Teachers - by Mom

Personal History Assignment: Tell about your teachers

            This may have to be a multiple installment topic.

           

            My first teachers were my parents. I remember sensing a feeling of excitement and delight coming from them as they showed me the world, and as I showed them things I discovered: mud pies, alley cats, the world  beyond the chain link fence between the row of garages behind our apartment building and the back yards in middle of the block.

I recall vividly my first trip to the public library with my mother. This picture  

 

must be it, because the street and cross street are the street we lived on (Elmwood Avenue) and the street where my grandmother lived (West Ferry St) The light outside was slanted, so it was either morning or late afternoon. The library was shiny and clean and nearly empty. We went to the low shelves of the children’s section.  It seems like my Aunt Quin or Aunt Mary was with us as we walked to it, but I don’t remember anyone with us while we looked at books. It seemed to me that my mom was very excited about it because it was new.  But she always loved any library, and I can tell more about that another time.

What I remember most was the airy excitement of the large well-let room, and a giddiness I felt there surrounded by all those stories.  We took home a book about Hiawatha and some other Indian  (Native American) books.  Mom read part of a book to me there, and then the rest at home.  I’m pretty sure there was one about Katerina Tekawitha (the first native American to be put forth for sainthood.) 

           

My Kindergarden teacher I don’t remember except for a little joke she made. Once we were putting on our coats and boots to go home, and I asked her to put my boots on.  She said, “I can’t.  My feet are too big.” I think I didn’t get it until much later. But she laughed at it herself and I remember thinking it was the first time I ever really looked at her face, instead of all the garb of her habit.

My first grade teacher, who I will call Sister Jean Anne is  more memorable overall, but not really in such a good way, particularly for the one event .

            First of all, know that my elementary school experiences were all in Catholic school, so everything academic is interwoven with religious education and Catholic practices.  At Holy Spirit parish, which I attended just one year, children made their First Holy Communion as a class at the end of First Grade.  In preparation, we learned a bunch of basic catechism about the sacraments of Confession and  Communion and practiced marching up the aisle as a class taking our seats as a group in a special section reserved just for us for that Sunday.

            There was specific gear to be purchased as well.  I don’t know what they sold the boys, but for girls there was a kit you could order through the school. Like school pictures, there was the Basic package and the Deluxe package, and I got the Deluxe, consisting of a veil, a little white prayer book, a rosary, some commemorative holy saints cards , a tiny white purse with an adjustable shoulder strap and white gloves. ( I still have the prayer book and the rosary, if you ever want to see them.)  It may be that the dress came from there too, or it may have come from JCPenneys. Most department stores carried a rack or two of First Communion dresses.

            Anyway, the part of this that is about a teacher is this.  On the very day, we lined up outside the church, as we had practiced many times,  so as to make a procession into the seated congregation.  Picture “Here Comes the Bride” with 20 six-year-olds.  We had made our First confession during school hours on Friday, but I was such a scrupulous kid that I convinced my dad to take me back to regular confessions on Saturday afternoon, so I would be totally pure and sinless on Sunday morning.

            I had on my little white shoes, brand new and unscuffed, and little white anklets, plus all the gear listed above, including  . . .  the GLOVES! Standing in the line with my hands pressed together, the fingertips pointing straight up to heaven, (not at my neighbor’s back or drooping apart!) as instructed, I heard the angry hiss of Sister Jean Ann, “Gloves!” and the next thing I know, she’s snatching off my little white gloves, madder than anything,  “Who do you think you are? Do you see anyone else wearing gloves?”  Clearly my mother and I had not gotten the memo that not ALL the deluxe package was to be used on The Day.

            I was so embarrassed and upset at having done something wrong, I don’t remember anything else about the sacramental portion of the day. I worried that I wouldn’t get my gloves back. I worried about sin. I worried about my mother, implicated in the crime for not having somehow prevented it.

           

            And that is the only thing I actually remember about Sister Jean Ann.  I’m sure now she was a fine young woman, who was as afraid of disappointing her superiors as I was of mine.  She wanted everything to be perfect, just like I wanted to BE perfect that day. And we totally messed up each others’ moment. No, wait.  That’s not right.  She got hers—a double file of perfect little six-year-olds marching in perfect procession onto the waiting congregation. 

Links: 

Library: http://www.buffalolib.org/content/library-locations/area-libraries?lib=Crane+Branch 

Kateri Tekakwitha:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kateri_Tekakwitha