Tag Archives: discipline

ADVERSITY CAN BE A GOOD SCHOOL

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Catholic Elementary School

I’m older than most of the people who may be reading this, but still, I think my experiences may resonate with some of you at some level. I believe that the experiences I had and endured made me the person I ultimately became. When I was quite young in elementary school, I can remember making the decision to be true to myself at a young age. Even if that meant some people didn’t like me, including some of my family members. In a way, I became my own best friend.

The fact is that I’m not your run-of-the-mill person. I never follow the crowd. I didn’t try to fit in. I don’t and never felt the need to follow trends. I attended Catholic Parochial School, which means that I was forced o wear a uniform and shoes that everyone else wore. And woe be him or her who didn’t obey those rules and regulations.

I followed the rules regarding wearing the uniforms, including the hideous shoes, and wore a beanie. I didn’t have a choice. But, I didn’t agree with or follow all the rules regarding believing every word taught by the nuns. I was a quiet child, but I had my own mind and my own thoughts, and they often conflicted with the rules and the punishment that the nuns subjected children to in the 1960s. We were told in Church and our classrooms that wherever two or more of us gathered, there would be love. That certainly was not true in my experience for the twelve years I attended Catholic school.

I was a quiet child in the classroom. But, outside the classroom, I was always making jokes and telling tall stories to my friends and anyone who would listen. I’ve always had a highly active imagination.

Because I had a tendency to joke around with m fellow students, I found myself being hit with rulers with metal edges and being put in the boiler room for hours by the nuns. Or worst of all, being ridiculed in front of the class if I was asked a question. My mind would often go blank when I was asked a question out of the blue. And I would just stand there, struck dumb.

After twelve long years of these types of experiences, I developed the mindset of a prisoner of war. I recall one experience when I was in fourth grade. Sister Joseph Catherine, who was teaching us, called me up to Blackboard and asked me to complete the arithmetic problem. I was so frightened that I couldn’t think straight.

high school graduation picture

Susan Culver- high school graduation picture

And she yelled at me, came up behind me, grabbed me by my ponytail, and slammed my head repeatedly into the blackboard. After that, I tried to keep myself on guard against any type of behavior that might draw attention to myself around people with whom I was unfamiliar. People always described me as shy, but I wasn’t shy. I was protecting myself.

Some of my school experiences helped develop my imagination. For instance, this was a release from my everyday experiences that I had no control over. We had to go to confession on the First Friday of the month. As a child, I didn’t believe I really committed any mortal or venial sins as the nuns suggested that we all did. So, the week before I had to go to Confession, I used to spend some time making up some “good” sins to tell the priest in the confessional. I did this every first Friday of every month for the eight years that I attended Catholic grade school. Father Nolan (the priest I always confessed my sins to) said, “And are you sorry for all these sins you committed?’ And I would answer,” Yes, Father.” And then, for penance, he would tell me to” say three Hail Marys and three Our Fathers.” I  hadn’t committed any sins other than lying to the priest once a month about my sins.

Although the nuns were strict with all kids, they were particularly strict and tough on the boys, especially in the eighth grade. The nun that taught my eighth-grade class didn’t seem to have a problem pushing a boy down a flight of stairs if he acted out. I never understood why they were allowed to do that to anyone. At one point, I decided to tell my parents what was going on in school. And my mother said, “Do you want me to go up and talk to the nuns?” I said, “No.” Because I was afraid, that would make everything worse. Looking back, I wish I had told my parents to talk to the nuns to stop abusing me and the other kids.

In addition, my parents shouldn’t have left it up to me to decide what should be done. They should have taken matters into their own hands and complained to the school or perhaps removed me from Catholic School and enrolled me in the local public schools.

In addition, I live two houses away from the Catholic School, so whenever the nuns needed help in the classroom after school, during Summer break, or after a snowstorm, I was called in to help. Also, I had to go up to the convent where the nuns lived. It was about five blocks from my home. And I had to clean the storage room where the nun’s canned food was stored. And clean the cans and the room from top to bottom once a week. I’m not sure, but it’s possible that my parents were getting a discount on the Catholic School tuition because of the work we did in the convent, and in the school, in the summer and in the winter.

Of course, not all my experiences in Catholic School were negative ones. I made a great many friends. And I learned how to spell and do basic math. But, what I learned most thoroughly was English Grammar and writing. And to this day, I appreciate this skill that I’m still benefiting from in my writing and my ability to express myself verbally and in the written word.

I learned self-discipline and how to work hard and be thorough in everything I attempted to do in life. And overall, I have to say in every job I ever had in my life, I always excelled. I benefited from what the nuns taught me, albeit hard-won lessons.

This is me writing a new story.

I don’t really know how Catholic School children are disciplined nowadays. But, I hope by this point, the Catholic Schools and teachers have some deeper understanding and knowledge about child development and keeping control of a classroom without verbal and physical abuse of any kind. When I got married and had children, I enrolled them in public school. There was no way I would have wanted them to have the same experiences that I and my generation had to endure in the 1950s and ’60s.

So, overall, Catholic School was not entirely a negative experience, but it is one I wouldn’t want to repeat. It helped shape who I am to this day, and that is a strong, moral, hard-working, intelligent, and creative person who is not afraid of trying something new to this day. I am self-confident about my skills and my abilities. I’ve had to face many challenges during my life, but here I am, still intact and ready to face anything life has to offer me. In other words, What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger comes from an aphorism of the 19th-century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. It is generally used as an affirmation of resilience.

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GOOD MORNING STUDENTS,MY NAME IS SISTER JOHN MICHAEL

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In she storms her full skirt, making a swishing noise as she moves. When she stops, the giant rosary that hangs from her waist swings back and forth, she’s dressed in black that flows down to the top of her black boots; a white wimple covered her forehead and chin. And she wears a white bib that spans her shoulders from one side to the other. 

If she has any hair, you can’t see it; a black veil covers her head. She appears six feet tall. My first thought is she’s the Wicked Witch of the West.

Today is my first day of school at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Elementary School. I’m seven years old.   The classroom is overflowing with kids. There’re more kids in the class there than desks. A bunch of other kids and I have to sit on the windowsill. I saw three first grades in line in the schoolyard.

There’s a low murmur as the students whisper to one another. Suddenly, Sister yells out, “that will be enough of that. No one is to speak unless they have permission to speak, or unless I ask you a direct question, is that understood?” None of us made a sound.

She screeches, what’s wrong with you? Answer.

We mumble, “Yes.”

She says, “when you reply, you are to say, yes, Sister, or no, Sister.” Now repeat after me, yes, Sister, no. Sister.”

And we did.  “Yes, sister, no sister.”

“If you have to go to the bathroom, you must raise your hand, and ask for permission, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sister.” We say as one.

She walks up to the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk, and writes her name, Sister John Michael. None of us can read.   “My name is Sister John Michael. You may call me Sister. By the end of the school year, you all will be able to read and write your names. You will know how to do Arithmetic.”

“Good, now let us begin. I’ll start with the fist aisle. You will stand and state your name, now go.”  I ‘m not in an aisle, so I’m hoping I won’t have to stand up and say my name.

After everyone who has a desk says their names, Sister tells the students sitting on the windowsills to speak. When it’s my turn, I stand up, and with my head down, mumble my name, “Susan Carberry.”

“What? I can’t hear you, speak up, and put your head up.”

I put my head up, but I don’t look at her. I stare at the large round clock that’s on the column in front of her. I don’t know how to tell time, but I hope it will be time to leave soon.  I spit it out all at once, “my name is Susan Carberry.” Then I sit down so hard, I jar my whole body.

After everyone has introduced themselves, Sister picks up a long wooden stick that’s pointed at the end. We all hunker down in our seats. Wondering what she’ll do next. Is she going to hit us all one by one?

She points at green cards that line the top of the walls along the front of the room. “Boys and girls, this is the alphabet. I’m going to point at each letter and say the name, and you will all repeat it after me, do you understand?”  She puts her hands deep into the pockets hidden in her long skirt.“Yes, Sister.” We said in unison.

“Good, now we will say the alphabet over and over until we know it by heart. You will all have a chance to show your classmates that you recognize and say each letter out loud. Later we’ll begin writing the letters in a special copybook. And you will learn how to read words that are made by putting these letters together. You will learn how to read and write by the end of the year. You will have to work hard. But you will learn. Do you understand?”

We all sit and stare at her. No one answers. Her voiced booms out, “I said, do you understand?” I for one don’t know what she’s talking about. But I yell out as loudly as I can,” Yes, Sister.”

“Well, Miss Carberry, you’re learning already. Now, I want to hear the whole class. Do you understand what I said?”

All a sudden everyone yells as loud as they can, “Yes, sister.”

“Good, let us begin. I’ll point at each letter and say the name. You’ll all repeat what I said, out loud. Let’s begin.”

After we repeat every letter out loud, Sister announces,” we’ll practice this every day. Beginning next week each student will be called on and they will have to repeat each letter as I point at it. Everyone will have a chance. “Do you understand class?”

There was a moment of silence and then sister repeats, “Do you understand?”

We all yelled out,” Yes, sister.”

My stomach tightens up. I feel sick. I know I’ll never be able to learn all these letters and say them all out loud in front of the class. I want to run out the door and go home.

And then sister says, “Alright class, it’s time to use the girls and boy’s room before recess. Will aisle one and two come to the front of the room and stand at the door?” I look around at the rest of the class, and I wonder what’s a boy’s and girl’s room? Does everyone else know?

And then the first two rows go up to the front and sister says. “boys in front, girls in the back. Go out into the hall and wait until I come out there and direct you to the bathrooms. Be silent, do you understand?”

“Yes, sister.”

And they all walk silently out into the hall. Well, at least I now know we’re all going to the bathroom. I wait my turn hoping I don’t have to wait too long because my stomach is really hurting.  Finally, it’s the turn for the people sitting on the window sills to go to the bathroom. We march out to the hall.

Sister says. “No, talking.”

Suddenly I feel someone t.ake my hand I look to see who it is. It’s a girl with curly brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She smiles at me and I smile back. My stomach starts to feel a little better. Sister yells, “go into the bathroom now. When you finish, form a line and wait until you are all done and then go back to the class and sit where you were sitting before.

My new friend and I hold hands until we get in the bathroom. We see four doors inside. We each open one of the doors and look inside. There is a toilet in there. We go in, and then we shut the door. It’s weird, but at least I have a moment alone when sister will not yell at me. When I’m done, I flush, the toilet and my friend is waiting at the door for me.

‘Hi, my name is Irene Simpson. What’s your name? “

“My name is Susie Carberry.” I, smiling shyly at her. We walk out hand in hand into the hall.  After all the kids are out, there we march back to the classroom and sit down again.

“Alright class, quiet, please we’ll begin practicing our letters. The first person in each row pass the copybooks to the person behind you. I would like a volunteer to come up to the front of the class to pass out the copybooks to the people who sit next to the windows. What no one wants to volunteer?” She looks up and down the aisle.

I feel her eyes resting on me. I turn my head slightly and put my head down. I’m thinking, please, please don’t call out my name.

“No volunteers? Alright then, Miss Carberry, come up here and get the books, please and pass them out.” I try to shrink down lower. “Miss Carberry, Susan Carberry, come up here this minute. I can see you.” I hop off the windowsill and walk up to the front of the class, and stick out my hands to take the books.

“Very good Miss Carberry, that wasn’t that bad was it?’ She hands the black and white books to me. I turn around and walk to the back of the class to the window and give each of the kids a book. And then I plop back on my window seat. I take a deep breath.

“Alright, let us. Begin I’m going to pass out pencils to each student and you must never lose it. This will be your pencil. And then, we will begin learning to write the letters.  Do you understand students?”

We all say, “yes, sister.” And sister hands out the pencils and shows us how we are to write the letter on the special lines of the copybook. It takes forever to fill up one page of letters.

I’m tired and want to go home. I feel like crying, but I hold it in. “Alright girls and boys, it’s almost time to go home for lunch. Please put your pencils and books on your desk or on the windowsill next to you. I ‘ll be calling each row and we will be walking outside. You will wait until you are dismissed and then you can go home for lunch. There’re people who will help you cross the streets if you need them. They are called safeties they have badges on over their uniforms. Do what they say. You have to come back to class at 12:30 and meet in the schoolyard and stay there until the bell rings then line up and you will come back here to class for the afternoon. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sister.”I have no intention of ever returning to this classroom. But later my mother told me I would have to go back there. My older sister tells me I will have to go to school for twelve years. But I know that can’t be true. So I stick my tongue out at her.