School Dazed

I Promise Not to Tell
by Brenda M Weber

(Page 4 of 5)

I attended a parochial school for the first five grades, not counting kindergarten. If there ever was a hell, it was the memories I have from the inside of the immense brick building that swallowed me up every day. The nuns were the oldest and meanest the school could possibly find. Many have horror stories to tell, and mine are probably no worse than theirs. To this day, my brother John will cross the street to avoid walking past a nun.

I was a very introverted and insecure little girl. I could hardly speak to anyone without feeling totally incapacitated in doing so. I now understand that I suffered from being a silent victim. I had no friends that I can recall in that period of my life, and even now, as an adult, no one is allowed into my well-guarded space.

My family was poor in monetary standards, and I did not have the best clothes and shoes. All the uniforms I wore for school were hand-me-downs from my sister, or other girls in school who came from rich families. I would get one or two new dresses once a year. Needless to say, I was the brunt of the cruel pokes and prods of the teasing doled out by my classmates.

On the playground, I did not participate in any of the games my classmates played, not because I didn't want to, they wouldn't let me join in their fun. Many times I stood alone in the corner of a garage door, and in the wintertime would huddle shivering, while the others were warm in new coats, hats, and mittens. My Daddy tried to do the best he could, but with a large family, I'm sure it was not always easy for him.

I felt so alone, I was always so alone. Once in awhile, I would sneak into the side door of the church and stand mesmerized by a statue of a mother holding a baby. I knew this mother was a special mother who loved all children, even me.

In the first grade I sat next to a boy who was even poorer than me. No one wanted to be near him, he had cooties. He looked like he never took a bath, and his hands were always filthy dirty. So, guess who got to sit next to him? Just another kid from a poor family whom no one paid much attention to- me! It seemed like they had to keep the rich and poor separated for fear of contamination. It really didn't bother me to sit near him, somehow I knew we were sadly similar, and I felt sorry for him. I was an angry little girl, and didn't care what snotty remarks were spewed from the mouths of my classmates, so I became part of the contamination. Because I sat next to Joey, I had cooties too.

One day, about ten minutes before school let out for the day, I had to go to the bathroom. I knew I would never make it until the bell rang, so I raised my hand and asked if I could go. The nun would not let me because it was too close to the final bell. I could wait. I started to cry and told the nun I could not wait, I had to go really bad. As I broke out into a sweat, I knew I was going to shit in my pants.

The nun adamantly refused to let me leave, and I can distinctly remember sitting there trying to squeeze the cheeks of my ass together while I slowly shit in my pants! It seemed like all in the same moment, the bell rang and all the kids ran to the cloakroom for their jackets and lunch pails. I sat at my desk trying to stall for enough time for the other students to get their belongings and leave before I went in for mine. I knew they would be able to smell it as the disgusting aroma began to fill my own nostrils.

When the nun hissed, "Brenda, get moving!" I began to slowly walk into the cloakroom trying not to draw attention to my awkward walk. There were still several kids in there, and Joey was in there. Being the small-contained area those old cloakrooms were everyone could smell it. Kids started plugging their noses and gagging on the putrid odor lingering in the hot rancid air. They started making fun of Joey for pooping his pants.

I never said a word to defend him, and I could see him looking at me, with an expression of knowledge and realization that it was me. He never said a word, and a secret bond was formed. I took my jacket, walked out of the room, into the bathroom, and emptied a large turd into the toilet before I left for home.

I decided to walk the long way home, knowing I would have to walk by the rich girl's house first. Upon seeing her I shouted, "Fuck you!" before the rich girl even had a chance to say anything rude to me. It felt so good, and the look of shock on Marjorie's face was so worth it. Only the boys ever said fuck.

The next day I got into trouble at school because Marjorie's mother called the nun and told her what I had said to her precious daughter, as if the words would corrupt her high and mighty, porcelain Miss Prissy. They had a hard time believing such a vulgarity came from my usually silent mouth. I didn't deny it, it liberated my anxiety. It was punishment enough when I had to apologize to the rich girl in front of my class. Humiliation was the norm.

In second grade we were allowed to write our names in the front of our books. I wrote my brother's name in the front of his book when I got home, and the next day I was called in to the fourth grade classroom. With the look of hollow death on her face, the nun asked, "Brenda, why did you write Rob's name in his book?" A lump of fear began swelling in my throat. I felt extremely hot, and as the tears started rolling down my face, barely above a whisper, I managed to say, "Because we write our names in our books."

For my punishment, I was told to stand in front of Rob's class, facing them, while the nun proceeded to whack my ass with a thick board with holes drilled in it. The humiliation stung worse than the board connecting on my bottom through a paper-thin uniform dress, and if that humiliation wasn't enough, I did the unthinkable. I stood in front of about twenty boys and girls who watched as a steady stream of hot piss ran down my legs and formed a puddle at my feet. I stood there biting my lip until I could taste the salty blood and defiantly held my hysteria.

I was in third grade when President Kennedy was assassinated. I remember being sent home from school, and everyone was crying. Six months later, Mama would die and somehow in my young mind, I confused the two deaths, and the details of each day became a collage of pictures that were entwined. Later, as I tried to remember, I had a hard time distinguishing one from the other. I had confused some of the details surrounding the day Mama died. I always believed I was sent home from school when she died, but learned from my sister Mary that that wasn't the case.

I had no comprehension of death, and no one bothered trying to explain it to me. I did believe what was taught at the school, that people either went to heaven or hell, and there was somewhere in between called purgatory, where people waited until they were good enough for God to let into heaven. Today I have a better understanding of death, and do not believe what I was taught as a child.

After Mama's death I believed she was in heaven, and could see everything that was happening to her little girl. I would take long walks in the woods or on the beach, and talk to Mama as if she walked beside me. I always held out the hope that someday Mama would actually appear to me, and felt content with the idea that she could hear my pleas for her to come back. As I got older I thought it wouldn't have been heaven for Mama having to watch the horrible mistakes I made growing up, and the circumstances that led to those mistakes. Mama was thirty-five when she died, and I grew up thinking that I too would not live past that age. A few memories I retained were mingled with the illness that took Mama.

About the Author

Brenda has been writing since the age of fifteen. She has compiled several booklets of poetry and written many short stories. This is her first book, a dream come true. She has written a fictional account of a lumberjack in Michigan which will soon be released. Brenda is working on a sequel to her autobiography as well as another work of fiction. She plans to write a series of children's books too. With four adult sons and a daughter, her children are her life.