Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Memories of a Classroom


(Continued from last Wednesday—August 7 . . . )
Not quite fifty-four years ago—on Sunday January 3, 1960—I, a newly vowed scholastic, boarded the train in Atchison, Kansas, and traveled to Omaha, Nebraska, a distance of 159 miles. I wore my Sunday habit and the black veil I’d exchanged for the white one worn for the novitiate year. My suitcase held . . .
·      my daily black habit made of seven yards of black serge;
·      my daily scapular, the long rectangular piece of black serge that covered the habit both back and front;
·      several flat white coifs of pleated linen, which, when shaped and worn, would cover my neck, head, and the sides of my face;
·      two heavily starched and rigid white linen headbands;
·      two voluminous one-piece cotton undergarments that encased the body from shoulders to thighs;
·      two floor-length cotton nightgowns;
·      an extra pair of black shoes;
·      two aprons;
·      my monastic diurnal from which I prayed the Divine Office, the ancient Latin prayers said seven different hours a day;
·      my St. Andrew Daily Missal for use during Mass;
·      and a collection of readings used for Matins, the longest prayer of the day.
          There may have been more in the black leather suitcase, which my parents had given me just two days before, but I have no memory of toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, soap, shoe polish, or the other sundries that I’d carry today.
          Nor do I remember the three-hour trip. Did I stew about entering a classroom the next day to teach when I’d had no classes on teaching? Was I curious about the nuns I’d be living with at the St. Peter and Paul convent? Did I already miss my classmates who’d been left behind to start college?
          Was the scene beyond the train window that January morning bleak? Sunny? Windy? Snow swept? Did grain stubble pierce through the frozen black soil of Nebraska? Were the dark skeletons of trees, stark against the prairie sky, foreboding? I don’t know.


         This is what I do remember about the two weeks that followed: The next day, I entered the fifth-grade classroom of Sister Nicole who was being treated for cancer in a nearby hospital. From a pole high above the chalkboard draped an American flag. Bookcases, with innumerable children’s books arranged in alphabetical order, nestled beneath the windows of the far wall. A globe stood on one bookcase. The room was sunny, filled with the children’s art and posters about reading and hygiene.
         The children within that classroom were young. Innocent. Welcoming. Concerned about their beloved teacher. They asked each morning if we could say special prayers for her throughout the day. I was eager to meet the woman whom these children treasured. Thoughtfully, she’d left me detailed lesson plans so I’d know how to proceed and what to teach.
         The only other thing I remember from her classroom is Stanley. A tall, hollow-cheeked child with sea-blue eyes and tousled chestnut hair, he sat mute in the back seat of the row next to the windows, staring blindly ahead while lobbing a hardball into his baseball glove. A sorrowful river of tears flowed over his pale cheeks and plopped onto his worn jeans throughout each of the ten days I spent in that classroom
          Another nun told me that Stanley’s father had died in an accident over the Christmas holidays. The children and I respected his grief—we were, I think, awestruck by it—and grew used to the thud, thud, thud, of the ball as it hit his first-baseman’s glove. Those thuds, which became the counterpoint to everything said in that classroom for those two weeks, still resound in my heart.
         It was on Friday, the last day of my sojourn in Sister Nicole’s classroom that I encountered a group of older children on the icy playground during recess. That encounter changed my life and may have taught me all I ever needed to know about teaching.
                                       (. . . to be continued next Wednesday)

Photograph by Jomphong from freedigitalphotos.com

42 comments:

  1. Must have been quite the shoes to step into, everything you need to know, going all cliffhanger at your show haha

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    1. Dear Pat, Sister Nicole's shoes were indeed quite something to step into and later she helped me when I thought that I couldn't continue teaching.

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  2. What a touching, poignant story, Dee! I can hardly wait for the next installment. You really know how to write a cliffhanger!

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    1. Dear Kathy, the next episode will take awhile in the telling so I suddenly realized after the long introduction that I'd have to put off beginning it until next Wednesday. Peace.

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  3. Oh, my- what a situation to step into! I have no doubt, though, my friend, that you were the perfect, compassionate heart for those children, especially Stanley, and for Sister Nicole. I look forward to reading the next installment!

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    1. Dear Shelly, indeed! Sister Nicole became a life-long friend. She died just a few short years ago and I visited her grave when I returned to the Mount for the Sesquicentennial in May. Peace.

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  4. A week is a long, long time. But so much to mull over. Nebraska is harsh in winter on the prairie. Storms come in with so little warning. Well, until next week...

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    1. Dear Joanne, I'm amazed that other bloggers can blog almost daily. I find that writing a story for this blog and one for my writing blog--posted on Sunday--takes all the time I have beyond reading and commenting on other blogs and doing my own writing. The inner storm that came from the encounter I'll write about next week surely came with little warning. Peace.

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  5. I love that Stanley was left to grieve. So often now we don't give people that necessary space.
    And I am excited about the next installment of this saga of yours. Love it. You encapsulate so much... hopes, fears, peace and love. Thank you.

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    1. Dear EC, thank you for your kind words. I hope that all is going well in your partner's recuperation. Your story about all that's taken place is full of "hopes, fears, peace, and love" also. Peace on this lovely evening here in Missouri, USA.

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  6. That had to be such a difficult situation to step into, especially since it was your first assignment. From what we know about you though, I am sure you handled it beautifully and helped those who needed you at that time.

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    1. Dear Arleen, I hope I handled it beautifully. As you will learn when I tell the story of my next teaching in Omaha, I often did not handle things "beautifully"! That story is going to take several Wednesdays, I think. Peace.

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  7. Oh Dee! Don't leave me hanging! :-) I want to know what happens next! It's so interesting that your memories are so clear about the children you taught and the circumstances of their lives, but can't remember much about the traveling conditions or what you brought with you! I absolutely believe you were someone very special to those children, and maybe in particular Stanley. I just love hearing everything about your life, Dee. You have both a kindness and compassion mixed with a zest for life that truly inspires--and creates a wonderful story. So I have to wait until next Wednesday, huh? oxo Debra

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    1. Dear Debra, yes! Next Wednesday I'll move on to the seventh graders I encountered on that playground. They ended up playing a big role in my life in the convent. And thank you for the kind words.

      I inadvertently clicked on both the comments you sent. They were the same and so I'm thinking that you might be experiencing trouble again with leaving comments. Thanks so much for always trying . . . and mostly succeeding! Peace.

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  9. What a intimidating situation to be put in with no real class room training. I was relieved that Sister Nicole had left lesson plans.
    Very impressed that you and the class allowed Stanley room to grieve. Some teachers might have tried to stop him from pounding his mitt with a baseball. Well done.
    Looking forward to the next part.

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    1. Dear Arkansas Patti, those lesson plans really got me started on the right foot. You know I think anyone who saw Stanley's eyes and the raw grief in them would have done the same. At last I hope so. Peace.

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  10. Beautifully written, brought forward into the present with every word, Dee. Exquisite and delightful! I look forward to the next adventure on the playground with the older children. Well done! :-)

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    1. Dear DJan, when I went to bed on Thursday night January 11, I had no idea what would happen the next day. That happening is what changed my life because instead of going to Colorado, which became a daughter house so I probably would have stayed there instead of staying at the Mount, I remained in Colorado. This probably doesn't make sense right now, but it will when I do my next few postings. Peace.

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  11. Oh how interesting and how well written too. You leave us on a cliff hanger too. That plop, plop of the ball in the glove must have been annoying but how kind of you to understand this boy whose father had just died.
    A beautifully written story and looking forward to the rest.

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  12. Dear Manzanita, the scene coming next is etched in my memory. It was a bad experience! I'm hoping I can do justice to it in my next few postings. Peace.

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  13. Hi Dee, I'm sure that was a hard situation for you to be in at that time of your young life... BUT--someone obviously thought you were capable of doing it --which you did and did well....

    Can't wait to read more.
    Hugs,
    Betsy

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    1. Dear Betsy, tomorrow I'm meeting one of the students that I taught the following year in Omaha. She seems to have, in general, good memories of that year. But she does remember her breaking something that was dear to me--a sand dollar given to me by my mother--and my getting really upset and scolding her. I regret that. I always regret leaving people with bad memories of some encounter with me. Peace.

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  14. So sad about the boy, I can almost hear the sound of the ball in the glove too. Looking forward to next week's installment, it sounds both interesting and foreboding. I always wonder about things that do change our lives.

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    1. Dear Inger, there is foreboding. I just never dreamed that the following Monday I'd be in a classroom where, as the saying goes, "All hell broke lose!!!!" Peace.

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  15. Wow! Now you have me guessing, Dee. A page turner without a page to turn.

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    1. Dear Kate, I try to keep my posts at 600 or fewer words and so these cliffhangers happen when the post gets too long! Peace.

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  16. Poor Stanley! You have left me hanging. I will check back to see what happens.

    I stepped in to teach a 4th gr class whose teacher had been ill. It was difficult; they wanted her back.

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    1. Dear Susan, yes, the fifth graders wanted Sister Nicole back and she did come back. Peace.

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  17. Not long now to the next instalment . . . . . .

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    1. Dear Friko, I suspect there will be a several episodes in this story of Omaha! Peace,

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  18. Funny how we lose so many of our days--and over time there are just scattered memories of the moments and situations that really formed us into who we are now. Too much to remember, I guess. So our brains pick and choose on the things we really focused on at the time.
    So glad the teacher left detailed instructions with a novice teacher! :)
    Stanley broke my heart. I doubt these days anyone would ever give him that space to grieve.

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    1. Dear Rita, I've never truly known or understood why we remember some things and not others. Perhaps it's the emotion that connected to those happenings or people. I don't know.

      I do think, however, that many fine teachers today would provide the space and time for Stanley to grieve. I read the blogs of several teachers and their dedication never fails to impress and inspire me. But you know that too. And I know that you appreciate creativity and dedication in anyone and everyone. Peace.

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  19. Dear Dee, late to reading and commenting, but not in being captivated by your story.
    I took some time to read the comments and your replies, getting more of a feel of what comes next, which I will look forward to.

    Having myself been a teacher and then a member of a board of education, I cannot imagine sending a young woman off to teach with no preparation, excepting the good lesson plans of Sister Nicole.

    How awfully hard that was for Stanley, and how touching that the students gave him the room he needed to grieve. Do you know how Stanley turned out in life?

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    1. Dear Penny, I wish I did know what happened for Stanley in the years since then. But seldom did students stay in touch with grade-school nuns and the nun to whom he was attached was Sister Nicole.

      The truth is that I never asked about him because for the next three years. I was in Omaha the following year but I think I mostly wanted to not think about the previous winter and spring.

      And when I was home at the Mount and would see Sister Nicole, I couldn't speak with her because she was professed. Then she was sent to another mission and so I don't know if she kept in touch with Stanley. So many students I wonder about. Peace.

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  20. This post and your next one focus on rich details, Dee, even when they're sad and awful. Life sure provides some moments that can't be ignored. I'll be interested, as always, to follow your stories.

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    1. Dear Deanna, it's true and those moments that can't be ignored seem to take up lodging in our minds. Peace.

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  21. Dee, you truly are a born writer! This post had everything - description, character, interest, pathos and tension. Luckily I'm reading this rather late and can go on to read the next instalment right away. :-)

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    1. Dear Perpetua, thank you for your kind words. I don't know if you read the posting I did on my writing blog on Sunday a week ago--8/18. It's about my own thoughts on my writing and my long-held belief that I'm a hack. Peace.

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    2. I haven't caught up with those yet, Dee, but I'll tell you now you're no hack.

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  22. Was all that clothing hot?

    Poor Stanley! I think we forget how deeply children are affected by the death of apparent and are so often expected to continue on as normal!

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    1. Dear Nancy, the clothing was hot during the summer, but so warm during the winter. Yes, Stanley taught me just how children can grieve. Peace.

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