It was September of 1957 when my twin sister and I entered first grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Maple Shade, NJ.

“Get up it’s time to get ready for school.” My mother yells from the bottom of the steps. We moan and reluctantly throw the covers off. And slowly we get out of bed.

My mother put our school uniforms out for us. They look exactly alike, a maroon jumper with a white blouse that had what my mother called a Peter Pan Collar, black and white saddle shoes, and white socks. And worst of all a hat called a beanie that is also maroon. I put on the blouse and the jumper and it is so itchy I can’t believe it. I don’t think I will be able to wear it all day. I start scratching. I put on my new shoes. They look kind of neat but feel really heavy. Since I haven’t worn shoes all summer.

As soon as I start walking around my feet start hurting. I take them off and put my old sneakers on instead. Since I haven’t worn shoes all summer.

My sister looks over at me and says, “What are you doing? You have to wear the school shoes.”

I stick my tongue out at her. She says I’m telling Mom.

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up, I’m telling Mom.”

We walk down the steps to the kitchen. My sister’s shoes are making a lot of noise as she clumps down the stairs. I’m wearing my sneakers so I’m not making any noise. I hear my mother yell.

“Pick up your feet.”

I start laughing at her. She rushes down the rest of the steps and runs in the kitchen.” Mom, Susie isn’t wearing her new shoes, she’s wearing her old sneakers.”

My mother says, “Don’t tattle, that’s not nice.”

My sister is mad now, “but Mom she’s not wearing her school shoes.”

“Alright, sit down and eat your cereal, I’ll talk to your sister.”

I’m hiding at the bottom of the stairwell, so I know my mother is coming to talk to me. There’s nowhere for me to hide so I just stand there and wait for her.

“Susie, please go back upstairs and change your shoes. We already talked about this the other day you have to wear shoes and the uniform. It’s a rule.”

I look at my mother, and I want to cry but instead, I say, “I hate school, I don’t want to go.”

“No, you don’t Susie, you don’t even know what it’s like. You will make new friends, and learn all kinds of new things. Now, please go upstairs and put on your new shoes. And while you’re at it get your beanie. And I’ll comb your hair after breakfast, and help you brush your teeth.”

She has to “help” me brush my teeth because for a long time I didn’t brush my teeth at all. Just because my mother would nag me about it. And then I got an abscessed tooth and my mouth swelled up and, I got an earache. My parents had to take me to an emergency dentist appointment in Philadelphia. The dentist said my tooth had to be pulled out. And he blamed my mother because she didn’t make sure I brushed my teeth.

Now I stomp up the steps, muttering under my breath, “I hate school, I hate school.” I hear my sister laughing in the kitchen.

When I come down, I hear my mom talking to my sister in the bathroom while she is brushing her curly, dark hair. I start shoveling my cheerios in as fast as I can. I feel like I’m going to start crying. My sister and mother come back into the kitchen. I feel a tear and then another run down my cheeks.

“Look Mom, Susie’s crying, she’s such a baby.”

I look at my sister, and I’m so mad at her that I stop crying and stare at her hard. I stick my tongue out at her.

She yells, “Mom, Susie is sticking out her tongue at me again.”

“Alright that’s enough, go get your school bag, and wait for Susie on the front porch she’ll be outside in a minute.”

“Come on Susie, I’ll fix your hair, and you can brush your teeth.”

I follow my mother down the hall past the Blessed Mother grotto towards the bathroom. I start feeling sick to my stomach. “Mommy, I don’t feel good, I feel sick.

“You’ll be alright Susie, you’re just nervous. Let me brush your hair and then you can brush00 your teeth. Don’t forget to put on your beanie or you’ll get into trouble.”

I look in the mirror, I see my tear-streaked face, it is all red from me rubbing it. I had washed my hair last night but I didn’t comb or brush it so it is full of knots.

“Susie your hair is a rat’s nest. Didn’t you comb it last night after your bath?’

“No, I guess I forgot.”

Then my mother starts pulling the brush and then the big comb through my hair. It hurts. I look in the mirror. I have blond hair, but my sisters always tell me it’s “Dirty blond.” I hate when they say that cause I wash my hair every week.

“OK, Susie here’s your brush, put some baking soda on it and start brushing, brush all your teeth not just the front ones.”

“OK, Mom I will.” And I try to brush all my teeth, but my arm starts to feel tired, so I may have missed a few of the back teeth.

“Alright, let me see your teeth, Susie, open up.”

I open my mouth wide. She looks in. “Looks like you missed the ones in the back, here’s your brush do it again, and then rinse out your mouth.”

I do it again, I hate baking soda it tastes like poison. I brush the back teeth, rinse and spit.

“Put your beanie on Susie.”

I put it on the top of my head, it is sticking up weird in the back, because of my ponytail. I make a face. My mom looks at my face in the mirror. “Here Susie, I’ll put a couple of bobby pins on the beanie to keep it on. She takes the bobby pins out of her own hair. Which is set in bobby pins. Sometimes she doesn’t take the bobby pins out of her hair all day. Because she is so busy doing the housework, the laundry, making the beds, and washing dishes. And of course, ironing, which often takes up her whole afternoon.

“Don’t lose them, Susie.”

“OK, Mom.”

She sticks the bobby pins into my hair, and I flinch. Now, my feet and my head hurt. I want to cry again, but I don’t.

My mother leans down and gives me a little hug. It makes me want to cry again, but I hold the tears back. “Bye Mom, I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, Susie I forgot to tell you. You can come home for lunch. Sister will tell you when it’s time. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

For a minute, I feel a little better. Then I run out the front door and I see my sister has already left. Now I have to go by myself. She’s a pain, but I always feel a little better when I can go with her somewhere I’ve never been before. My stomach starts to hurt in earnest and I get the weird scratchy feeling in my throat right before I really start crying.

I cry all the way to the schoolyard. I hear the school bell ringing. There are hundreds if not thousands of kids in the schoolyard. I don’t know where to go. Just then I realize that I forgot my school bag. The crying increases. I run into the schoolyard and look into the sea of unfamiliar faces. I look for my sister. I can’t find her. All the girls look alike in their uniforms.

I see a “nun” coming toward me. I want to run away. She looks like a giant or a witch. She has a really long black dress on and around her waist is a giant rosary swaying back and forth. As she comes toward me, I see she has a giant bib on her neck that comes down to her chest. And a stiff white piece of fabric and it is across her forehead. There was a black veil hanging down her back.

I’m terrified. “You’re late, don’t let that happen again. What is your name and what grade are you in?”

I look down at the ground. For a moment I can’t remember my name, or what grade I’m in.

“Put up your head and speak up.”

I looked up momentarily and mumble, “Susan Carberry, first grade.”

“Alright, Miss Carberry follow me.”

The “Nun” takes me across the schoolyard, and over to the line with the smallest kids. I see my sister. And I had never been so happy to see her in my life, as I did at that moment. She looks over at me and she gives me a little smile. And then the second bell rings, and all the kids start marching toward the school. The first day of school begins.

At first, when my mother told me that we were starting first grade I was excited about it, thinking it might be a new adventure. I could make new friends. It could be fun.

But then I talked to some of the older kids in the neighborhood and they told me about the nuns and homework and having to sit from eight o’clock in the morning until three in the afternoon. I wasn’t really sure what “Nuns” was, but it didn’t sound good. I was scared.

Jackie Rice the boy that lives next store to me told me all about it. He’s a lot older than me he’s going into the fifth grade. He said that the Nuns yelled at the kids all the time. And that you’re not allowed to talk in class unless the teacher says you can. I guess I don’t care about that so much since I don’t plan on talking in school at all. I decide that no matter what happens I will not open my mouth. And in that way. I won’t be able to get in trouble, ever. Keep my mouth shut.

But it turns out that I wasn’t able to do that because Sister John Michael who teaches my class is always asking questions. Sometimes she’ll go up and down the aisle and ask each of us a question. This is really bad because the whole time I hold my breath until it’s my turn to answer. And by then I feel sick to my stomach, from not breathing.

And then sometimes Sister John Michael will call a student’s name out of nowhere. And ask a question you didn’t have time to think about before you answered. One day she called out “Susan Carberry, what address do you live at?”

I just stare at her and don’t answer. I didn’t even know my address. No one ever told me that was something I needed to know. I think about making up an address. But I can’t think of one.

Then she yells even louder,” Has the cat got your tongue, Susan?”

“What? No, he doesn’t.” And then everyone laughs at me. I don’t know why they’re laughing. “My best friend is Strottles the cat, and he would never hurt me.” Everyone laughs at me again. That’s the day I decide I hate school and I would do everything I could to stay home.

From that day on almost every day, I would tell my mother that I felt sick, sometimes I tell her I had a stomachache, which is true. I wake up feeling sick every day. Because I hated school so much. Sometimes I told my mother I have an earache. But she just put drops in my ear and puts a piece of cotton ball in there too. Sometimes I convince her I was sick, and she’ll let me stay home.

But when I get my report card the number of days, I was absent was written in red. And Sister John Michael tells me that my mother has to go and talk to the principal at school. I don’t know what they told my mother but she looks upset when she comes home. I’m afraid they’ll send me to Public School because that is what they always said will happen to us if we’re really bad.

After I come home from school the next day my mother says that I can’t stay home from school anymore unless I’m really sick. So, from then on, I never told my mother when I’m sick. No matter what. So, when I got itchy bumps on my stomach, I didn’t tell anyone. And it turns out that I had measles and then so does the rest of my class. My mother talks to me again. “Susie, tell me when there is something really wrong. OK?” I don’t answer. I just look at my mother. I don’t want to lie to her.

I pretty much keep everything to myself after that because I didn’t want to go to Public School. Because the nuns told me it’s horrible there. I think it was horrible in the Catholic School and I didn’t think I could stand being anywhere that’s worse.

When I was promoted to the fourth grade Sister Joseph Catherine became was my teacher. She’s short not much taller than me. But she’s loud and mean. I’m a shy and quiet child. She chooses me to be her “assistant.” Wherever she goes I had to follow and carry whatever she is taking with her. She never said a kind word to me or even thanked me.

The Catholic Schools were overcrowded in those years when the boomers went to school. There aren’t enough classrooms available for all the kids. Sometimes there are fifty kids in a classroom. And there aren’t enough classrooms., Our fourth-grade class is held on the stage in the basement of the Catholic Church. Because it was in the church basement our classroom was isolated from the rest of the elementary school.

Sister Joseph Catherine was extremely strict with the students in order to keep the noise to a minimum in the overcrowded classroom. She also has a short fuse if she feels you aren’t trying hard enough or didn’t keep up with the class.

One day she calls on me to go to the blackboard to do a math problem. I hate being the center of attention and math did not come easily to me. When I made a mistake on the answer to the math problem, she comes up behind me as I was standing at the blackboard. She yells at me and then she grabs my ponytail and repeatedly slams my face into the blackboard and says to me, “How stupid are you?”

In addition to being Sister Joseph Catherine’s “assistant,” I’m told I will have to sell candy during recess to the other kids in the schoolyard. For the whole year, I sell candy and I’m not allowed to play with the other kids.

As an adult looking back on these experiences, I understand to some degree that these “teachers” were overwhelmed by the sheer number of students and the stress of keeping order. But still, I wonder why I was chosen to be the focus of Sister Joseph Catherine’s anger and resentment.

She could have made the decision to treat a shy and quiet student with concern and care and understanding but she did not. She was a sad and, heartless woman that was woefully unprepared and lacking empathy towards the children in her care.

As an adult, I look back on this experience as one that taught me many things. At first, my response was to become more withdrawn, more reluctant to participate in school. And become less apt to trust adults and less trusting of my own abilities to learn and participate in challenging experiences.

But ultimately, I decided that I would not let this experience shape me or change me in a negative way. And I chose to become open to new experiences and kind to the people I met along my way. And whenever possible to learn from all my experiences that I would and could overcome all challenges. I would meet the challenges with confidence in myself and the heartfelt belief that most people are decent and good. And the ones that aren’t are dealing with their own negative experiences and may yet do better in the future.

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