Bring Back the Nuns

I know some people are afraid of clowns. I get it. I really do. But, for me, nuns creep me out more than anything. http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2010/08/07/nun/  Sister Maria scared the hell out of me. I guess when it comes down to it, nuns should scare the hell and Satan right out of you. I think, though, they went above and beyond their call of duty.

 Even as I got older, the nuns still scared me. This nun, Sister or  Mother? Angelica, had a program on the Eternal Word Television Network. I would quickly change the channel when I would see her. Until of course, she donned an eye patch. I had to watch her, a pirate nun. Who would have thought? Arrrrhhhh, I’m a nun.

My ex-husband prides himself on getting the most “whippins” from the nuns at Saint Peter and Paul. Later, he was kicked off the prestigious “altar boy” status for drinking the wine and singing “Ollie Ollie Oxen Free, Prayer for Us” during one of those Catholic chants. The head nun was the definition of “evil.” She ruled that school like a tyrant and treated the kids whose moms sucked up to her like they were the “golden child.” She played favorites and if your parents didn’t give a lot of money on Sunday, she wouldn’t have a problem with beating the hell out of you on Monday. I’m not exaggerating. I’m so glad I only had four nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy or whatever the hell it was called.

 I thought all nuns were supposed to be like Sister Bertrille in The Flying Nun. Where was Sally Fields when I needed her? I fell one day during recess and Sister Maria was more than happy to scrub the gravel out of my bloodied knee.  I cried, not so much from the pain, but because Sister Maria had invaded my personal space. Her habit kept knocking against my face as she scrubbed my poor skinny gravel-imbeded knee. I would rather have a clown standing beside my bed, just staring at me every night than one minute with a nun.

 But, this past week, I began thinking about nuns. Maybe we need them.  I am at my wits end with my students and how they botch the English language.  How many times do I have to hear, “We was gonna go, but my dad was tard” or “We ain’t got no?”  I remember watching Sister Maria haul off and slap a kid named Winston across the knuckles because he asked, “Can I go to the bathroom?”  Uh, oh, Winston. Goodbye. It was nice knowing you.  Sister Maria asked him, “I don’t know, CAN you?”  The saintly correct  question would be, “Dear wonderful nun lady, MAY I use the bathroom?” We would get yelled out for not being more assertive and talk in her class, and get yelled out for talking in her class. We were screwed no matter what.

 I don’t know. I don’t want to be that kind of teacher. I won’t be that kind of teacher. But, I mean, who the hell is going to be the one who tells people that they talk like they have been living in a box. A stupid box for stupid people. People in general just don’t know how to talk. So, let’s bring in some nuns. Maybe nuns can patrol malls and restaurants after they recite the rosary and slap the hell out of anyone who uses poor English. The Nun Patrol. Then, when they go home after the nun-appointed punishment, they may correct their own children who talk like their parents. That would make my job easier.

In the end, if parents would correct their children, I wouldn’t have a headache by the end of the day. And maybe, just maybe, I would let up on the nun-hating.

Nun too soon.

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