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By the Pond
10 Mar

In 1980s, I Taught at a Catholic School

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My last blog brought back memories of my 4 years teaching at a Catholic School. After an hour and a half recorded interview summer of 1983 conducted by the principle, and answering her different forms of the same about 10 questions over and over, she chose me. She was a nun and a story for another time. I taught kindergarten halftime my first year and move to first grade with that class the next year. I taught first grade for three years there before I married and moved.

Since we are in the season of Lent and at this point in my life I have left the Catholic Church, I would like to tell about two of my experience with my first grade classes. I have countless wonderful stories. My choice to leave was not easy.

The first experience with the class I was with for two years. During Lent, Sr. BettyAnn wanted us to take our classes to do Stations of the Cross. There are  14 stations that go through Jesus’s Crucifixion  and are pictured around the walls of the church. The class I was with for two years had students with emotional problems and several non-Catholics. When we would go we did not use any special prayer book. We went from station to station and they took turns telling what each was about. We talked how hurt Jesus was. How he felt no one loved him. He was lonely and picked on. They were quiet and reverent. One time the 6th grade barreled in. They were noisy and not behaving as they should in a church.  My class was shocked and a bit offended by them, but we finished quietly and left. The truth of how this class understood and loved the Stations of the Cross came at the end of year. It had been awhile since we had done them. The last week of school I gave them choice one day. I said we could have an extra recess or go do the Stations one more time. This class without a second thought shouted and chose the Stations as soon as I said it. So that’s what we did.

My second group of first graders had emotional needs too. This class had exactly 13 boys. During Lent and getting close to Holy Week, it hit me – Jesus and the Apostles and the Last Supper. All the boys wanted to be Jesus. I told them I would not pick but God would. All their names went into a container and the left would be Jesus. I only remember the last 3 clearly. The last 3 to pull were Judas, Peter, and Jesus. The one pulled for Judas I would have picked in a heartbeat. He always wore camouflage and army things and that’s how I saw Judas. The ones left would not have been my choices. They were both pretty rough around the edges and came from less financially secure homes (though the latter not reason). The one pulled for Peter was on the edge of bullish and very upset about being Peter. Then, I explained Peter was the Rock and the Jesus leaves in charge. After going home and talking, he was happy the next day. Jesus was a small little boy who was suicidal and struggled with school a bit. He told me once he wanted to kill himself because he just basically was not good enough for anything. He was not kidding. God picked him not me but no question it was the best choice. All the boys were happy with their parts because that’s who God wanted them to play. They accepted their Jesus. One of the Apostles volunteered and brought in his white shepherd costume to wear because Jesus should have a costume. I wrote something on a card for each one to say during the play. They rose to the occasion. And, my little Jesus seemed to have a new outlook. But then, I did not pick him – God did.


Catholic faith healing hope Last Supper Lent mental health moving forward Stations of the Cross struggles women poets
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About the Author

Written by sidonamarie

My poetry has been my therapy over the years. In 1993, an unusual traumatic event occurred with me. Poetry over the years has been my sorting out process. I have always had a strong spiritual nature balanced by strong doubt. During period of tremendous confusion, my poetry (sometimes more like stories my son thinks) helped me remember who I am, how I feel, and what I think and always have from a child. The theme I hope comes through is that we should not have our heads too far into the clouds or too deeply into the dirt. Life lives as balance somewhere in the middle with little visits to both edges. All 56 years of my life I have lived in Michigan. I was born in Kalamazoo September 16, 1958. My parents separated when I was young do to my mother’s mental illness. Dad died in 1965 at 29 from a cerebral hemorrhage. I was 6 when he passed. Grandma Peggy (my dad’s mother) went to court 7 times in a year and a half to fight for my younger sister (Kim who was mentally impaired) and me, because my dad had asked her too. She won custody of us. So, I lived with her in Bangor, Michigan through high school and college. I didn’t begin to write poetry until I went to live with my aunt (my mother’s sister) in Wartervliet, Michigan while attending Lake Michigan College in Benton Harbor. My aunt lived near my mother and her mother (my Grandma Elsie). After 2 years there, I attended Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo. I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts major in English and minor in Elementary Education. Right out of college fall of 1984 I was hired at St. Mary’s in Paw Paw, Michigan as a kindergarten teacher. I taught kindergarten for 1 year half days and was moved into a full-time first grade position for three years. I met my husband Gary during that time. On October 17, 1987, we married and I moved to Fennville, Michigan where I still live. Gary and I have a son age 24 and a daughter age 19.


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