School Days (Part 1) - by Mom

 

Personal History Assignment:  School Days

Describe your elementary school. Name? Public? Private?

In what city or town did you attend grade school?

Who was your favorite grade school teacher? Why?

Was there a teacher that you didn’t like? Why?

What did you usually wear to school?

How did you get to school? How far was it?

What subjects did you like and which ones didn’t you like?

Who were your best friends? Tell what you can about them. Do you know where they are today? If so, do you keep in touch?

Did your siblings attend the same school? How many grades above or below them were you?

I attended four Elementary Schools, beginning with Kindergarten in Buffalo NY.  I think I already mentioned being walked to school by one of my dad’s Explorer Scouts when my mother broke her leg ice-skating on Lake Erie. I just did a little Mapquest to see if my memory served correctly.  The boy who took me was Chuck Alaimo and he attended Canisius High School, which was right next to my kindergarten. I don’t really know the name of the school I attended; perhaps is was Canisius as well. I liked K just fine but I loved saying “ Chuck Alaimo” over and over again, like a little song, and holding his hand along the way.  I was proud that he was a Boy Scout, although I’m sure at 5 years old I had no idea what that meant.

          We moved to Evansville Indiana when I was six and I attended Holy Spirit Parish School for first grade. I have described Sister Jean Ann and my First Communion, basically the highlights of that year.

          Another memorable moment of first grade was a deeply cloudy day.  The sky was so dark, it looked like night. We were not allowed to go out to recess, but the most amazing thing happened: Sister Jean Ann brought in large balls of gray clay, one for each of us. WE could do anything we wanted with our clay. It was smooth, smelled dusky and earthy, and was the same color as that slate-gray sky outdoors. Because of the darkness of the day, the classroom lights were on and made a strange contrast with the outside. At some point, Sister Jean Ann left the room for a moment, and one of the boys said, ”Watch this.”  He picked up his ball of clay, raised it over his head, and threw it out the open window. A gasp went up from 20-some 6 year olds, and the room went very quiet.  He sat there with no clay on his desk, the emptiest desk you ever saw, with his hands clasped in the place where the clay had been. I don’t recall anything that happened afterwards, except being filled with wonder.

          “How did he have the idea to do that? And how was he so brave to do what he thought of?” It took my breath away with admiration and a little horror, as one of the more knowing children whispered that he was in trouble. As for me, his action opened the world of possibility.  As I tell it now, it reminds me of the Fall in Eden, introducing the notion of acting outside the boundaries, the dark attraction of rebellion and disobedience.

          We moved again, to another part of town and another parish – Corpus Christi Catholic School and Church, Father James O’Connor pastor, where  I attended 2^nd through 7^th grade.  I was a bit of a misfit, a bookworm, no TV at home, Republican parents in a Democrat parish.  You name the stream, our family swam up it when everyone else swam down.  Evansville had a huge German-immigrant population, especially our side of town. My classmates names were Schnabel, Raben, Helfrich, Hilldenbrand. Although there were also King, Smith, Petrie, and Musgrave, “Soniat” was entirely foreign there.

          In the middle of 7^th Grade, my parents had a huge falling out with the priest and nuns. It’s a long story, but it was a defining moment for my family, and for me.

It started with a clerical error on the part of the parish clerk – a volunteer—who was not fully literate. It escalated to having me and my brother Ed being punished for months on the basis of that error.

          Catholic parishes collect funds from the parishoners by envelopes, similar to LDS tithing envelopes, except that each member is given a box of envelopes at the beginning of the year, with the dates on them for each Sunday and an identifying serial number, such as the Soniats’ number is 420. Thus, a clerk, opening envelope 420, would go to the ledger, find line 420, and enter the amount written on the check.   My mother, who paid all the bills, started including our tuition payment with her Sunday donation, instead of following the established pattern of the children bringing in the tuition to school.  But the clerk didn’t read,or perhaps he didin’t read English, although he apparently did numbers.  So he put down the tuition amount as “petty cash.” 

          So the nuns and the priest thought my family was not paying their fair share, although technically, the parish was not supposed to deny any child who wanted to attend the school, whether they paid or not.  For a long time, maybe even a couple years, my folks had no idea they were being considered deadbeats, despite their comparative prosperity. They paid every month, and as far as they knew, we were in good standing.

          Then some funny things happened. I was told I would not be  allowed to have recess with the other kids outside, but I was to practice the organ during that time, and play for daily Mass.  That was fine with me; I hated running around, jumping rope, playing TV tag and other stupid games, and I loved being in the church, playing the organ.

          In sixth or seventh grade, I won the spelling bee for my class, then beat the seventh grade best speller. But when it came time for the city Spelling Bee, they sent the kid who won the eighth grade class bee. That was weird, but then they started keeping my name off the Honor Roll, even though I had the best or second-best grades in my class. Still, my mom let it slide. I know she called the school once, but whatever their answer was, she accepted it.

          Then when I was in seventh grade, Eddie started 1^st grade. To tell you this part, I have to describe the building.  Corpus Christi was a new parish, with a new building. It was modern in style, with a lofty broad roof, that  covered not only the church but the school, too, all  integrated under the one roof.

          The school cafeteria was on the entry level, the church and classrooms were up a broad open staircase—glass and stainless steel and shiny hard stone composite floors. Very noisy. The cafeteria, which also served as the parish social hall, related architecturally to the church much more than to the school area. Because of the acoustics of all the hard material, all the sound from the cafeteria carried  right into the church. As you may know, Catholics believe that the consecrated host IS the Body of Christ.  Between Masses, a consecrated host is kept on the altar in a locked box called the tabernacle. A red candle is kept burning in the sanctuary to indicate to worshipers that the Host is in there. People would come throughout the day to worship—say a rosary, walk the Stations of the Cross during Lent, etc. To maintain the sacred ambiance of the church,

there was NO TALKING in the cafeteria. 240-250 children all together at lunch. NO TALKING ALLOWED. Silent lunch. For reverence. Perfectly reasonable in context, but pretty monastic expectations for a bunch of little kids.

          Needless to say, little first graders had a pretty hard time with this.  They all talked. But only Eddie Soniat was punishedfor talking. He was made to sit in a corner and eat alone “for the rest of the year,” as he tearfully told me. He begged me not to tell the parents, but after a few weeks, I was just mad.  I tried to sit with him but that wasn’t permitted either.  So I finally told my mom.  She called the school , and I don’t know exactly what was said, but immediately, the world caved in.

          My dad came home from work, we all went to the school.  We kids stayed in the car, I think, while there was a big meeting with the priest, the nuns, and I think that clerk was called in. (I remember that the clerk’s wife had died that year or the year before, because his son was in my class, and the teacher made him stand at his seat while she announced to the class that Michael Petrie’s mother had died, and we should all pray for her, etc. I thought afterward that maybe MR. Petrie made those mistakes over mother’s donations because he was so sad.)

          Anyway, there was much heat and much noise in our home for several days, while we did not attend school.  My parents had a meeting with the Bishop, which would basically be comparable to the LDS Area Representative. He told my parents they had to send us to Corpus Christi and no other Catholic school.  When Dad said he would just send us to public school, the Bishop countered that he might excommunicate my parents.

 At that point, the Bishop had only heard the pastor’s side of things.  I know my parents asked him to just take a look at the books, to see the consistent “donations” in the amount of tuition that had been labeled “Petty cash.” Hours later, the Bishop called and told my parents they could enroll us in another Parish school, if the priest there would have us.  He must have seen the error in the accounting, and known that the relationship between family and parish was irreparable.

Father Vollmer, the Hungarian pastor of Resurrection Parish, was afraid we were trouble-makers, and wanted to meet us before deciding to accept us.  We sat crying in the car—public school, excommunication, burning in hell --- worried about everything from spelling bees to eternal damnation, as our parents worked to persuade the priest.

Father Vollmer was leery, but in the end, said he would agree to a trial period. So I finished 7^th and 8^th grade at Resurrection, with no more drama, and the rest of the kids all attended there throughout elementary, until they moved to Alabama.

          I was very happy about the upcoming spelling bee, figuring I had it nailed, as the best speller in 8^th grade, but Resurrection held its Spelling Bee according to the rules of the sponsoring newspaper, which gave all kids an equal chance on stage. I misspelled “receive” in an early round, and I still never type it without double-checking the ei-ie part.

          Stay tuned for Part Two.