dear Friko, the next two or three episodes we will relate what happened and I didn't go "nutty as a fruit cake" but things got pretty iffy. Peace.

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  27. You had to kneel by her chair?? I guess she must have got a waiver on the requirement for humility.

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    1. Dear Molly, I suspect that for most superiors a nun's kneeling was humbling because they themselves had to do that also when they came into the prioress's office. All of us had to realize that we'd taken vows of obedience and we knelt to indicate that we were willing to do whatever was thought best. At the time, I truly believed that the superiors knew what was best. Peace.

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