Sister Kathleen

People ask me where I learned to write. I tell them, “In Sister Kathleen’s classroom at St. Peter School.”

Sister Kathleen, my seventh grade teacher, didn’t just teach me to write. She taught all sixty-six of us to write that year ~ 1955.

We were World War II babies. Not officially Baby Boomers but a huge class, nonetheless. I can still see the classroom. Six rows across, eleven desks deep. The tallest students in the back. The most troublesome ones in the front. My desk was somewhere in the middle.

Sister Kathleen, a tall, skinny, Franciscan nun, was one of the older teachers ~ maybe forty years old ~ and 100% Irish. A lot of the nuns who lived in the convent were Irish. Unlike some of the more dour, German nuns, the Irish nuns were funny and smart, dedicated, creative teachers. They taught us to square dance and do an Irish  jig. They let us play Bingo. They went ice skating on the playground, wearing their habits late a night, when they thought no one could see them. 

St. Patrick’s Day was the biggest holiday of the year at St. Peter School. It was the only day we were allowed to come to school in something other than our uniforms, as long as we were wearing green. There were treats in the cafeteria and a dance after school. 

Looking back, Sister Kathleen was a remarkable teacher. She taught a love of learning, especially history and geography, to all of us. She divided us into reading groups. I was lucky. I was in a group of (mostly girls) who didn’t require much instruction. I’m sure there were groups  (mostly boys) who required all the resources she could muster. 

Like the rest of the Irish nuns, Sister Kathleen was known for her quick temper. Disaster struck whenever Sister Evangelista, the principal, called her into the hallway for a meeting. Sister Kathleen put her finger to her lips as she left the room, admonishing us to be quiet and keep working while she talked with Sister Superior. 

Good behavior lasted less than five minutes. Of course, we didn’t keep working. Of course, we didn’t keep quiet. Soon the classroom was total chaos. The bolder girls flirted with the popular boys, who mostly shouted to each other across the room. The bravest boys got out of their seats and yelled out the windows. We knew what was coming but we didn’t care. For that moment in time, in our seventh-grade minds, it seemed worth it.

In an instant, the classroom door flew open, Sister Kathleen ~ her face bright red, her hands shaking, her veil whooshing behind her. She walked to the front of the class, picked up a piece of chalk and wrote in giant letters: 2000 WORDS ON RESPECT (or obedience, or trustworthiness, or whatever popped into her head) BEFORE YOU GO HOME TONIGHT. ON YOUR KNEES!! WITH PERFECT HANDWRITING AND SPELLING. NO REPEATING!

We scrambled to get notebooks and pencils out of our desks. We dropped to our knees ~ much easier for the boys, after all, because they wore long pants. We girls knelt on bare knees, which only made me more determined to write faster and in my best handwriting.

These “writing lessons” happened at least once a week. My mother got used to me coming home from school late and merely asked, “What did you write about today?”

I know a lot of people have horrible memories of going to Catholic school. I felt sorry for boys who were often in trouble and were physically punished for what they did. 

But for me, a girl who was extremely shy and wanted to avoid the spotlight at all cost, a girl who loved school and who especially loved to read, it was a good experience. I learned to write.