Critical Thinking 101
Re-Recollection
1961
While Catholic school was never a rich breeding ground for independent thinking, I do remember one occasion when I briefly toyed with the idea. It was during Freshman Civics class.
We were tackling the question, “How can a just and compassionate society help reduce juvenile delinquency?” Almost immediately, someone suggested making improvements to public facilities and infrastructure — specifically, the construction of a swimming pool at the local park.
Never having met a juvenile delinquent myself or even come across someone who leaned toward that perversion, I had no evidence to argue for or against swimming pools as mitigating influences. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to interject a dissenting view into a discussion that was clearly veering toward a chlorinated water solution. On the other hand, I was genuinely puzzled by their reasoning and frankly anxious to steer the conversation toward a more punitive remedy.
While I could agree that swimming was a more productive juvenile activity than petty theft, my learned predisposition toward punishing young criminals made the pool idea sound too much like a publicly-funded bribe, especially when incarceration had already proven to be an effective deterrent. Hadn’t it?
Armed with this compelling argument, I couldn’t wait to raise my hand and smugly ask, “How is a wet juvenile delinquent better than a dry one?”
Instead, armed only with my pathological need to conform, I raised my hand and politely announced, “I like the pool idea.”
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CATEGORY DEFINITIONS:
Re-Recollection: A brief, occasionally edited recounting of an event or situation.
Rude Awakening: A short piece of writing describing a sudden awareness or discovery that causes a change in perception.
Rabid Rant: A brief diatribe on a single topic, often characterized by strong and passionate language.
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.