Talk about a jolt.
I’ve just been informed that my eighth grade graduating class – St. Timothy’s Catholic School in the Northeast section of Philadelphia – will be gathering, at least in disparate parts, for a reunion. A 50th reunion.
Instant reverie of a half century ago.
To be sure, the Eisenhower Administration was holding up its end of the Cold War contretemps, and Fidel Castro had just toppled the Batista government in Cuba. And Hawaii would become the 50th state. On balance, we thought Jerry Lee Lewis was a lot more relevant.
At a much more parochial level, 1959 was also the year that Catholic school students were all properly apprised that Pope John XXIII was calling the first Ecumenical Council in nearly 100 years. We thought that was about as much fun as watching Milton Berle with our parents.
Personally, I was more concerned with an eighth grade crush on Eleanor Verdi, a spring sortie to West Philadelphia to get on Bandstand, the cool movie that was “Ben Hur” and the better-than-average prospects of the Eagles that year. The Phillies still stunk.
The reunion letter — who tipped them off? — referenced our graduating class of more than 180. We were divided into three sections, where the same nun taught the same 60-plus students everything – from religion to math – in the same classroom.
Imagine, 60-plus students per class. Boys on one side, girls on the other. Now is that not, Florida Class Size Amendment advocates, the teacher-to-student ratio from hell?
But somehow, we learned. We didn’t know how pedagogically put-upon we were and how uncool it was to have to wear school ties and uniforms. What about fashion and our need to express our individuality?
We read a lot, wrote a lot, memorized a lot and homeworked a lot. We thought self esteem was something to be earned — not a separate curriculum.
Discipline was meted out summarily by the nuns. Most of the ones I had didn’t look like the answer to a central casting call for petite and pious looking extras for “The Song of Bernadette” or “The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima.” They mostly looked like they could have gone three rounds with Jake LaMotta.
Corporal punishment was administered to the usual class clowns – but the distraction to the rest of the class was minimal. That’s because the nuns had the ultimate leverage – your parents. They were all on the same side, and there was no copping a plea at home.
It was the Napoleonic Code. If the nun — and mine was Sister Charles Mary in eighth grade — said you were guilty of acting like a smart aleck, then you were. In fact, your parents — and back then they always came in pairs — had also seen that side of you.