My parents were nothing if not compounded by the racism and classism inflicted upon them by their own parents. They, unfortunately, did not have the opportunity to see real people in a rainbow of colors just like them. Instead, they saw Ward and June Cleaver with their two white boys, and the closest thing they had to worry about was the Beav. By the 80’s the suburbs near us had a very wild latino population, and the high school *was* dangerous for awhile. Knives, gangs, etc. But it didn’t last, and the entire high school wasn’t only Mexican. Due to where the district lines were, it was sort of half and half caucasian and latino. And eventually tax money helped build a decent school there, with good computers by the early 90’s, and a new principal helped turn things around.

However, in my parent’s heads, our public school system was gonna just KILL ME and the education was going to just be so subpar. Somehow, perhaps when they were growing up, Catholic schools, or maybe just private schools, meant better education. So, when I was ready for kindergarten, I was sent off to a Catholic School. St. John’s. Meh, it was okay, I guess. I was bored out of my MIND. Kindergarten is a half-day program, where they basically teach kids not to eat the paints and lick walls. Then they get to have a nap. Hooray. In first grade, they start teaching you how to read. Yeah, about that. I’d been reading since I was 2 1/2. I taught myself with those books that had accompanying tapes. Pavlov’s Dog style. Bell rings, flip the tape over.

Teachers wanted to skip me to third grade. Parents said no. “Just give her harder work.” They didn’t. They kinda forgot about me entirely. They didn’t mind if I brought my own books to school though. There wasn’t much religion-ing going on early on in Catholic School. Just your basic “memorize the prayer, repeat during church.” Easy peasy. Mumble, mumble. Follow crowd. Everyone else stands? Stand. Kneels? Ditto. Stare at knees until something else happens. Follow teacher back into school after.

Second grade. I started writing in cursive on all my papers. I was BORED. The way teachers tended to do stuff was to have the kids pass stuff out. Kids couldn’t read cursive (huh… how prophetic). My teacher had these slips of paper from her tea; little fortune things. She saw how incredibly bored I was, but she, too, had no way to help me. She was giving me worksheets from fourth grade math, sixth grade spelling tests. I wasn’t great at science, so to speak, but I wasn’t doing poorly. It was more of a “I’m holding my own in at least one grade above. I just don’t have anyone showing me visually, because I am trying to do this out of a book in the back of the room with the hamster.”

So, she gave me these papers and said, “Shannon, don’t write in cursive on your papers, okay? The kids can’t read it yet. How about instead you learn Calligraphy. Wouldn’t that be cool? Your cursive is perfect already, and you don’t need to practice it. But Calligraphy could be fun! Here’s some posterboard, and your mom and I talked, and we decided you could work on these at home as a sort of homework and we’ll hang them up in the classroom.” I’m sure they looked horrid at first. I mean, what kind of fine motor skills does a 7 year old really have?

Catholic schools in the late 20th century had very few actual religious people floating through it. I know there was a priest connected to St. John’s named Fr. Sebahar. He won the lottery and built a big gym and a new church (which was the New St. John’s. Many still insisted on being married at the Old Church, etc and that was Just Fine as both were still in operation). When my dad went he was taught by Franciscan Brothers in high school. And Sisters in the younger years because the children were always taught by fairer sex, even if they often looked like Pam Ferris from Matilda. Or… Even Pam Ferris from Call The Midwife. (I love the woman – she is a treasure. But she can pull off that “battleaxe” look like no one else.) In my first half of my Catholic years, I don’t remember interacting with clergy much. I suppose I had to in second grade.

Second Grade in Catholic School means you are doing two sacraments. Eucharist and Reconciliation. Lots of Religion classes to tell you what they want you to learn. Remember the lines. Dress like a creepy child bride. Stand in the queue. Fold your hands. Eat the wafer. Fun fact: The Church does not allow for gluten-free wafers. Sorry, pain of glutens or pain of hellfire! This is your chosen god! But he loves you! Anyway, Reconciliation? Easy. Tell the priest you’ve sinned. Everyone sinned. You didn’t lend Susie your pencil. You were mean to your brother. You’re sorry. So very sorry. Can you cry on command? Bonus points. Priest will give you some token prayer to say, and you go over to the pew and you kneel and say them. Or don’t. Stare at a wall for like four minutes and then do the sign of the cross and wander away. Yay. Everyone is proud of you. Congratulations! You’re a Catholic.

My Catholic education had a brief intermission of sorts. My parents got divorced (*GASP*) and St. John’s did not have bus service, meaning I was left going to that… public… school until such time as the other Catholic school in the area had an opening. Another thing one needs to understand about Catholic schools is that they cater to Catholics because Catholics are not supposed to use any family planning measures. You might think, “But, then they’ll have tons of kids, and not be able to afford to send their kids to expensive Catholic schools!” Well, they make it so the more kids you have, the cheaper it turns out. Kid one is 100% of the tuition, but Kid 2 is 50%. Depending on the school, Kid 3 may be 25% or Free. Kid 4 and any others are definitely free. So, those families that have a kid a year? Straight out of the website of the school I went to all those years ago: 1 kid for 1 year – $6,490; 2 kids for 1 year – $11,590; 3+ kids for 1 year – $15,950. Got multiples? Catholic schools require uniforms. They’ll hate it, but it’ll save you TONS in clothing budget while they are constantly growing.

Anyway, I went to a public school for a year and a half until St. Michael’s had an opening. Let’s just say the fact that I was 11 when they met me was not in their best interest. Also, that I was a bit more world weary than I had been before… I fully was less interested in swallowing whatever garbage people put in front of me.

I never really did, but the last year and a half had me in a secular school where I was allowed to ask all the questions I wanted. I fell behind a bit in some areas, true. But I learned critical thinking. I learned to think “Does this make any sense?” This has served me well in adulthood. It did NOT serve me well at St. Mike’s.

My dad’s office was down the street from my new school. This was a good thing. Mostly. Unfortunately, my dad also had a habit of leaving his office early whenever he felt he was done for the day (no more meetings, or he could do the rest via phone). He didn’t always appreciate the fact I had detention just about every day after school. After all, what’s the point of getting me into a school with bus service if I had detention and missed the bus every day? But I think he was more angry with their inability to handle simple questions of a curious, if snarky, pre-teen, than the fact I was *in* detention.

The kids were the most snotty, horrible, bullying, toe-rags I had ever come across anywhere. What would Jesus do, my puckered United Nations Ass. The divorce stated that I live with my mom, and Dad could take me on vacations, and I could stay with him as I like – he lived like a block away in Grandma’s house. She was still alive at this point. Sadly, she passed away just before I turned 12, and my whole world spiraled out of control right about then. That’s for a different blog.

Anyway, Catholic uniforms are specific. You can usually read which school the kids go to by which color plaid they have on. St. John’s wore green tartan. Now it’s a more Dark Navy/White Plaid. St. Mike’s was Blue on Blue wide plaid. We went to a resale shop run by the mother of one of the students. She was a single mother. The girl was my age, and treated me nicely, and I got on with her. We picked out what I would need. I absolutely hated the fact that I would need to wear a dress – I have an aversion to feeling vulnerable, clothing-wise. I was starting mid-winter, so the girl explained that girls are allowed to wear pants with the top bit of the uniform. Plain blue Dockers. Yay! Pants!

I got to school the first day in my Dockers and top-uniform, and I wasn’t alone. Some sort of thing was going on with the bottom of the pants. Tight-rolling. Help us all. Once I figured out how THAT worked and attempted to fit in there, I was approached by the leader of some sort of amusing pack. I think they meant to be a gang. A religious female gang lead by one massive girl with a blunt cut blonde do and squinty eyes. Behind her was a fiercer looking girl with hair like flame and pointy features. More hovering around looking like they daren’t Disrespect The Beast.

“You the new girl?” Ah, obvious the genius of the group here.

“Seems like.”

“You can be part of our group,” appraising glance, “but you have to ditch Zanna. She’s a nerd.”

“No thanks. She’s my friend.”

I became a pariah. But I didn’t regret it. It’s not like they were exactly winners. Zanna was the girl from the clothing shop. She treated me nicely. She didn’t have to. She knew no one at school liked her. Fuck these hosebeasts.

The teachers were abhorrent. There was ONE I liked. She was my seventh grade homeroom teacher. She was not Catholic, so she was not allowed to teach religion, so they had to have the gym teacher come up and sub for her.

I started getting intense migraines around 6th grade. Once I asked to go to the restroom. No dice. You really should let kids go to the bathroom when they are ill. Cuz they totally WILL puke all over their desk eventually from the pain. (Also, receptionists are intensely stupid sometimes. No, no kid wants to go back to their desk after they puked all over it. They really kinda want someone to come clean it. So they don’t have some sort of tantric-puke session as they stare at it.)

Seventh and Eighth grades were Detention Central. The other seventh grade teacher definitely did not like me. Seventh and Eighth were run more like a junior high where there were four teachers that taught multiple subjects (and a couple supplementary teachers outside of these four, like the computer/typing teacher). It so happens that the second Eighth Grade teacher I never had for anything. I never had much interaction with her, so who knows. Mrs. Flynn, she stole from me, and put a pencil in my mouth when I had a seizure in class… because ‘[I] might swallow my tongue’ as if it weren’t attached. I was picking shavings out of my mouth for days. As for the theft, my mother actually sewed a pencil case from an old pair of jeans. One of the only things she ever physically *DID* rather than purchased. It was large, with a thick plastic pink zipper. Crammed full of pens, pencils, assorted writing utensils. I left it behind as I switched rooms one day. Mind you, I went back like one period later. Nope. She was happily using it. Saying it was hers now, because finders keepers clause in her mental midget brain. How about I show you how I use my metal compass? Stabbity-stabbity clause?

She was also the one that “taught” diagramming sentences. Do you know how hard it is to diagram a sentence when you don’t know the parts of speech?

“Diagram this sentence”

Me: ….? [ —|—?]

Her: No.
Me: Okay then. [Makes more squiggles and lines, writes words in random spots]

Me: …?

Her: No.

Me: Cool. [Walks away]

Hilariously she was the one that gave us a project that involved cross-stitching, so I guess she birthed my enjoyment of crafts. Even if she was a beast of a human.

Now…By far… the WORST teacher there was Mrs. Siller. I do not feel bad using her name. She has to be dead by now. She looked like the cryptkeeper in 1993, so she must be dust by now. Anyone who is in charge of encouraging a love of learning in young humans should not give them the idea they are too stupid to do something.

Every kid is given the unenviable task of a Science Fair Project. Personally, I think this should be optional. The kids that REALLY LOVE SCIENCE should do these. Absolutely. That way the tables are not crowded with 600 volcanoes with glitter stars. I bet the Amoco representatives would appreciate it. They could look at someones project that titrates potable drinking water from 6 credit cards and a rubberband. Instead, we were made to do a project, and if you were considered *dumb* (guess who) this fossilized artichoke would sit you in front of a book of previous projects (none of which were exactly winners) and crowd around you while you chose one.

Starts to choose-

“No. Not that one.”

Stops again-

“That’s too involved.”

Pauses-

“That one is a bit too intricate for you, too. Hm. What about this one…?”

“Counting popcorn kernels? I’m meant to *count popcorn?*”

Yeah, do you see? How do you defend this? Stand in front of the people from Amoco or whatever with your Science Fair Project and I literally told them “The teacher thought I was too stupid for anything else, wouldn’t let me try any other project, so here’s my lame project. I have to do it for a Science grade.” He laughed and said he understood and not to pay them any attention.

I got detention every day because I acted out. I hated the absolute garbage they spewed at every corner. Logic was something that only applied in math class, but once you left the doorway, the mantle of oppressive hypocriticism slammed into you like a runaway bullet train.

I would sit in science and pull religious questions into it. Because if they can’t make the two agree, then they don’t have a sturdy foundation. And until they have a sturdy foundation that can be questioned, how are we supposed to have decent bedrock in which to base the faith that they insist we live every tenet of our sad little lives? I want to poke it. I want to prod it. I want to make sure it doesn’t wiggle loose and fall apart, because the last thing I need is a faulty foundation.

Which day did God make Lilith?

Which Genesis origin story is correct?

If there were only Adam, Eve, Seth, Cain, & Abel, where the hell did they wander off to to get their wives? I thought God didn’t make other people?

Incest? See above…?

Noah’s Ark… Wipes out all of humanity…. Repopulates via incest… again?

Also, why doesn’t the rest of the world seem to realize there was *this* giant flood? Written word existed in the asian countries then.

On the fourth day he makes sun… yet…how is there day/night with no sun?

Dinosaurs? What day did they get inserted? Deleted?

Are you assuming the Ark was happening when the earth was like it is now? Or more like when the continents were like Pangaea? Because Pangaea = more like dinos, Earth like now = more recent animals, but more difficult for them to even get to one area?

See…? They never liked me asking questions. Especially if I asked them during class, making the rest of the class go “hmmm, yeah…” I think they figured if I was made to do detention I would be upset. I wasn’t. Most of the time, Mrs. Sullivan picked me up from school. I chilled at her house and had a nice dinner there. It was really actually a win. I finished homework during detention. Or read illicit books, like V.C. Andrews.

“I’m going to tell your mother you have this!”

“Okay? She gave it to me.”

[Completely confused look from teacher]

Anyway, the kids were the least of the horrors. Yeah, they were bullies. Absolutely. They used the seizures to make fun of me. One kid told me I should be a belly dancer and have seizures to dance. That Christmas I gave him dog bones for a gift because he had horrible halitosis. But kids are kids. I blame the adults more because they allowed the bullying to go on. They definitely knew about the bullying. And who it was happening to. Zanna? That was okay because she came from a single mom home. (No, seriously, that is A Thing with Catholics. Divorce is like For Shame.) And she was kinda weird and hadn’t had her Glow Up yet. (She did in high school. She started going by Alex, and her kinky hair relaxed a bit). I was going through some terrible stuff at home that will be a later blog (just remember to insert the ages where applicable – roughly 9 – uh..37?)  and had come to a moment of ‘fuck all of you assholes, y’all will not be part of my life long term.’ I knew after 8th grade there was a split of high school ‘choices.’ Some kept kids in parochial school. They usually went wherever was closer – St. Francis (Winfield) or Benet Academy (Naperville, I think?).  Or, they went to their associated public school. At St. Mike’s, that should have been either Wheaton North or Wheaton Warrenville South. My dad’s house technically was in West Chicago High School district. But where my mom’s condo was (and where I was meant to be living, and was pretending to be living for purposes of districting) was across the street in Wheaton Warrenville South district land. As far as old people were concerned it was like the difference between going to school with Eminem or Dame Julie Andrews.

Now, not ALL the kids treated me poorly. I did have a couple friends. Zanna, yes. And two very specific women are still close to my heart today. Christine and Anjali. Both were in the AP classes so I only really saw them in homeroom and outside of school, but they were nice. I swear I was at Anjali’s house every weekend. They probably eventually felt like they had a very pale bonus child who had zero idea how to eat Indian food. (I didn’t really understand the whole ‘mix plain yogurt with the spicy food so you don’t burn your tongue’ thing until we moved next to an Indian mom and adult daughter that I befriended. My whole Can’t Have Food Touch thing meant I never did that. And I always eat all of one thing before eating the next. She laughed so hard at me…) Anyway, it must have confused the bullies that the Smart Girls talked to me, and I could talk to them (big words!) but wasn’t in the smart classes.

Yeah. No one tests the kids that get bounced in mid-year. Or maybe at all? Do your parents need to request it? Their standard operating procedure was to just shove you in the lowest rung. You might show enough promise that the teachers bump you up. Or you might sit in the back of the room with a V.C. Andrews book and read. Or decorate the brown paper bag cover of your science book. Maybe perfect your Garfield drawings? Or if you are out of books (more often than not, as I read super fast) watch Tom’s ASL Interpreter. He was left a year back from his twin because he had some trouble early on, I assume, with being Hard of Hearing. He was Not Stupid. He was very nice, as well. I tried not to stare, but ASL has always fascinated me. I would try to link the motions with what the teacher was saying. I actually learned those days as I was not tuning people out.

So the fact that Smart Kids talked to me, and I didn’t turn into a drooling moron probably helped keep them at bay. Until the next seizures hit. And they started laughing again. You know who never bothered me about them? Anjali. Christine. Tom. And even the vague girls that were just nice, decent humans that weren’t my *friends* but still grew up to be nice people. I always knew who to watch, though. Assholes will always be assholes.

Sometimes, I wonder if the teachers wanted to be ‘liked’ too. Some sort of popularity party and the teachers wanted in. The computer teacher was awesome. Every second day  we had to switch up. We had two games. Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing and Oregon Trail (Yassssss)… That woman did NOT care if she was your friend, but she was very friendly. That may have come out wrong, but remember back with the girls and the ‘drop Zanna’ demand? She is another who just wouldn’t. Didn’t care who you were. Load up your game and sit. I saw her at my knee doctor the other day. She remembered me. 30 years on. Still an awesome woman.

So yeah, I’m still atheist. I went through Catholic school hellfire and came through the other side. I can quote the bible verbatim if necessary. I can also tell you what *ISN’T* in it, what Jesus DIDN’T say, and exactly why Matthew 6:6 is so freaking hilarious up against all the folks that wanna preach at you.

Until next time… Love you.