It was the class of 70.
No, not 1970. The eighth grade class of St. Timothy’s Catholic School in Philadelphia that had 70 students. One class, one teacher. No complaints. Well, no complaints about class size anyway. It’s all we knew. No standees. Everybody had their own student desk.
Seventy students with one lone St. Joseph’s Order nun teaching everything. From math to grammar to geography to penmanship–remember that? Might as well be calligraphy now.
It all came cascading back when the subject of class size hit the news cycle again–in the form of Pinellas County’s class-size shell game. Pinellas hires substitute teachers as “co-teachers” in October when the state takes official enrollment numbers to determine if public schools are in compliance with the 2002 class-size amendment.
The “co-teachers” are more like Potemkim Village props so it looks like the students-to-teacher ratios meet the 22-to-1 mandate for fourth through eighth grades.
That sparked a flashback to 1960 and a certain blocky, stone-gray Catholic school in a working-class, row-house section of Philly called Mayfair. We were the sons and daughters of World War II-vet families who couldn’t afford Levittown, but were upwardly mobile enough to escape the “temporary,” post-war project housing that dotted the city. It helped that parents came in pairs.
We all walked to school and came home for a lunch of baloney sandwiches while watching “Tic-Tac-Dough,” with “your host Jack Barry.” Whenever we left the building–lunch or dismissal–it was always in well-disciplined lines until we crossed the big streets that abutted the school.
The crossing guards were like extended family. The nuns, with stentorian voices and martinet manners, were the enforcers. (Even for fire drills. Never know when you would need to walk in straight lines–at a prudent pace–from a burning building.)
Our eighth grade class, one of three similarly sized, was 35 school-tied boys and 35 uniformed girls. Boys on the left, eight or nine to a runnered row of desks, girls on the right. Some likely with undiagnosed learning disabilities masquerading as inattention or self-control issues.
The Ten Commandments were posted prominently to remind us that there was yet another layer of authority beyond parents and teachers.
Sister Charles Mary presided. She was referenced as “‘Ster.” As in: “No, ‘Ster, I didn’t do it. I knew it might be a sin.” She was a stocky, tough-love avatar. Doubt if she had a college degree, let alone a teaching certificate attesting to a dozen courses in educational psychology.
And, as noted, she taught everything. All day long. No time off for our good behavior. She gave a lot of homework and never failed to collect it and promptly return it with comments. It mattered.
She was the first, last and loudest word on all subjects–from what made a sin mortal to what made a rhombus relevant. Sure, you memorized and you recited, but you also applied and learned. That was, after all, your job.
Amazingly, even David Massucci learned. David had been left back one year and struggled more than most. If there were a class rank, his would have been 70th. Years later we met up and he was married, the father of two, owned a home and made a good living as a General Motors salesman in Cherry Hill, N.J. Something had worked.
As you might expect, corporal punishment was a given. No parental permission necessary. They didn’t pull punches at home, because they, well, knew what you were like. So parents couldn’t be used for intercession, let alone leverage, against ‘Ster. They were on the same side. It mattered.
Another form of punishment was staying after school. It meant, however, more than heel-cooling. You had to do windows, clap erasers and clean the 70-desk room while ‘Ster checked homework, and your buddies played audibly in the adjacent schoolyard. For those deserving hard time, there was heavy lifting at the convent next door. It was the price paid for a missed assignment or a wise-guy utterance.
‘Ster had a ruddy face and fleshy hands. Otherwise, she was all black robes, white habit and rosary beads that made an ominous swishing sound when she bustled down an aisle with hands-on discipline topping her agenda. She was probably about 40 years old, give or take 30 years. Most days we were convinced her assignment on Earth was to make us learn–whether we hated it or her. Perspective is elusive when you’re 13 years old.
Of course, much has changed since that class of 70. The meltdown of the nuclear family, immigration scenarios, voucher and charter subplots, standardized-test teaching and curricula that too often treat self-esteem as a goal rather than a by-product of learning.
As I recall, “accountability” was a given, not an FCAT rationale. Excuses were not countenanced–either at school or at home. In retrospect, we were lucky–even if unconscionably overcrowded.
And did I mention the sham of today’s self-esteem curricula and the surety of parental involvement in cooperation with “old-school” teachers back in the day? It mattered.
Upon renewed reflection brought about by class-size notoriety, that eighth-grade year at St. Tim’s was quite the challenge. But if they made it into a movie, it would be: To ‘Ster With Love.