A Warm Afternoon

When I hear people speak fondly of their childhood I am always a bit envious, but also a bit disbelieving. Is it wishful thinking that blots out the unpleasantness or simply a bad memory? Voltaire, the French writer, once wrote, "The key to happiness is good health, and a bad memory." I was blessed with good health, but unfortunately, also a good memory. Within that well of detail, there exists a childhood filled with more than its share of tumultuous experiences. This particular one remains with me in a special way.

It was a warm afternoon. I sat in the row nearest the window, third seat from the front. As the afternoon droned on interminably, the sun's warmth was creating a greenhouse effect in the school classroom. The close air hung heavy over the unusually attentive eighth grade. The girls, seated en masse farthest from the nun, wore navy blue jumpers with white blouses, and the boys echoed this color scheme in pants and shirts. At the front of this checkered square sat, throne-like, our teacher, Sister Immaculata.

She sat next to the windows, almost directly in front of me; her desk at an angle to better explore the nooks and crannies of the classroom. She parked herself on the boy's side of the room because she knew they needed closer watching than the docile girls. Nuns of her order wore black robes that formed a cowl for the head, leaving the face framed by a starched white border. No hair could show for a nun (the boys debated whether their heads were shaved), apparently, the sight of hair came too close to violating their vow of chastity.

Many of them apparently had emigrated from war-torn Poland, complete with educational theories dating from the time of Copernicus. Here, in the new world, they were to serve the first generation of Polish Americans by imbuing their children with religion, traditional values, and even some education, provided it didn't interfere with the former. Our parents knew nothing of education, only that they didn't have it, and were going to make sure their children would have a taste. And who better to entrust their sons and daughters than these dedicated warriors for whom behavioral theory was enforced with a sturdy ruler or the nearest object at hand. Our parents wanted us to learn, and, in the absence of this possibility, at the very least behave which translated to saying nothing and obeying meekly.

There I sat, under the direct gaze of our overseer, who didn't speak as much as pontificated. We, the captive audience, now feeling the first drops of sweat forming on our brows in the fetid classroom, were sitting in silent attention. It was under these conditions then that a strange event overtook me, and I was powerless to prevent the chain of circumstances that followed. Perhaps it was the closeness of the room coupled with the recent return from lunch, or perhaps it was some edict issued from on high, designed to impress upon one youth some mysterious lesson regarding the vicissitudes of life's experience. Alas, it should also be noted that I was no stranger to classroom incidents, and it is from direct experience that I speak of our Sister Immaculata's autocratic and heavy-handed methods of discipline. More than once I was "knocked to the canvas" by this misguided zealot in religious clothing.

So it was in this stifling arena that, suddenly and for no apparent reason, I found myself entering into a nauseous state. As a complication of my "sick to the stomach" feeling, it became impossible to swallow my saliva, now being generated at a rate able to float small fishing dories. Evidently, my viscera were in a state of repressed turmoil; a situation soon to change. What I probably needed was some fresh air, but that was beyond the realm of possibility. The thought of raising my hand and interrupting our holy leader was simply out of the question. On several occasions, I had witnessed such untimely disruptions end in minor tragedy. Indeed, in no sense of the modern word were we students, more like serfs at the feet of a feudal master. No, I was in it for the duration; something would come up. Faced as I was with this private, though pressing, personal dilemma, I improvised.