I learned that, contrary to what I’ve been taught as an isolated homeschooler, some children do actually do better with the structure of a school than they do staying home all day, and some of the children were at daycare because their parents had found that out the hard way. I learned that wealth has absolutely no bearing on whether a child will be treated well at home– some of the poorest parents, who put their children in daycare out of necessity because they had to work several shifts, were the best parents as far as I saw and had the best behaved children. Some of the wealthiest were using daycare as an excuse not to see their neglected children, and it showed. The reverse could be true as well. I learned that, when it comes to preventing abuse, teachers are frighteningly helpless. We were mandated reporters, but only of certain dire illegal things. There’s no law against being a bad parent or an ignorant one. There’s a whole spectrum of cruelty a child can suffer every day, that’s perfectly legal, and we aren’t allowed to say a word.
One day the children approached me about a little one I’ll call Marnie, though it isn’t anything close to her name. Marnie was the tiniest girl in the class. She lived with a grandparent who was, as far as I know, a very good grandparent, and sometimes saw her parents. This was one of the living arrangements I’d been told in my very conservative upbringing always made children into brats, but Marnie was not a brat. She was pleasant, cheerful, eager to please, and hardly ever spoke out of turn. If she had one fault, it was that she was always drawing cats instead of whatever the assignment was supposed to be about. When I asked them class to invent a machine that would save the environment, she drew a mechanical cat. When I set the class to work painting icons, she painted the Virgin Mary in a garden with a cat. Once she drew a picture of Saint Bernadette kneeling before a cat in a blue veil.
The children’s suggestion was that I baptize Marnie.
I didn’t know that Marnie wasn’t baptized, but the children knew it. I had given them a little talk about baptism and how wonderful it was, and how in the event of an emergency any person can baptize, and they took it to heart. They were very concerned about her, as Marnie herself was. They were all going to study for their First Holy Communion in “real school” this fall, after all, and I had said that only Catholics could receive Holy Communion. I stammered that I wasn’t allowed– no, not here in the bathroom sink, she had to ask her parents.
“She doesn’t live with her parents,” the children said.
I didn’t know what else to say. We prayed our decade of the Rosary and practiced Ubi Caritas, and the day was over.
That was the middle of the week. Thursday I puzzled over what to say; I also had to lie down in the teachers’ lounge during my breaks due to a mild stomach ache. I didn’t think anything of the ache because I’d already had my appendix out several months ago, so it couldn’t be an emergency. Friday I did not teach any catechism classes because I was supervising the field trip to the swimming pool, though I kept on having to take breaks and lie down due to the recurring pain. Over Saturday, I was sick in bed with nausea and a worse stomach ache, and all the time I was puzzling over what to tell Marnie or Marnie’s grandparent, about her earnest desire to become a Christian. It seemed like I ought to say something, but I couldn’t light on what. Saturday night I drafted an email to my supervisor about that and some other questions, but I never sent it. Sunday, I almost died.
I was in the hospital for eight days with surgery, morphine, a tube stuck up my nose, and staples running from my pelvis to my ribs. I recovered for another week at home. I still alarm physicians whenever I have to show them my dramatically scarred belly and tell the story of my brush with death. Bowel obstructions are dangerous business and they can happen to anyone at any time. Never ignore abdominal pain, especially not for three days.
When I got back to work, ten pounds lighter and still in pain from my scar, the children complained that they had not learned Catechism, sung Ubi Caritas or prayed the Rosary since I’d left. Then I gave Marnie the speech I’d been worrying over the whole time I was sick.
“If you want to be baptized,” I said, “You have to ask your parents or your grandparent, whoever’s in charge, to get you baptized. And if they say no… well, ask again.”
It seemed exceedingly lame, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
The next Monday, one little girl asked if she could give a long drawn out show-and-tell about her summer trip to the beach and what a timeshare condominium was, and I let her. Then Marnie asked if she could show and tell. I said we didn’t have any more time, we had to say our prayers and get started, but Marnie begged me and I said yes.
“I’m getting Baptized next Sunday,” said Marnie.
I don’t think I’ve ever cheered so loudly about anything– the children were downright alarmed, but then they cheered as well.
The next week we had a cake in honor of the Assumption– I made an M on top with M&Ms. I’d meant it to be for Mary, but I also said it was M for Marnie in honor of her Baptism. As the Ubi Caritas says, congregavit nos in unum Christi amor. Christ’s love has gathered us into one. Marnie and all the other baptized, together with Mary, are one flesh in Christ.
I went away after that term, and I never saw Marnie again.
I am not a real teacher. I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t know how real teachers and catechists do it, not just for the summer but for a whole year, year in and year out, sick or well, entrusted with minds and souls, schedules, lesson plans and watercolors and plywood.
But thank you.
(image via Pixabay)
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