Seriously Scared

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Abstract

He explained I had a real name, and it was Edith. He arranged the letters and had me write them so I would know my name and be able to spell it. He indicated that school was not a place for nicknames, another blow to my happiness.Shortly after Labor Day, my mother walked me to the parish school to start first grade. There was a Catholic mass before school, and our mothers were encouraged to let us be guided into school without them. I remember it as clearly as I remember anything, that my mother had tears in her eyes as her full-time job of mothering was taking a turn, with her youngest out of the house. As it turned out, she went to nursing school, became a nurse, and found a profession she adored.The nuns put us in lines. They really had a thing for lines, May Procession Lines, lines for recess, lines for dismissal, a creepy word for releasing six year olds to their homes, but the strictness of the school of my imaginings was pretty much how the real thing unfolded.It was scary. I was scared. And I knew most of my classmates had attended kindergarten so they knew the rules in some way. Sister Mary Thomas (a pseudonym) was not a warm fairy-godmother kind of person. She was cool-tempered and stern with her young charges. I felt no ill-will in Sister, but I didn’t feel any affection coming from her. Sometimes affection expresses itself quietly.One of the boys in my class had “an accident” the kind of not making it to the bathroom, and Sister found a way to deal with the situation causing as little embarrassment to him as possible. How do I remember this?

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I was on full-alert mode of nervous anxiety and was trying to blend into the situation as well as possible.Later in the year, a classmate had an epileptic seizure and Sister Mary Thomas handled it with professional detachment and poise. We later heard this student received the proper medication for the condition.Sister Mary Thomas was good to me. During recess, I used to sit alone on the stone wall and watch the children playing. I wasn’t unhappy there, but the situation needed a little change. Sister Mary Thomas sat next to me and said, “Edith, part of the school experience is to play with the other students.” She pointed to two girls and said she would walk me over to them and I said, “But they went to kindergarten. They know stuff.” She smiled and told me that I’d catch up.As young as I was, I knew the kindness of Sister’s gesture to me and it gave birth, in part, to my fictional story, “Helen Spencer.”Shortly after being properly introduced to Marybeth and Monica, I had learned to make friends outside of my family, and I’m thankful to the quiet, religious woman who made it happen.<figure id="056e"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*1GLv_xHjVW00Jn_Rq31T0g.jpeg"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><figure id="db9c"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*4LcbL4oS8iD9ClncbPcULg.png"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><a href="https://medium.com/@egb1322/membership">Read every story from Edith Gallagher Boyd (and thousands of other writers on Medium).</a></article></body>

Beginning First Grade

Photo: Author

From a very early age, I developed apprehension and dislike of school. Year after year, I was losing siblings as playmates as they dressed up to join the establishment. The toughest loss was my full-time playmate Patrick, who wasn’t much older than I.

We played Cowboys and Indians, shot his bow and arrow in the back yard and threw darts at a dart board. It’s not that our mother wasn’t careful, it was just the way things were that kids played outside with siblings and friends. We’re lucky we didn’t lose an eye or worse with some of our activities.

I remember Patrick, no longer available to me as he left the house with a tie and dress pants to go to learn his ABC’s. We didn’t do pre-school back then, and our Catholic parish school barely had a kindergarten. Many Catholic children attended kindergarten at the public school across from us.

After he left me, Patrick could join in with the others at the dinner table with stories of Sister So and So, homework and recess. I hated school and everything it took from me.

I had no interest in the public-school kindergarten and my first experience with school was going to be first grade.

During the summer before, my brother Bernie, ten years older than I, sat me down with a Scrabble board to let me know my name Dee Dee wouldn’t fly with the nuns. He explained I had a real name, and it was Edith. He arranged the letters and had me write them so I would know my name and be able to spell it. He indicated that school was not a place for nicknames, another blow to my happiness.

Shortly after Labor Day, my mother walked me to the parish school to start first grade. There was a Catholic mass before school, and our mothers were encouraged to let us be guided into school without them. I remember it as clearly as I remember anything, that my mother had tears in her eyes as her full-time job of mothering was taking a turn, with her youngest out of the house. As it turned out, she went to nursing school, became a nurse, and found a profession she adored.

The nuns put us in lines. They really had a thing for lines, May Procession Lines, lines for recess, lines for dismissal, a creepy word for releasing six year olds to their homes, but the strictness of the school of my imaginings was pretty much how the real thing unfolded.

It was scary. I was scared. And I knew most of my classmates had attended kindergarten so they knew the rules in some way. Sister Mary Thomas (a pseudonym) was not a warm fairy-godmother kind of person. She was cool-tempered and stern with her young charges. I felt no ill-will in Sister, but I didn’t feel any affection coming from her. Sometimes affection expresses itself quietly.

One of the boys in my class had “an accident” the kind of not making it to the bathroom, and Sister found a way to deal with the situation causing as little embarrassment to him as possible. How do I remember this? I was on full-alert mode of nervous anxiety and was trying to blend into the situation as well as possible.

Later in the year, a classmate had an epileptic seizure and Sister Mary Thomas handled it with professional detachment and poise. We later heard this student received the proper medication for the condition.

Sister Mary Thomas was good to me. During recess, I used to sit alone on the stone wall and watch the children playing. I wasn’t unhappy there, but the situation needed a little change. Sister Mary Thomas sat next to me and said, “Edith, part of the school experience is to play with the other students.” She pointed to two girls and said she would walk me over to them and I said, “But they went to kindergarten. They know stuff.” She smiled and told me that I’d catch up.

As young as I was, I knew the kindness of Sister’s gesture to me and it gave birth, in part, to my fictional story, “Helen Spencer.”

Shortly after being properly introduced to Marybeth and Monica, I had learned to make friends outside of my family, and I’m thankful to the quiet, religious woman who made it happen.