Second grade was the big time in many ways. It was a season of sacraments. Reconciliation and First Holy Communion were all to go down this year. Us seven-year olds were just sooo mature to accept Jesus as our boy. Reconciliation was the first holy event to prepare for because we needed to repent our sins before we could eat the Jesus. Seven-year olds have so many sins. I mean, let's get real here...what are the seven-year olds doing that require a confession?
Well anyway, the second grade criteria prepped us for months. The second sacrament would be the gateway to Jesus-my drug of choice. Preparing the introductory prayer to the priest was our first lesson. We would practice this with Mrs. Sasha.
"Oh my God, I am sorry for my sins, in choosing to sin and failing to be good. I have sinned against you and your church. I firmly intend with the help of your Son to make up for my sins and to love as I should. Amen."
I got my intro down and the next part was reflection and personal. I needed to think about what my confession was to be and trust that Monsignor would keep this admittance between God, him, and me.
We were informed that the priest would issue us a penance. After we left the booth and then returned to our pew, it would be our responsibility to say our penance. The penance would probably be some prayers.
The big day: It is my turn in line and I stressed for many weeks about what I would tell the priest. In my opinion, I really wasn't doing anything wrong that needed to be reported to God. "Hey God, I'm annoying and hyper." Okay.
So I get up to Monsignor feeling as brazen as hell and break into my intro prayer. Perfecto. It is now time to report my sins. I proceed to tell the man that, "I do not have any sins, but was curious to why the church issues prayers as pennance when we are supposed to pray daily anyway?"
Monsignor looked shocked but excited. He gave me this long-winded speech about how he could tell me to walk to China as penance but that would be unrealistic. Prayers are more realistic. Then he gave me a penance of two hail marys and one our father. Maybe I got a penance sentence for being a big mouth?
Maybe I could have confessed that I put a Sorry game piece in my Ken doll's hot green underwear and mounted him on top of my Barbie? My mom walked in on this position and was like, "whoa."
Friday, August 15, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Big Time
Every year, on the first day of school, St. Regis would have all the students line up on the playground. Each grade would wait with anticipation to hear his/her name called and be appointed to a homeroom teacher. It was such suspense... to find out who your homeroom teacher was... and the parents would all be there too. Dads in suits. Moms chatting it up nervousl. When you are a mom - all that matters are your kids.
It could of been the biggest day of the year, besides Fun Day (which is the last day of the year). Secret Santa Day was pretty great too.
All summer long I would think about who my homeroom teacher would be. In every grade there was a nice teacher and a mean mother fucker. My natural hyper activity created an anxiety about the possibility of getting the mean teacher. This year, however, I felt relaxed.
Now that I knew how to read, my excitement for school matched the reality that I did not need to be bribed with my little ponies to want to be on the lawn that day. I waited next to my dad. My dad. My dad. The coolest man alive. He would be at work for the next decade, but today he took the morning off to learn my destiny for the next year.
He gave me a little pep talk. He said, "Court, you're in the big time now." His excitement for me was so real. I believed every word he told me. I beamed.
It could of been the biggest day of the year, besides Fun Day (which is the last day of the year). Secret Santa Day was pretty great too.
All summer long I would think about who my homeroom teacher would be. In every grade there was a nice teacher and a mean mother fucker. My natural hyper activity created an anxiety about the possibility of getting the mean teacher. This year, however, I felt relaxed.
Now that I knew how to read, my excitement for school matched the reality that I did not need to be bribed with my little ponies to want to be on the lawn that day. I waited next to my dad. My dad. My dad. The coolest man alive. He would be at work for the next decade, but today he took the morning off to learn my destiny for the next year.
He gave me a little pep talk. He said, "Court, you're in the big time now." His excitement for me was so real. I believed every word he told me. I beamed.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Sit Down Steven
There was a boy named Stevie in our class and he was annoying but I generally liked him. He was super nice. The classic example of the class ADD pain in the ass though. He used to terrorize our second grade teacher because he would always get up during lessons and run wild around the room. He served as the constant class interruption with his behavior problem. It was great.
One day Mrs. Sasha who is like this 5 foot little bitty just lost it. She always was so calm and then all the sudden she just belts her voice like she is ten feet tall, “SIT DOWN, William.”
And we were just second graders but we all looked at each other like ‘holy shit’ with these little grins and Stevie cried. That was why I liked him as a person, because he would always show his emotional side. He was not like the other boys. He was sensitive. He did not make fun of me or ask me if I was related to Anne Frank which was a common question I received from one of my “Mc” classmates. I did not receive this question in second grade. We were two young to be covering the Nazi invasion. But as we entered the later grades-7th grade…I would be walking in the gym line and the “Mc” would be like “Just admit it, Courtney…you’re related to Anne Frank.”
I would go home and get so upset about it. I was a gawky, skinny girl and one of the only Iti’s in the class. Being ‘Jewish looking’ in the Catholic Irish community felt like the Scarlet letter. Dirty. I was always so proud of being Sicilian when I was little, almost like I didn’t realize all the adults were not drinking lemonade. I wore this little Sicily pendant around my neck. My grandfather gave it to me. PROUD. Proud as hell to be Italian. But then as I matured and students started to hook up and I gave my Sicily back to my grandfather. Sicily did not get first kisses at St. Regis.
Anyways, Mrs. Sasha comforted Stevie after she shouted him out like a beagle digging out of the yard. She hugged him for awhile as he cried. Told him to be a ‘good boy’. She is one of my favorite teachers. Firm but not cold-hearted. Second grade style.
Second grade style rules-best grade ever. I went to school a lot in second grade. Prior to this grade, my little speech problem turned into a big reading and writing problem. Practically illiterate-I could not learn and could not be placed in a reading group. My mom put me in an extensive tutoring boot camp all summer at this teacher’s house on a golf course. She was a gentle teacher. By the time second grade rolled around-I was in honors reading. I got the luxury of leaving my class to join an accelerated class next door. I was the shit. My confidence - way up….second grade ruled. I barely cried once.
One day Mrs. Sasha who is like this 5 foot little bitty just lost it. She always was so calm and then all the sudden she just belts her voice like she is ten feet tall, “SIT DOWN, William.”
And we were just second graders but we all looked at each other like ‘holy shit’ with these little grins and Stevie cried. That was why I liked him as a person, because he would always show his emotional side. He was not like the other boys. He was sensitive. He did not make fun of me or ask me if I was related to Anne Frank which was a common question I received from one of my “Mc” classmates. I did not receive this question in second grade. We were two young to be covering the Nazi invasion. But as we entered the later grades-7th grade…I would be walking in the gym line and the “Mc” would be like “Just admit it, Courtney…you’re related to Anne Frank.”
I would go home and get so upset about it. I was a gawky, skinny girl and one of the only Iti’s in the class. Being ‘Jewish looking’ in the Catholic Irish community felt like the Scarlet letter. Dirty. I was always so proud of being Sicilian when I was little, almost like I didn’t realize all the adults were not drinking lemonade. I wore this little Sicily pendant around my neck. My grandfather gave it to me. PROUD. Proud as hell to be Italian. But then as I matured and students started to hook up and I gave my Sicily back to my grandfather. Sicily did not get first kisses at St. Regis.
Anyways, Mrs. Sasha comforted Stevie after she shouted him out like a beagle digging out of the yard. She hugged him for awhile as he cried. Told him to be a ‘good boy’. She is one of my favorite teachers. Firm but not cold-hearted. Second grade style.
Second grade style rules-best grade ever. I went to school a lot in second grade. Prior to this grade, my little speech problem turned into a big reading and writing problem. Practically illiterate-I could not learn and could not be placed in a reading group. My mom put me in an extensive tutoring boot camp all summer at this teacher’s house on a golf course. She was a gentle teacher. By the time second grade rolled around-I was in honors reading. I got the luxury of leaving my class to join an accelerated class next door. I was the shit. My confidence - way up….second grade ruled. I barely cried once.
No advanced group for Jesus
St. Regis operated by a system. Students used pencils until they entered fourth grade. In fourth grade they were allowed to use pen, but only blue eraser mates. I thought they smelled like blueberries and didn’t like the limitation of brand.
Fourth grade is also the year that official detentions can be issued to students. To this day I don’t know what is worse...to be kicked out of the reading circle when you are five and be forced to sit alone while the rest of the class gets a story or to be given a pink slip that lets you meet at a set point in the week to hold a convention for a half an hour after school with all the school’s bad asses. I’ll take the latter.
Fourth grade marked the beginning of adulthood at St. Regis. In addition to homerooms, the grade changed classes for science, math and English. The homeroom would disperse into three groups called x, y, and z for science, math, and English. The administration claimed that the z group kids were accelerated for English and math and the x and y groups were the same. Nobody bought that bullshit.
It is sad that we were all placed before the age of ten. X, y, z stood for stupid, spupider, and stupidest. I got to be in the Y group. My friends were in Z group. I sucked at math, but not at English. The grouping system never really worked in my opinion. Most people who excel at English are not that great in math. Z group kids got all the extras and the X group kids really were a whole lot more retarded than the Y group.
X group was designed for the fetal alcohol syndrome kids. They really should have got the extra perks. The smart kids get the perks and the stupid kids....well they just become cops one day. All the x kids I run into are police officers. This could be a generalization.
X and Y group got the shaft in all areas, except for gym class, the only class that really counts. Due to the high volume of dorks in the Z group, the few cool kids (my friends of course) that were in Z suffered endless days of gym periods that lacked the competitive drive X and Y possessed. When you are regular at math and English, you better hope that you are not picked last for kickball.
I wish gym class was a class that continued with you as an adult. Gym class rules. I want it everyday.
Leaving homeroom to swing with your letter class went down until lunch time. Another transition of fourth grade-the reality of no snack time. I struggled with that because I really like to eat. My mom would laugh at me because I would smuggle granola bars in my bookbag. This caused detentions to arise periodically as a nun would find me pressed against the hallway wall between classes with my head shoved in my bookbag. I wouldn’t survive living in a third world country. I can’t go two hours without eating something.
After lunch, you go back to your homeroom for history and religion. This was a stellar opportunity for the z kids to show off in history. Religion was different though and I always got A’s in religion. Luckily, there is no advanced group for Jesus.
Fourth grade is also the year that official detentions can be issued to students. To this day I don’t know what is worse...to be kicked out of the reading circle when you are five and be forced to sit alone while the rest of the class gets a story or to be given a pink slip that lets you meet at a set point in the week to hold a convention for a half an hour after school with all the school’s bad asses. I’ll take the latter.
Fourth grade marked the beginning of adulthood at St. Regis. In addition to homerooms, the grade changed classes for science, math and English. The homeroom would disperse into three groups called x, y, and z for science, math, and English. The administration claimed that the z group kids were accelerated for English and math and the x and y groups were the same. Nobody bought that bullshit.
It is sad that we were all placed before the age of ten. X, y, z stood for stupid, spupider, and stupidest. I got to be in the Y group. My friends were in Z group. I sucked at math, but not at English. The grouping system never really worked in my opinion. Most people who excel at English are not that great in math. Z group kids got all the extras and the X group kids really were a whole lot more retarded than the Y group.
X group was designed for the fetal alcohol syndrome kids. They really should have got the extra perks. The smart kids get the perks and the stupid kids....well they just become cops one day. All the x kids I run into are police officers. This could be a generalization.
X and Y group got the shaft in all areas, except for gym class, the only class that really counts. Due to the high volume of dorks in the Z group, the few cool kids (my friends of course) that were in Z suffered endless days of gym periods that lacked the competitive drive X and Y possessed. When you are regular at math and English, you better hope that you are not picked last for kickball.
I wish gym class was a class that continued with you as an adult. Gym class rules. I want it everyday.
Leaving homeroom to swing with your letter class went down until lunch time. Another transition of fourth grade-the reality of no snack time. I struggled with that because I really like to eat. My mom would laugh at me because I would smuggle granola bars in my bookbag. This caused detentions to arise periodically as a nun would find me pressed against the hallway wall between classes with my head shoved in my bookbag. I wouldn’t survive living in a third world country. I can’t go two hours without eating something.
After lunch, you go back to your homeroom for history and religion. This was a stellar opportunity for the z kids to show off in history. Religion was different though and I always got A’s in religion. Luckily, there is no advanced group for Jesus.
Sorry to the nurse
Throughout grades K-3, I spend my time kissing nun and nurse ass. My fourth grade teacher makes me her personal assistant because I am the only slave that will actually wash her dirty coffee mug clean at the end of the day. I take pride in this ritual of washing the mug. My mom taught me how to clean well and I spend most of my formative years thinking I could be a sexy house cleaner. This is a career aspiration that I know will never develop into anything. It saddens me. I kiss nun ass because I go to Catholic school and they rule that shit. I kiss nurse ass because I hate school and like to go home. But really I liked the nurse the best. She was very caring towards me.
Being at the nurse’s office is a blessing. I get to hang out and eat crackers and drink orange juice. I do not have to participate in class because ‘me and the nurse’ have our time together. She cherishes me and I love to talk to her. We have all these clever conversations. She understands that when I want to go home, we call my mom and I go home.
But then one day, I was not allowed to go home for a reason I could not understand. My mom was on vacation and I was being babysat by my part-time drunk grandparents. (What is great about being young is you don't know that anyone is drunk) The nurse marched me back to class that day and I was super pissed. I told her off in front of the entire class and that is when my ‘go-home’ deal ended. There goes my big mouth again. She hooked my ass back to her office. She rallied up her control and made me sit in a swivel chair for the remaining three hours of the day and then told me to go home and think about what I’ve done and to see her the next morning prepared with an apology. I didn’t look at her once as I sat in the chair waiting for the bell to ring. I stared at the wall trying to act hard as a horny nipple. Fuck her I thought.
I went home and cried and my grandmother agreed that the nurse was evil, while sitting at the kitchen table drinking 'ginger ale.' My grandma wrote me an ambiguous apology that would place all the blame on the nurse for being an idiot for not understanding me. It read “I’m sorry you misunderstood me.” I copied it on to loose leaf paper. I went to school the next day and handed her the note. She read it and appeared truly shocked and it took a couple years for her to soften to me.
I wish I apologized sincerely to her for telling her off in front of the class. She did not deserve it. I may have wanted to go home, but she was trying to help me suck it up and just get through the school day. I was not sick. She wanted to thicken my skin to deal with life’s reality that we have to work at lame jobs for a steady time in our life and spend the actual day, spend the actual month…spend many years putting in the time. This nurse story makes me just want to pretend like I'm Tom Hanks in 'A League of Their Own' and run down the block screaming, "There's no crying in baseball."
Being at the nurse’s office is a blessing. I get to hang out and eat crackers and drink orange juice. I do not have to participate in class because ‘me and the nurse’ have our time together. She cherishes me and I love to talk to her. We have all these clever conversations. She understands that when I want to go home, we call my mom and I go home.
But then one day, I was not allowed to go home for a reason I could not understand. My mom was on vacation and I was being babysat by my part-time drunk grandparents. (What is great about being young is you don't know that anyone is drunk) The nurse marched me back to class that day and I was super pissed. I told her off in front of the entire class and that is when my ‘go-home’ deal ended. There goes my big mouth again. She hooked my ass back to her office. She rallied up her control and made me sit in a swivel chair for the remaining three hours of the day and then told me to go home and think about what I’ve done and to see her the next morning prepared with an apology. I didn’t look at her once as I sat in the chair waiting for the bell to ring. I stared at the wall trying to act hard as a horny nipple. Fuck her I thought.
I went home and cried and my grandmother agreed that the nurse was evil, while sitting at the kitchen table drinking 'ginger ale.' My grandma wrote me an ambiguous apology that would place all the blame on the nurse for being an idiot for not understanding me. It read “I’m sorry you misunderstood me.” I copied it on to loose leaf paper. I went to school the next day and handed her the note. She read it and appeared truly shocked and it took a couple years for her to soften to me.
I wish I apologized sincerely to her for telling her off in front of the class. She did not deserve it. I may have wanted to go home, but she was trying to help me suck it up and just get through the school day. I was not sick. She wanted to thicken my skin to deal with life’s reality that we have to work at lame jobs for a steady time in our life and spend the actual day, spend the actual month…spend many years putting in the time. This nurse story makes me just want to pretend like I'm Tom Hanks in 'A League of Their Own' and run down the block screaming, "There's no crying in baseball."
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
1st detention
When I received my first detention, my mom took me to the five and ten like I was some big winner.
“Here baby, ten bucks, go buy yourself a present. It’s not your fault.”
Another example why I grow up to be a savage.
It happened in fourth grade. My first detention in a catholic school. Mrs. Cheeser told us we would not need our text books for that day the class earlier. During the class, she asked us to refer to our text books and of course I opened my big mouth. “You told us not to bring the book, that is not fair.”
My big mouth.
Cheeser gave me the detention because I called her out in front of the class. Did I mention she was the grossest and smelliest teacher in the school? Fuckin bitch. I never quite understood women that walked around with holes in their stockings and stains on their shirts.
I cried in the car when my mom picked me up. The detention embarrassed me because I did not understand how I was wrong. I have always been a truth seeker. It just takes me awhile to realize that everyone holds a different view point of the truth.
Technically Cheeser’s detention doesn’t even count as my first detention, just my first official paper pink slip detention. I attended St. Regis since day one of kindergarden. I clearly remember getting kicked out of the reading circle at least once a week.
“Here baby, ten bucks, go buy yourself a present. It’s not your fault.”
Another example why I grow up to be a savage.
It happened in fourth grade. My first detention in a catholic school. Mrs. Cheeser told us we would not need our text books for that day the class earlier. During the class, she asked us to refer to our text books and of course I opened my big mouth. “You told us not to bring the book, that is not fair.”
My big mouth.
Cheeser gave me the detention because I called her out in front of the class. Did I mention she was the grossest and smelliest teacher in the school? Fuckin bitch. I never quite understood women that walked around with holes in their stockings and stains on their shirts.
I cried in the car when my mom picked me up. The detention embarrassed me because I did not understand how I was wrong. I have always been a truth seeker. It just takes me awhile to realize that everyone holds a different view point of the truth.
Technically Cheeser’s detention doesn’t even count as my first detention, just my first official paper pink slip detention. I attended St. Regis since day one of kindergarden. I clearly remember getting kicked out of the reading circle at least once a week.
Rosa Parks as a Troll
We were some of the only students from Neptune, an area that St. Regis' parents did not consider "nice." There were few black kids in our school and none of them graduated with me. It seemed like every time there was a black student, they were gone the next year. So basically, I was raised with a bunch of white-ass turkey eaters. I considered myself the minority at St. Regis. I was just a ginzo from "Neptune." Once I had a problem with the only black girl, who just so happened to be on my bus. She was bugging my best friend and called her white trash. I said, "well, if she is white trash, that must make you black trash."
The next day I was assigned to sit in the back of the bus with my sister. They could not put the black girl in the back of the bus. My sister seemed embarrassed and I believe this is the beginning of her period of mean to me, which lasted until I was 23. She let the big kids treat me however they wanted and they all made fun of me. I can imagine today that I was pretty annoying to my sister and she had a haircut like Bon Jovi so maybe she could have been feeling like a dork too and I just didn't realize it. My sister wasn't cool enough to protect me from the bigger punks. I wasn't old enough to be cool enough for the back of the bus. And my hair was equally queer, this crazy perm that my mom thought would be a good idea. I think only Italian moms get second graders perms.
Well one day on the back of the bus one of the older boys threw my troll out the window and I cried for days. I saw this now 'guy' a year ago at a bar in Hoboken and he was the door 'guy' and was all friendly and shit. And I was civil enough, but all I could say was, "you threw my troll out the window." I can still remember that troll. I can remember all of my trolls actually. I collected them and would hide in my dad's closet on Sunday and steal pieces of pasta from the spaghetti box from Sunday dinner and take dixie cups and fill them with hot water from the bathroom sink and pretend to boil the pasta. Then I would feed the trolls Sunday dinner.
My favorite and first troll was named Crotch Fizzy. My best friend Nicky and I bought him at a gift shop at a convention vacation for Prudential that our parents attended. We named him Crotch Fizzy because he had yellow frizzy hair and my dad used to laugh this expression "crotch pheasants" when he would see a fly buzz around at the dinner table. Us kids thought it was so funny, probably because of his usage of the word crotch. We also would play MadLibs around the pool and when asked 'name of a container that holds liquid' I would always say penis and smirk. That was my only exusable opportunity to use the word penis. Penis. Penis.
But back to trolls. I love them. I have them all in my attic right now. I bet they are all having a spagetti dinner up there in the attic. I saved all my toys from childhood. Toys of the 80's are the best toys in the world!
The next day I was assigned to sit in the back of the bus with my sister. They could not put the black girl in the back of the bus. My sister seemed embarrassed and I believe this is the beginning of her period of mean to me, which lasted until I was 23. She let the big kids treat me however they wanted and they all made fun of me. I can imagine today that I was pretty annoying to my sister and she had a haircut like Bon Jovi so maybe she could have been feeling like a dork too and I just didn't realize it. My sister wasn't cool enough to protect me from the bigger punks. I wasn't old enough to be cool enough for the back of the bus. And my hair was equally queer, this crazy perm that my mom thought would be a good idea. I think only Italian moms get second graders perms.
Well one day on the back of the bus one of the older boys threw my troll out the window and I cried for days. I saw this now 'guy' a year ago at a bar in Hoboken and he was the door 'guy' and was all friendly and shit. And I was civil enough, but all I could say was, "you threw my troll out the window." I can still remember that troll. I can remember all of my trolls actually. I collected them and would hide in my dad's closet on Sunday and steal pieces of pasta from the spaghetti box from Sunday dinner and take dixie cups and fill them with hot water from the bathroom sink and pretend to boil the pasta. Then I would feed the trolls Sunday dinner.
My favorite and first troll was named Crotch Fizzy. My best friend Nicky and I bought him at a gift shop at a convention vacation for Prudential that our parents attended. We named him Crotch Fizzy because he had yellow frizzy hair and my dad used to laugh this expression "crotch pheasants" when he would see a fly buzz around at the dinner table. Us kids thought it was so funny, probably because of his usage of the word crotch. We also would play MadLibs around the pool and when asked 'name of a container that holds liquid' I would always say penis and smirk. That was my only exusable opportunity to use the word penis. Penis. Penis.
But back to trolls. I love them. I have them all in my attic right now. I bet they are all having a spagetti dinner up there in the attic. I saved all my toys from childhood. Toys of the 80's are the best toys in the world!
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