Am I Allowed To Eat During Mass?, Part II

At some point during the first few months of my schooling, our young, enthusiastic teacher was replaced by an aged, withering, angry woman names Mrs. Moran.  In reality, she was probably in her early 40's, but when you're in Kindergarten, everyone else is ready for the morgue.  Mrs. Moran had a completely different demeanor when compared to our original teacher, and it didn't take long for us to realize that our paste eating and pants peeing would be greeted with the tolerance of a regimist dictator.  Even at the tender age of five, I remember being greatly distraught at the change in teachers, and I'm fairly certain that it contributed to my difficulties with teachers later in life.

Throughout Kindergarten, being the non-Catholic in a Catholic school made for troublesome situations.  Each report card was marred by an "F" in various Catholic studies, including the ability to perform the "sign of the cross" on ones self properly.  I always got the shoulders backwards.  The other kids (actually, my father) tried to teach me "spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch" but this only confused me, as I'm quite sure I had no idea what spectacles or testicles were at that point.  By reciting this poem and still screwing up the gestures, I probably received a failing grade in "Health" as well.

One of the cornerstones of my Catholic schooling was going to mass once a week.  I believe it was only once a week, but at the time it seemed as if we went every afternoon.  We would all line up and march over to the sanctuary, where I would carefully choose the most uncomfortable seat I could find.  I frequently fell asleep during the service, a problem I have continued to encounter in my adult years.  Mrs. Moran would approach with clenched teeth and yell/whisper "Bret, wouldch you pleashe shtay awake!"  This would repeat itself for the eight hour duration of the mass, at which time I would always awaken refreshed and ready for my donut.

The Catholics, it seemed, had two things down pat at our school.  One was the donuts.  After mass we would file into the basement where there would be long, folded tables adorned with cake donuts in white boxes with frosting stuck to the tops of the lids.  I'm sure there was a donut distribution system at work, but I managed to always find a loophole which provided me additional donuts as desired.  The other thing that the Catholics had mastered was drinking coffee from Styrofoam coffee cups while eating their donuts.  I can remember the smell of burnt coffee in that basement to this day.  Once I had received my 2000 calories of donuts, we would march back to our classroom for a nap on the carpet squares. 

On May 13, 1981 an announcement was made over the little loudspeaker at the front of our classroom.  "We have received a report that an assassination attempt has been made on Pope John Paul II's life.  More information will be provided as it is received."  This announcement meant little to my heathen five year old ears, but it had a profound effect on my teacher.  I remember her clutching her chest and saying a prayer.

"Who the heck's the pope?" was my response.

She muttered something about "you ungrateful little basket" or something similar to my ears and dragged me off to a corner.  I genuinely had no idea who the pope was (or what an assassination was, for that matter) so I was incensed at my treatment at the hands of the warden.  The circumstances of the day were later explained to the class, but it did little to cool my head after being made to stand alone in the corner for a good 15 minutes.  The nerve.