Sister Rita Maureen thinks I am mentally challenged.
She says as much to Mom and Dad. "Mr. and Mrs. Brown," she peers through pink-framed eye glasses. "It's the end of first quarter, and your daughter can't read. Something is very wrong."
Removing her eyeglasses, she polishes them furiously to generously allow my parents time to digest this information. At last she looks up. "I think you understand what I'm telling you," she says primly.
The clock on the wall ticks in the stunned silence of the first grade classroom. Then my mother is suddenly overwhelmed by tears. Dad snaps to attention. Nobody, not even a nun, is permitted to make my mother cry. Furthermore, no one should even dare to suggest that one of his children is remotely less than perfect.
"Sister Rita Maureen," he breathes, with barely controlled rage, "it seems to me something's very wrong with the teacher."
Dad is as good a Catholic as they come. However, on this eventful evening he has managed the unthinkable. He has insulted a nun. A nun in full habit no less. According to pre-Vatican II tradition, Dad should justifiably burn for eternity in Hell. And probably all his offspring should, too.
I don't hear about this story until years later. Even now, Dad's behavior shocks me. But it explains a lot. Sister Rita Maureen never does warm up to me. Who could blame her? Never in her life has she been treated in such a disgraceful manner.
First grade is pretty much a bust after that.
In 1961, after Deb is born and I have completed kindergarten, we move from our little ranch all the way across Denver to the big house on Eudora Street. Now the parents of five kids, Mom and Dad need more space for their growing family. The rest of that summer, we settle into our new home and neighborhood, and I look forward to attending my new school, Blessed Sacrament Elementary.
The first day of first grade, I walk the half block to school with lofty ambitions and fully expect to come home hauling vast volumes to peruse at my leisure. But the kids at my new school have a jump on me. Already they know their letters from attending the same kindergarten class. I have wasted precious time across town with the beloved Miss Roser laboring over useless finger paintings of misshapen houses. I am lost, pure and simple. It's as if I've landed in the middle of a story that never has a beginning.
After the first week, Sister sends me with a copy of Dick and Jane to sit by the radiator with Group 3. The Loser Group. We all know it. We are the handful of kids relegated to the back of the room so that Sister Rita Maureen can get on with the real business of teaching. Murray McCarty lounges beside me and makes moon eyes at Ann Miller sitting by the blackboard in Group 2. Denise Stubblefield is intensely interested in the second grade kickball game on the playground and stares out the window.
I sigh deeply and leaf through Dick and Jane to stare at the big vibrant illustrations. Jane and her little sister Sally fascinate me. They wear different color-coordinated outfits every day. Dresses, hair ribbons, socks - they all match. I long to know them. They look like such happy girls.
After that fateful parent teacher conference, Sister Rita Maureen ignores me completely. But it doesn't matter. Mom has decided to take matters into her own hands. One afternoon I arrive home after school to see flash cards lined up across the back of the high couch in the tv room.
"Today," Mom announces firmly, "you're learning to read."
I stare at the flashcards. What can she be thinking? Sister Rita Maureen will not approve, I worry. But my pretty mother is very determined. We start with the vowels, then she explains consonants. Within the hour, I am putting together three letters to sound out "cat". I look up to stare in wonder at Mom.
"See?" she smiles her wonderful smile that makes me feel as if I am the most loved person on earth. "That's all there is to it."
After that I sound out every single word I can find - on street signs, cereal boxes and toothpaste tubes. Then one magical day, Mom walks me to the library at Montview and Clermont, and I walk out with five books and a library card of my own. Nothing before or since has offered me such satisfaction. I am rich. Learning to read changes my entire world.
In Sister Rita Maureen's classroom, I am still sitting by the radiator. Murray McCarty's quirky humor has wound its way to my heart. I walk home sometimes with Denise Stubblefield to devour marshmallows at her kitchen table. We might be The Loser Group, but we are good friends. As I sit next to the radiator, I become intimate as well with Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Puff and the whole cast of characters. I read the stories of their lives and am too absorbed to be unhappy.
One day, however, Sister Rita Maureen calls out for Group 3. Surprised, Murray and Denise and I rouse ourselves and troop to the front of the room.
"Open your books," Sister instructs us as we settle ourselves in chairs arranged in a half moon. She fixes her gaze on me. "Read."
So I read. Sister forgets to tell me to stop. I read three pages before I finally take a breath to look up. Every kid in class is staring at me in astonishment. Beside me, Murray McCarty's mouth and eyes form perfect O's. "Wow," he smiles at last and claps me on the shoulder. It hits me in that instant. I am the best reader in the class.
It is a perfect moment, and I smile at Sister Rita Maureen who is plainly astounded. Suddenly, she snaps her mouth shut. "Well," she clears her throat and gathers herself. "You may return to the back."
That is all.
I have been a teacher myself at my beloved Central Catholic now for almost 40 years. It's a long time, however, before I fully understand why I choose to teach.
It's all to do with first grade.
In first grade I learn the greatest lesson of my life. I'm grateful to Sister Rita Maureen. She taught me that a teacher's smallest touch, word or look can be so powerful that it can change the entire way a child thinks about herself.
Mom taught me the very same thing.
She says as much to Mom and Dad. "Mr. and Mrs. Brown," she peers through pink-framed eye glasses. "It's the end of first quarter, and your daughter can't read. Something is very wrong."
Removing her eyeglasses, she polishes them furiously to generously allow my parents time to digest this information. At last she looks up. "I think you understand what I'm telling you," she says primly.
The clock on the wall ticks in the stunned silence of the first grade classroom. Then my mother is suddenly overwhelmed by tears. Dad snaps to attention. Nobody, not even a nun, is permitted to make my mother cry. Furthermore, no one should even dare to suggest that one of his children is remotely less than perfect.
 |
| Mom and Dad, 1963 |
"Sister Rita Maureen," he breathes, with barely controlled rage, "it seems to me something's very wrong with the teacher."
Dad is as good a Catholic as they come. However, on this eventful evening he has managed the unthinkable. He has insulted a nun. A nun in full habit no less. According to pre-Vatican II tradition, Dad should justifiably burn for eternity in Hell. And probably all his offspring should, too.
I don't hear about this story until years later. Even now, Dad's behavior shocks me. But it explains a lot. Sister Rita Maureen never does warm up to me. Who could blame her? Never in her life has she been treated in such a disgraceful manner.
First grade is pretty much a bust after that.
In 1961, after Deb is born and I have completed kindergarten, we move from our little ranch all the way across Denver to the big house on Eudora Street. Now the parents of five kids, Mom and Dad need more space for their growing family. The rest of that summer, we settle into our new home and neighborhood, and I look forward to attending my new school, Blessed Sacrament Elementary.
The first day of first grade, I walk the half block to school with lofty ambitions and fully expect to come home hauling vast volumes to peruse at my leisure. But the kids at my new school have a jump on me. Already they know their letters from attending the same kindergarten class. I have wasted precious time across town with the beloved Miss Roser laboring over useless finger paintings of misshapen houses. I am lost, pure and simple. It's as if I've landed in the middle of a story that never has a beginning.
After the first week, Sister sends me with a copy of Dick and Jane to sit by the radiator with Group 3. The Loser Group. We all know it. We are the handful of kids relegated to the back of the room so that Sister Rita Maureen can get on with the real business of teaching. Murray McCarty lounges beside me and makes moon eyes at Ann Miller sitting by the blackboard in Group 2. Denise Stubblefield is intensely interested in the second grade kickball game on the playground and stares out the window.
I sigh deeply and leaf through Dick and Jane to stare at the big vibrant illustrations. Jane and her little sister Sally fascinate me. They wear different color-coordinated outfits every day. Dresses, hair ribbons, socks - they all match. I long to know them. They look like such happy girls.
After that fateful parent teacher conference, Sister Rita Maureen ignores me completely. But it doesn't matter. Mom has decided to take matters into her own hands. One afternoon I arrive home after school to see flash cards lined up across the back of the high couch in the tv room.
"Today," Mom announces firmly, "you're learning to read."
I stare at the flashcards. What can she be thinking? Sister Rita Maureen will not approve, I worry. But my pretty mother is very determined. We start with the vowels, then she explains consonants. Within the hour, I am putting together three letters to sound out "cat". I look up to stare in wonder at Mom.
 |
| Cathy - shortly before moving to Eudora Street. |
After that I sound out every single word I can find - on street signs, cereal boxes and toothpaste tubes. Then one magical day, Mom walks me to the library at Montview and Clermont, and I walk out with five books and a library card of my own. Nothing before or since has offered me such satisfaction. I am rich. Learning to read changes my entire world.
In Sister Rita Maureen's classroom, I am still sitting by the radiator. Murray McCarty's quirky humor has wound its way to my heart. I walk home sometimes with Denise Stubblefield to devour marshmallows at her kitchen table. We might be The Loser Group, but we are good friends. As I sit next to the radiator, I become intimate as well with Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Puff and the whole cast of characters. I read the stories of their lives and am too absorbed to be unhappy.
One day, however, Sister Rita Maureen calls out for Group 3. Surprised, Murray and Denise and I rouse ourselves and troop to the front of the room.
"Open your books," Sister instructs us as we settle ourselves in chairs arranged in a half moon. She fixes her gaze on me. "Read."
So I read. Sister forgets to tell me to stop. I read three pages before I finally take a breath to look up. Every kid in class is staring at me in astonishment. Beside me, Murray McCarty's mouth and eyes form perfect O's. "Wow," he smiles at last and claps me on the shoulder. It hits me in that instant. I am the best reader in the class.
It is a perfect moment, and I smile at Sister Rita Maureen who is plainly astounded. Suddenly, she snaps her mouth shut. "Well," she clears her throat and gathers herself. "You may return to the back."
That is all.
I have been a teacher myself at my beloved Central Catholic now for almost 40 years. It's a long time, however, before I fully understand why I choose to teach.
It's all to do with first grade.
In first grade I learn the greatest lesson of my life. I'm grateful to Sister Rita Maureen. She taught me that a teacher's smallest touch, word or look can be so powerful that it can change the entire way a child thinks about herself.
Mom taught me the very same thing.
Great story! I love your picture, too! Keep writing!
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