I told Jay a story this morning. It's an old story, one I've told every now and then. Mom was especially fond of it. You probably heard it--years ago, but this time in the telling, a brand new ending fell out of my mouth. It came from nowhere, but I find that happens sometimes when I talk to Jay. Fortunately, he has the knack of catching those unplanned words, and immediately tossing them back into my lap for me to chew on. Today was one of those times, and this essay is his assignment.
So...let's see where to begin. This is a sixth grade story, which makes it a little hard because sixth grade is kind of a lost year for me, in the sense that I don't remember much about it. I mean I don't remember anything about it, and it's not because I'm old. It's because...well, because it was just that kind of year. I don't remember our teacher's name. I don't remember what she looked like. I don't remember where I sat in the classroom. Shoot--I don't even remember where Mary Lynne sat. I do remember some of what Sister Mary Whomever wasn't, but very little of what she was.
I'm guessing Sister Mary Whomever was youngish. I say that because it fits with the common ending of this story. Of course, I wouldn't have had any idea of her age because I was eleven and, at eleven, everyone looks old...especially if they're scrunched into one of those tight, white, starched head-dresses the Sisters of St. Joseph of Wichita, Kansas, so favored. But, as I seriously began to think about that year and "the" story, I began to remember times when Sister seemed unsure of herself, sad maybe, or overwhelmed. Sixth grade math problems weren't easy for her and, from time to time, she came up with the wrong answer or the wrong process to find the answer. Geography was another problem for her. I loved maps and always thumbed through the pictures in National Geographic every month--and, no, not just to see the naked natives--so I had a pretty good grip on the subject matter. And, whereas I am totally ashamed of myself, I was not quiet when Sister Mary Whomever ran up against a snag in either of those subjects.
Equally unfortunate, when Sister handed back corrected papers and marked something wrong that wasn't wrong, my hand was the first one waving in the air. Nor was I shy about joining the chorus when someone else had been marked wrong, but wasn't, and Sister disagreed. Even if it was Frosty Gilbert--my second grade Occasion of Sin. I've always had a strong sense of justice and just a bit of a mouth.
And this, my loves, brings us to the crux of the situation. Sacred Heart Cathedral Grade School operated on a six week grading system, with the school year divided into six six-week periods. We were well into spring and it was the last Parent-Teacher Conference night. Daddy went to the conference with Mother. I don't think he had ever gone to a school conference or program before. Remember, it was the fifties and dads didn't do those things. But on this evening, Daddy went.
I didn't worry about the conference. My grades were good. Sister Mary Whomever might tell my parents that I needed to work a little harder but, really, I thought, it's hard to criticize A's and B's. It turned out, however, that Sister did have a concern, and it wasn't working harder. She believed I was just a bit "mouthy." I'm not sure that was her terminology, but it was definitely her meaning. I was much too quick to speak up for myself, she told my parents. Too quick to speak up...period, she said. My parents needed to correct this character flaw. Character flaw, as you may guess, is yet another way to say "sin." Of pride in this case.
Per Mother, my Father, upon hearing this concern immediately "reared back" and told Sister Mary Whomever that "Speaking up is exactly what I want her to do." He went on, explaining carefully that people who didn't speak up often got run over, and he did not want me to get run over. Ever. In retrospect, I would guess it was quite a speech for someone as quiet and retiring as my Dad.
That short evening at a Parent-Teacher conference quickly became Mother's favorite story when, within a couple of weeks, Sister Mary Whomever disappeared. We finished sixth grade with a substitute and a mystery. The mystery only deepened when a friend with contacts in the convent, told Mother that Sister Mary Whomever had simply left the nunnery rather abruptly. For a good Catholic, that was scandalous. For my Mother, it became the basis of a great story climaxed by the sweet, quiet Dad everyone knew and loved, scaring a nun so badly, she questioned her calling and fled the convent.
I, myself, have told the story a few times in my usual, self-deprecating way. I laugh at my sixth grade shortcomings, flaws, and frighteningly immature behavior and, then again, at the surprising consequences for Sister Mary Whomever of tangling with my peace-loving father...unlikely as that connection might have been.
But, not this morning. This morning as I told Jay the general story, but leaving Sister safely in the convent, the magic words poured out. Not words I might have thought of on that long ago night or the next day, but what I felt on this morning's call with Jay as I told the story: "Oh my God. He likes me the way I am." (Forgive the present tense...I have no idea why it came out that way.) Did I have to be 71 years old to realize this story that's hung around for decades, isn't at all about my mouth-iness and smartass-iness? It's not about a poor nun questioning her vocation. And, it's not really about Daddy, either, overcoming his penchant for silence.
It's about My Daddy, rising to the occasion and affirming to Sister Mary Whomever and, by extension, my Mom, who and what I was. And, because of that affirmation, letting them know he liked who and what I was! He liked me! What a wonderful miracle is that?
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