Eh, ze golden years
Not so long ago, maybe five or six years when I lived in Cincinnati, I attended a Catholic school situated somewhere in the midst of a “rough neighborhood”. It was pretty obvious that all the white kids went to St. Vivian Elementary and the black kids went to the public school next door. There was a line, and the line did not like to be crossed. I realize now that St. Vivian was not so much a school, but the only “safe haven” for the small chunk of rich white kids who lived in College Hills. It was a kind of shelter to flee to in the turmoil of all that is strange and poor, and….not white.
I knew that I was not rich or smart nor did I live in the rich neighborhood. But I was in the 5th grade, so I didn’t think about that quite so much.
As public school funding was cut back, more parents worried about the quality of their childrens’ education, those who could spend the $2,500 yearly tuition for private school, did. My parents scraped up three times that much for all three of us every year, which was an amazing accomplishment.
Sometime I think all that money went to waste, because I was A) a straight C student (except for art) B) got into fights all the time and C) was not a Catholic.
I thought not being Catholic would not be such a big deal, right? But somehow, it was. Strangely enough, everyone knew I was not a catholic. Sometimes you get this feeling like you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, like you’ve prodded the hornets’ nest and now they’re coming for you. No body says anything but still the silence is unbearable. They get this look like, “What are YOU doing here?”.
During Monday mass, when everyone shuffled down the pews to receive communion, (I know it’s sacrilegious but sometimes those wafers sure look tasty) the chaperoning nun put her hand out to cross my exit. She slowly shook her head and told me to sit down. I didn’t know why I was so disappointed.
From then on, I sat by myself in the corner, trying to hide my head and not be seen. There is nothing worse than not fitting in. You can shake it off and shake it off, but it always comes back to you. You may think, “I don’t care” when you really do care, and all you want is to be like everybody else.
I also remember “horror stories from Catholic school” which weren’t really that bad, we just like to think they were, it gives the past some flavor. Most of them involved nuns lunging at cowering 2nd graders or a teacher throwing a student’s desk through the window (or was it the door?).
Anyway, since I moved here, I don’t think about St. Vivian too much anymore. This doesn’t really have a moral or any lesson about fitting in. I hate stories with morals. But a nun flying into a fit of rage is rather amusing don’t you think?
I knew that I was not rich or smart nor did I live in the rich neighborhood. But I was in the 5th grade, so I didn’t think about that quite so much.
As public school funding was cut back, more parents worried about the quality of their childrens’ education, those who could spend the $2,500 yearly tuition for private school, did. My parents scraped up three times that much for all three of us every year, which was an amazing accomplishment.
Sometime I think all that money went to waste, because I was A) a straight C student (except for art) B) got into fights all the time and C) was not a Catholic.
I thought not being Catholic would not be such a big deal, right? But somehow, it was. Strangely enough, everyone knew I was not a catholic. Sometimes you get this feeling like you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, like you’ve prodded the hornets’ nest and now they’re coming for you. No body says anything but still the silence is unbearable. They get this look like, “What are YOU doing here?”.
During Monday mass, when everyone shuffled down the pews to receive communion, (I know it’s sacrilegious but sometimes those wafers sure look tasty) the chaperoning nun put her hand out to cross my exit. She slowly shook her head and told me to sit down. I didn’t know why I was so disappointed.
From then on, I sat by myself in the corner, trying to hide my head and not be seen. There is nothing worse than not fitting in. You can shake it off and shake it off, but it always comes back to you. You may think, “I don’t care” when you really do care, and all you want is to be like everybody else.
I also remember “horror stories from Catholic school” which weren’t really that bad, we just like to think they were, it gives the past some flavor. Most of them involved nuns lunging at cowering 2nd graders or a teacher throwing a student’s desk through the window (or was it the door?).
Anyway, since I moved here, I don’t think about St. Vivian too much anymore. This doesn’t really have a moral or any lesson about fitting in. I hate stories with morals. But a nun flying into a fit of rage is rather amusing don’t you think?