Critical Thinking 101

I wish I had said something—anything—to my parents. Not that it would’ve mattered. I was raised under the charming philosophy of children should be seen and not heard, which is just a polite way of saying I had no voice and absolutely no authority to question the adults who were always, magically, right.

It was almost recess when I finally snapped. Something came over me—likely years of suppressed rage wrapped in Catholic discipline—and I helped myself to Mary Hill’s eraser. Now, let the record show: I was not a mean or malicious child. But Mary wasn’t being particularly pleasant that day, and apparently my breaking point was stationery-related. So I did what any emotionally overwhelmed second grader would do: I smacked her on the back with it.

This was no ordinary eraser. It was that classic pink rubber brick—rectangular, oddly sweet-smelling, and designed to shed pink flakes everywhere like confetti for academic failure. I’d erase, then casually wipe the evidence onto the floor like a tiny criminal mastermind.

After recess, Mary Hill did what victims are trained to do early—she reported it. Mrs. Anzer summoned me to the front of the classroom, where justice was swift, creative, and deeply unhinged. I was ordered to stand inside a garbage can, return the eraser, and then Mary Hill was instructed to hit me on the back. All of this, of course, was performed live for my classmates. Because nothing teaches moral behavior like public shaming and audience participation. As an adult looking back, I thought that was unique to Medieval time through the Middle Ages. Apparently not since it was alive and well while I attended Catholic School.

But wait—there’s more.

Apparently humiliation has tiers. Enter Principal Sister Noreen, who escalated things by dragging me to the girls’ bathroom, pulling down my pants, and spanking me hard. She was clearly a woman brimming with unresolved repression and decided the best outlet was abusing her authority over small children. She assured me she had my parents’ permission and thoughtfully added that telling them would be pointless.

Spoiler alert: she was lying.

I didn’t tell my parents that day. Or that year. Or for decades. I finally told them when I was 55 years old—and they were horrified. They had never given Sister Noreen permission to lay a hand on me.

I can’t help but wonder how many other children were on the receiving end of her misdirected anger and unchecked power. But hey—at least Mary got her eraser back. Priorities.