One of the sad and frustrating aspects of growing up on Eagle Street was that we had a mother who did not value her children's educational opportunities. On the surface it appeared that she did, because she put her children in Catholic Schools. But the reason for her school choice was not to give us a better education. The reason was selfish: back in the 60s and 70s, there were no school counselors in Catholic school. There was no one to keep an eye out for signs of abuse or despair. Mom had learned early on in the 50s that public school teachers snooped in your business and made reports to child protective services if they thought something nefarious was going on at their student's home. Those reports ended up with investigations and some of her older kids going to foster care. Mom wasn't going to repeat that mistake with us youngest three kids.
I was doomed to fail from the very beginning.
I am a December baby, which means that I would either be one of the youngest or one of the oldest kids in my class. Nowadays, I would not have been allowed to start first grade as a five year old. But in 1966, things were a bit more lax. I was tiny, skinny, and shy. Not really emotionally ready to sit at a desk all day amongst kids who were bigger, older, and more secure in their social status. But I had something none of my classmates had. I could already read.
Mom began teaching me how to sound out simple words using giant flashcards a couple of years earlier. She used an method kit entitled, "Teach Your Baby To Read," and it worked. At age four, I could read these flashcard words easily. I still remember some of the flashcards that Mom would hold up to form a sentence:
Everyone knows that nose is not toes
The page from a copy of the book "The New Our New Friends," that the priest had on his desk
I could read Dr. Seuss books, and Little Golden Books, and the only reason why Dad was still reading the Sunday Funnies to me was because I pretended I couldn't read the words. I was a one trick pony, and Mom thought that one trick meant I was ready for school. She applied for me to start first grade at St Vincent's in September of 1966. The school at first declined the application because they felt I was too young. I remember Mom having me read a book into a microphone while a reel-to-reel tape machine was recording my tiny squeaky voice. Then I remember Mom taking me to the priest rectory for an interview. The kindly priest asked me if I could read, and I nodded my head. Mom handed me one of my books, and I read it to him, making sure I read with expression, as Mom called it. The priest smiled, but he obviously thought I was reciting by rote. He handed me a reader from a stack of books on his desk, and asked me to read any page I wanted. I opened it up to a page with a cute yellow kitten on it, and read the page of text to him. The next thing I knew, Mom and I were at the uniform store shopping for a green plaid jumper and white blouse. My one trick got me in.
My reading was always advanced. Arithmetic, however, was another thing altogether. By 2nd grade, I was falling behind. I couldn't concentrate during math class. Miss DeTellum might as well have been speaking Spanish. I would stare out the open windows of my 2nd floor classroom and wish that I was like Sister Bertrille, the Flying Nun from TV. In my daydreams, the breeze coming in the window would lift me up and float me on out of there.
I was having trouble with my math homework too, and started giving up on it. Miss DeTellum was not happy with me, and threatened to wash my mouth out with soap the next time I failed to turn in my completed homework. I went home with a stomachache and fretted all evening. Mom did not seem to care much when I told her about it.
The next morning, I was beside myself with fear. I was holding my gut and crying when sister Lynda appeared like a fairy godmother and asked me why I was so upset. I sobbed through the details. She hugged me and said, "I'm coming to school with you today, and I am going to meet your teacher." I felt so safe and secure in her protective arms. My stomachache disappeared. Lynda gave me a pep talk as we walked towards the building. I stayed out on the playground while Lynda went inside to find Miss DeTellem. I don't know what she said, but I was never threatened by that teacher again.
I scraped by in Math every year. Voices from my teachers are still fresh in my memory. "She is so difficult to reach," said Mrs.Frawley, my 4th grade teacher. In the Spring of 4th grade, I was ambushed at the church rummage sale by the Math and Science teacher for grades five through 8: "You will be in my Math class next year. I have heard how stupid you are. Just you wait until 5th grade. Just you wait," threatened the evil Mrs. Anderson. I was sick and stressed all summer, waiting to see what Mrs. Andersen was going to do to me. Mom and Dad were very distant from my problems. Dad was working night shifts, was tired, unhealthy, burned out on life, and not very patient. The few times he tried to help me, he looked at my worksheet and grumbled, "I hate this New Math!" Mom just seemed to think my problems were not her problems. At this point in time, Lynda was married and had a toddler and another on the way. I was on my own.
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Dad suddenly died the week before I started 6th grade. Horrifyingly, I was to be in Mrs. Anderson's homeroom. On my first day of class, I told her about my Dad, and she didn't even look up from her paperwork when she casually remarked she would have the priest say a Mass for him. Then Mom tried to kill us all, changed her mind and called the fire department to rescue us, then pulled me out of school to go to her sister's in Washington state. She didn't bother to ask for any school work, so I missed some of September, all of October and some of November. And then in the Spring, I caught a bad case of chicken pox and was out for another 2 weeks. Again, mom didn't think to ask Mrs. Anderson for any worksheets. I never caught up with Math again. Mrs. Anderson threatened to flunk me that year. I didn't know if I had been promoted until the final day of school, when Monsigner Mimnagh came to our class to hand out report cards. I guess I was smarter than I thought. I was promoted, but two of my classmates flunked.
So thankful to be promoted from 6th grade. I am on right, 4 rows down.
During 8th grade, my final year in elementary school, Mom decided that I was to attend The Academy of Our Lady Of Peace High School for my freshman year. One Saturday in March, she woke me up early and told me I was going to have to take several hours of entrance exams. The testing went on from 8 AM until noon, if I remember correctly. I was really hungry, and didn't have any idea what the testing would be like. I just remember the big classroom, the tall ceiling, the smell of hundred-year-old wood, and the sputtering of the radiator as a bunch of strange girls and a few familiar faces took one test after another. And after spending 8 years wearing a uniform, I felt uncomfortable wearing junk store clothes at school.
After the test day, I didn't think any more about it. All I knew about the school was that they only admitted smart girls, the classes were hard, and I wouldn't have to worry anymore about creepy St Vincent's boys pulling up my skirt and trying to pinch my butt.
Graduation from 8th grade was held in the church, where we walked up to get our diplomas. It was a big deal. The awards ceremony was held downstairs in the hall. That was the time for teachers to bestow special certificates to some of the favorite students. Of course, favorite students were always the smart kids. Their parents were active in the church and school, and the teachers liked them. In my case, I was not a favorite for many reasons. I was not Catholic. I was not an academic standout. Mom did not participate in school activities, except for the annual rummage sale. The only time she attended Parent-Teacher night was when I was in 3rd grade. And if they had kept their records, they knew I had an older brother who did some time at St Vincent's and had not been a favorite either.
Graduation day with Sister Machtilde, I am right, My friend Mary MacPherson is left.
In the noisy basement hall, I sat in the front row with my classmates, looking at the stage, ready to get out of St Vincent's and leave behind all my negative baggage. The Principal, Sister Ursula, a aptly-named terrifying little bear of an Irish nun, appeared on stage issuing various accolades to the usual good kids. Sister Ursula was my 8th grade Homeroom teacher. She did not like me at all and didn't attempt to hide her feelings. Mrs. Anderson was sitting with the other teachers on stage and I could swear she was smirking at me. I didn't care. I was done with her and all the humiliation that comes with being the smallest, youngest and dumbest kid in class.
I was feeling very comfortable sitting in my seat on the floor knowing that I would never have to get up on that stage and sing or perform in a play against my wishes ever again. Surprisingly, Mom was in the audience. She was feeling better about herself since falling in love with a convicted robber and losing a lot of weight. She was always self conscious about being so fat. I was glad that she had actually put on a nice dress and attended my rites of passage.
The Principal started giving out awards for the kids who scored the highest on their high school entrance exams. "Honors at Entrance Award for the Academy of Our Lady of Peace goes to: Tammy Warriner?" She phrased it as a question. My classmates looked at me and said, "Whaaaaa?" My friend Mary gently shoved me and said, "Get up there, you are getting an award!" I was mortified, but hightailed it up on stage, accepted the Certa-FICK IT, as the Irish nuns pronounced it, and hurried back to my seat. Somehow, without any help or support, I not only got through the first 8 years of school, but I also aced OLP's entrance exam. Honestly, I couldn't believe it either.
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