(Continued from last Wednesday,
September 18 . . . )
Cartoon courtesy of Fishducky.
Each weekday between January 18 and
February 15, 1960, I entered a seventh-grade Omaha classroom. After the students
and I said morning prayers and recited the pledge of allegiance, I’d try to
teach. Many of them talked, shouted, sang, cursed, yelled across the room. Others,
however, maybe as many as two-thirds of the fifty-five, leaned forward at their
desks, attempting to hear my voice over the din.
At
least once a week, a policeman visited me after school, asking questions about the
students in my classroom, several of whom were members of the gang terrorizing that
area of Omaha. Ron, the gang’s leader, gave me a hard time each day. I’d first
met him as he banged a fellow classmate’s head against the playground ice.
“They
can bruise every part of your body and not break a bone,” the policeman confided.
“Every kid in this neighborhood’s frightened. No one’ll rat on ‘em. You gotta
be careful, Sister. They’ll turn on ya. Right here in this classroom.”
I
thanked him for his advice but I’d learned on the third day in that classroom
that I had to face the students at all times. On that day—Wednesday January 20—I
was facing the chalkboard, my right hand raised and to the side as I wrote some
tidbit of knowledge. I heard a zing and then a thud.
A
quivering knife embedded itself about an inch from my little finger. My hand
started trembling.
The
room was ominously silent as I turned and looked at that sea of faces. Some bore
horror; others, triumph; still others, scorn.
Given
that the knife had zinged right past my hand, I thought it must have come from a boy in the row behind me. But no one looked guilty. Everyone just seemed
interested in what I’d do.
My
hand still trembling, I pulled out the knife. Carried it with me to the door.
Left the room. Crossed the hall to Sister Brendan’s room. Knocked.
When
she came to the door, I handed her the knife and explained what had happened. “Have
all the students empty their pockets and purses on their desks. Then confiscate
any weapons,” she said. “I want you to stand by your classroom door each
morning from now on. Have the students empty out their pockets and handbags before
coming into the room. Give any weapons to me.”
I
did this for the rest of the school year.
During
those early weeks, I had one proof-positive experience of what the policeman had
tried to explain to me. After school one day, James stayed to ask what he
needed to study to get into college. Not knowing the Nebraska colleges, I offered
to talk with the other nuns that evening and get some information for him.
The
next day, I noticed that he moved gingerly in his desk as if in pain. When the
other students filed out at the end of the day, I said, “James, you’re moving
like you’re hurt. Has something happened?”
He
stood silent as if not sure what to say. Slowly he drew up his T-shirt. Dark
bruises covered his entire chest and back. Deep purple bruises on top of
bruises. Despair filled his dark eyes.
“Who
did this to you?”
“The
guys. In the gang.”
“Why?”
“They
thought I was snitching on them when I stayed after school. Yesterday. So they
ganged up on me.”
“Will
you tell this to the police?”
He
shook his head vehemently. “That’d land me in the hospital. Ron won’t be so
easy on me next time.”
And
that was that. I was powerless to help him.
(. . . continued tomorrow, Thursday September 19.)
NOTE:
I don’t want to hold you in suspense any longer as to how and why things
changed in that Omaha classroom. So tomorrow—Thursday—I’ll tell that story.
