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What Do Nuns Keep Hidden in Their Sleeves
I may have been destined to become a concert pianist. After all, I began my piano lessons at age 7, like my two older sisters. Piano playing was a prerequisite for the Catholic school we attended. A nun, Sister Stella had a sister who was also a nun at St. Anthony of Padua in lower Manhattan; her name was Sister Catherine Marie. Sister Stella, who was in her 80’s, small and ornery, had the difficult task of teaching us. My love of music was put on the back burner after I realized the pain and agony involved in learning. A wooden ruler would grace your knuckles for every sour note, not like the piano was ever properly tuned. The fear of striking the wrong key would resonate through my body. I would begin to sweat, and I already stuttered, which didn’t help. By the time I was eight, my knuckles were raised with callouses. I was the envy of the martial arts world.
My earliest memory of nuns was when I was in the first grade, standing in line after lunch, waiting to go back inside the classroom. The kid behind me didn’t appreciate his lunch, or maybe he was scheduled for a piano lesson and threw up on my pants. He vomited all over the back of me. The nuns felt this was not part of their job description to clean me and began to yell at me. What did I do? They called for my older sister, who was in the 8th grade, to come down and clean me up. I was crying, stuttering, and everyone was yelling at me. That day I learned every curse word in the book; my sister was muttering them under her breath.
As I have mentioned, I stuttered, and I was a big kid, so I sat in the back of the classroom. Because I stuttered, I was made fun of, and the nuns who were teaching me thought I was either an idiot or I couldn’t see well. But they didn’t move me to the front of the class. Instead, they told my parents I needed glasses. Duh? Glasses to cure stuttering! I started wearing reading glasses when I was 55; to this very day, my distance vision is great. Funny, back then, whatever a nun would suggest, my parents, and all parents, would blindly follow.
I wasn’t particularly bright. Since I stuttered, I never raised my hand to give the answer. One day I knew the answer; I raised my hand. I am beaming with information this time, “Sister, Sister, Sister.” She ignored me and said, “John, what’s the answer.” As John searched his heart and soul for the answer, my insides were bursting, and I yelled out the answer. No one knew I even had a voice; I did, and I wanted to answer. When I bellowed out the answer, the nun turned to me and said, “Is your name John?” I was sent to Mother Superior’s office. Mother Bettina was not a force to be reckoned with. She was 90 if she was a day. You knew you were in deep trouble when she rolled her sleeves up. I always wondered what was up their sleeves? She kept a metal ruler handy, not wood, metal, probably because the wooden rulers cracked after so much use. If you failed a test by 10 points, that meant ten cracks on your open palms to make up the difference in your grade. If you still failed, they didn’t give you back the points, just the pain. My knuckles were sore, and my palms were beet red; I could hardly hold a pencil. That yelling out in class got me ten cracks, and I knew the answer! What a way to teach.
My sister Joanne was left-handed. The nuns constantly tried to correct this; they thought being left-handed was a problem. Ironically, my sister became a Sister herself. I never thought nuns were human; I thought they had wheels for their feet like robots. Then one day, their habits were adjusted for more comfort. Imagine my surprise!! Oh, my, they have hair and feet! I then realized they were human.
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8 Replies
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Lol. Funny but yet NOT. I remember when we immigrated to the United States from Argentina in November 1974. I enrolled at Hibbard School on Ainsley Street in the Albany Park Neighborhood and my homeroom teacher was Mrs. Dogan. She had a ruler at her side and used it to wack hands of students who misbehaved. Today, you cannot lay a hand or belt your kids. Mrs. Doggan was not a nun.
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I just lost respect for nuns.
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Wow!!!
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Had the ruler too. Not a nun.
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Now it makes all the same. Nuns and priests follow the leader. The Pope.
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I bet many nuns has a chip on their shoulders. Like every thing else, there are great, good, mediocre, and bad nuns.
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Out of curiosity, what’s the turnover rate of nuns and priests?
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My sister was really a nun that lasted just over two years. I never heard stores of priest abusing kids, not in my neighborhood, “The Boys.” Would have kick their asses.