ACCEPTANCE Part Two - “The Conference”
by Marie Delgado Travis
When I told my Eighth Grade teacher, Sister Dorothy, that I had declined the invitation to study at Bronx High School of Science, she confided that she felt relieved. She secretly hadn’t wanted me to attend a ¨heathen school.¨ I had to laugh at her loving candor and concern for my religious well-being.
And so it was that I found myself that September at one of the finest Catholic institutions in New York City, Cardinal Spellman High School. We were one of the first classes to study for all four years in its gleaming white facilities near Baychester Avenue in the Bronx. The majority of our instructors, both religious and lay teachers, were totally inspiring. They not only challenged us academically, but guided our spiritual growth.
There’s always, however, that SPECIAL someone. In my second year, it was my homeroom teacher, whom I'll call Sister Dolores (as in the Spanish word for "pain"). More than any other nun at school, Sister saw counseling ¨troubled¨ teens as one of her God-given missions. She scheduled private conferences with each of her all-girl class during homeroom period (which was really supposed to be a quiet study period). There we were supposed to discuss with her, as she put it, "our personal problems." Cynic that I sometimes am, I could picture Sister Dolores rubbing her hands together, deliciously savoring the secret tidbits of our lives, which we would soon be sharing with her, whether we wanted to or not.
Each day, during homeroom period, she escorted the victim du jour to a corner of the classroom. There, sitting tête-à-tête, my classmate would spill her guts out to her. Sometimes the classmate would cry. Often we would overhear everything that she said. But what I couldn't comprehend was how divulging our problems to her could be of any practical use. Sister wasn't a psychologist. Frankly, it appeared to me that she was just getting her jollies. And so I volunteered to help Sister James, the dreaded Dean of Discipline, in her office during homeroom period. Anything to avoid having to tell Sister Dolores intimate details about my life.
Before the academic year was over, however, she "snagged" me, in such a way that I couldn't escape our "private" conference in the back of the classroom any longer. When the long-avoided day finally arrived, I felt she was smiling a bit too broadly, as she asked, "So tell me, Marie, what is YOUR problem?" And, although I had more problems at home than anyone my age had a right to, I replied all saccharine-sweet, "Thank God, I don't have any, Sister." Then, I couldn't help but add (me and my big mouth!), "But if I did, Sister, you'd be the last person with whom I would want to share them."
Sister Dolores rose abruptly, slamming shut the notebook, where she was preserving our misery for posterity. This signaled the end of our psychiatric session. She stomped to the front of the classroom and proceeded angrily to write scientific formulae on the blackboard for a pop quiz guaranteed to make the next class pay dearly for my transgression. Fortunately, she wasn't my Science teacher and there were no grades for homeroom period. Sister did finally extract her pound of flesh from me, however. It was the last day of class, but I just didn't clear my desk quickly enough.
Calling me aside, she slickly set her trap, ¨Do you have a moment, Marie?¨ Then she deftly fired the first volley: ¨There’s something I've been meaning to tell you about yourself.¨ I knew I was in for it. But ambushed in this way, I could find no option but to listen to her ¨psychoanalysis.” She led me to a dark, quiet conference room, away from prying eyes. Once there, she aimed and fired again: ¨Marie, I'm terribly, terribly worried about you. You're so different from the other girls in your class, so melancholy and morbid. I sometimes fear that you'll commit suicide one day.¨ I was horrified at the suggestion. I knew she was playing a cruel mind game, but wondered if her premise was not completely untrue.
I still was not about to discuss my family affairs with Sister, but my mother had attempted suicide when she was my age. And she constantly mentioned killing herself, whenever she argued with my father or any of us misbehaved. She eventually outgrew the habit, but at the timem threats of suicide were a way of life in my household. It was a mind set that I had to struggle to suppress. Until that day, I thought I had been doing a great job warding off the evil spirits. But on that last day of the school year, when I was supposed to feel happiest, Sister Dolores caught me off guard in such a way that I began to worry about me too. All summer long.
I kept this incident to myself for the next two years of high school. But at a pajama party during my senior year, my girlfriends and I were discussing our worst moment in high school and I decided to share the encounter with Sister Dolores. When I finished the story, I was near tears. Unexpectedly, Maureen, one of the other girls at the party quipped, ¨Sister Dolores did that to you? She then smilingly revealed that the same nun worried about her, too, but for the totally opposite reason. Sister felt she was "too frivolous."
We all had to admit that Sister was right. Maureen was frivolous and I did have a morbidly strange way of looking at the world. But we also agreed that these were among our most endearing traits, what distinguished us from ¨ordinary.¨ We laughingly concluded, ¨There’s just no pleasing Sister Dolores!¨ .
I clownishly suggested to Maureen that maybe if she shared her problems with me, I could help her. Plopping into a chair and rubbing my hands with keen anticipation, I prodded, in my best Wicked Witch impersonation, ¨So tell me, my lovely. What is your problem? ¨
Then I shared an expression which my Mom always uses, ¨No soy una Coca Cola para gustarle a todo el mundo.¨ (I’m not a Coca Cola, to taste good to everyone.¨) Okay, we're all a bit flawed. But that includes Sister Dolores and even she taught us something hugely important about ourselves -- Vive le (mild) personality disorder. -- And say, while I'm at it, thanks, Dad! I doubt that I would have learned this lesson half as well in a ¨heathen¨ school.
MARIE DELGADO TRAVIS is an award-winning author. She writes poetry and prose in English and Spanish. Visit her beautiful new web site at www.mariedelgadotravis.com.
