A Sister, a Red Pen and a School of Girls

St. Francis Academy, home of the Skylarks. School colors - brown and white. An all girl school hidden on the southside of San Antonio. I can still see Sr. Martina patroling the lobby area, waiting for all the the girls that would be tardy that morning so she can scowl at them in disapproval; Ms. DeLeon, in her own adult-version of our brown and white plaid uniform, turning the corner into the teacher's workroom, secretly wishing she were a young girl again; and Sr. Angelina, our senior moderator, who never approved of anything we did, and always seems to be stressing about something, while she waited for us in homeroom. Her farewell gift we would wish her in our prom books would be fitting and inappropriate at the same - a lifetime supply of Prozac. We were girls. We were moody. We bitched about everything. It's a miracle the entire faculty wasn't on the stuff. Now, it's the beginning of my senior year and my how the last three years have flown. I still remember walking into the cafeteria that muggy August morning of my freshman year, with a mouth full of metal, a semi uni-brow that would last until my first year in college and a sense of fear and pressure - fear of not knowing anyone BUT the nuns and the pressure of being the student I was expected to be, not because of who I was, but because who my mother was. I am a product of the Catholic school system and I am proud of that fact; but back then, yeah, proud was not the word I would have chosen.

My mother has been an educator for many years. She spent the early part of her career teaching for the Archdiocese of San Antonio. One of her first principals was Sr. Agnes; a nun known for her tough teaching methods, her ability to make a student cry by simply looking at them, and her red pen. (That would be our gift to her at prom, a lifetime supply of red pens). As time went on and she got older, she eventually transferred to St. Francis and became the senior English teacher. Everyone feared her. No one EVER got a paper returned that wasn't covered in red; corrections, comments, suggestions; no term paper was safe. My sister and my cousins would be among some of her victims; and yes, even I was sometimes afraid. But away from the classroom, she was a dear friend of my mother's and of the family. She was there the first day my mother brought me home from the hospital; she was the first to hold me at home. My mom loves to tell me how Sr. Agnes held me and would say, "One day, I'll have you in my classroom. You just wait and see." I would spend the next years of my childhood and early adolescence trucking along with my mom to her classroom, especially on the weekends; while that may seem boring to some, I looked forward to the visit we would make to the convent afterwards. My mother loved to stop and say hello, even after Sr. Agnes moved to St. Francis; and she always seemed to know when we were coming. Sr. Agnes would set up her bedroom with things for me to "shop" for. When we arrived, and after a round of hellos, Sr. Agnes would ask me if I wanted to go shopping. So there we went. She'd have little note pads, bookmarkers, pretty pens, note paper, mini plaques with inspirational phrases on them, kinda like the things you'd expect to see in a Hallmark store. I'd pick out some things; my favorites I still have today - a wooden plaque with the meaning of my name on it and a little white plaque with a rainbow on it talking about happiness; she left me a personal message on the back of that one. They are among my most prized possessions.

Now, as I walked towards this campus for what would be my last year, I feel that same sense of fear and pressure I did those three years ago. Only now, the fear and the pressure are for different reasons - fear of leaving what has become my security blanket and my home and the pressure to be successful, to take what I have learned and succeed. For this year, as my electives, I was scheduled to take Art in the fall and Creative Writing in the spring. Because Sr. Agnes suffered with severe arthritis, and with her age, teaching senior English became to much for her to handle. Now, she could only handle two sections of Creative Writing. Througout that first semester, the girls would whine and complain about Sr. Agnes; how hard she was, the things she made them write, her red pen, and so on. Like any senior, I wanted to enjoy my last semester - there was prom, my trip during spring break, graduation, so I didn't want to be worried about some writing class that was only going to count as an elective anyway. Right before the Christmas break, I came home and told my mom I was going to drop Creative Writing and take Home Economics instead. She about flipped a lid; but she said it was my choice, but I had to go tell Sr. Agnes face-to-face that I was dropping her class. That was a visit that would forever change my life.

I arrived at the convent, and as I walked up those short steps, I was praying that Sr. Agnes would either be in chapel, asleep or out with some of the other sisters. Unfortunately, fate being what it is, Sr. Agnes answered the door. She had to lean back to see who it was due to the arthritis in her back, and said, "Margaret! What a nice surprise." I said hello and I stepped inside to the sitting area. As I started to explain why I was there, all of the sudden my palms got sweaty, I was nervous and scared, when I finally muttered out the words, "Uh, Sister, I've decided to take Home Ec instead of your writing class this coming spring." She was silent at first, and then, as if it was something she said everyday, tells me, "That's fine. You'll be stupid, but if that's what you want then ok. Go to college, you won't know how to write a paper, but I guess Home Ec can teach you something useful." I was floored. I didn't know how to respond. I fumbled around a few apologetic words and phrases and when I left there I found myself disappointed in what I had done. It was a Sunday afternoon; Monday morning I went in and changed my schedule back to what it was. I spent the spring semester with Sr. Agnes. I learned what poetry really was and I learned to write short stories. More importantly, I had the opporunity to be in her classroom, something my mother reminded me of that Sunday afternoon when I got home, "Margaret, she could've retired a long time ago; why do you think she's still there? She's been waiting for you." It's a decision I've never regretted, no matter how many times she wrote in red, because yes, even I fell victim to the red Mead pen; but I was glad.

My senior year would be Sr. Agnes' last year, she moved back to Pittsburgh and died the spring semester of my freshman year at the Lake. I was devastated when I heard the news and heartbroken that I would not be able to attend her funeral in Pittsburgh. She gave me the push I needed to go further. She challenged me in ways I had never been challenged. She believed in me. She gave me the courage to do the things I didn't like doing, like writing poems. Maybe this is what she knew all along, that I had this talent, but knew that it was something I needed to find out for myself when the time was right. An afternoon of cornbread just didn't happen, it took time to get all the ingredients together; but like any good recipe, there's always that one secret ingredient, for me and my drean, it was Sr. Agnes, and for that, I thank her.

Till next time...

Start From the Beginning

A light went on today. In my head and in my heart. I have the gift of gab, of being able to say what needs to be said. My thoughts can be humorous, inventive, boring, silly, and even sad, but more importantly my thoughts are real and they're my own. I've decided I can no longer make excuses for not getting started with my dream, my dream of becoming a professional writer. At 31, life isn't getting any shorter or easier, and there are still some things I want to accomplish before my time is up. We all go through life with the idea that there will be another time, later on, to do those things we say we want and need to do. What exactly does that mean? When exactly is "later on"? What's so wrong with right now? What's wrong with today?

Today I spoke with a true friend. Someone who reminds me of all that is good in my life and all that I've been blessed with. They reminded me of this gift I carry with me every where I go, and how I need to share it with the world. While the "world" might sound like a bit much, it was a valid conversation and she made her point. We spend so much time focusing on what it is we don't have, that it becomes very easy to forget what it is we DO have; and right now, I have much. Driving home from work, I realized that those people that matter most in my life have been encouraging me to do this for so long; but no one can make someone do something, they have to want to do it for themselves. In talking with my friend today, and talking about writing and sharing my stories and daily adventures, the ideas began to flow. For now, for my beginning, it's important for you to know when this dream became a reality for me. My URL says it all...but I will explain.

I began my college experience at Our Lady of the Lake University here in San Antonio, TX. I always dreamed of going AWAY for school, with my parents driving me to some other city or state, helping me unload my things and leaving me alone; to face the world on my own. For a small town girl, it made for an ideal story, BUT, being who I am, procrastination set in and I was fortunate to get into the Lake when I did. It would turn out to be the best procrastination decision I would ever make.

After several attempts at various majors, I finally found my comfort in the Communications department. Part of my degree required me to minor in English and while I wasn't entirely sold on the idea of additional reading and writing, I knew it would be ok. One class in particular was a Creative Writing class I took one fall semester on Wednesday nights with my cousin Rosanne. Our professor was quite eccentric in her own quirky way, but she made our class that much more enjoyable. Because we only met once a week, she was not a follower of "cancelling" class as many of her fellow colleagues were. One fateful Wednesday, she arrived to class with a severe case of bronchitis; and while we all sat there, contemplating her next move, she stood up, walked over to the dry erase board and wrote a phrase on the board..."in the afternoon of cornbread". In what little voice she had she said, "Your assignment for today is to write a poem using this phrase. It can be part of your title, but it has to be included in the body of your poem. You may begin." With that, she sat back down, opened her latest literature adventure, picked up her cup of tea and never looked up again. We all sat there. Then, one by one, we each turned to our computers and began to work. I, personally, hate writing poems. I can write essays, short stories, journal entries, and opinion papers all day long; but poems? Yeah, not so much, but I had to.

I spent the next 30 minutes typing. I didn't stop. It was like someone turned on a faucet of words and ideas and was letting it run through my head. It was such an awesome experience. When I finally stopped typing, I went back, re-read it, changed one word and hit print. My cousin, who was sitting next to me, asked me, "You're done already?" To which I replied, "Yes. She may not like it; it doesn't rhyme; but I'm tired and I just want to get it over with. I hate writing poems." She graded our papers that very night (FYI - class was from 6:30-9:20) and it didn't take her long to read a few poems and give her feedback.

When she handed me my paper back, she looked at me and simply smiled. I looked down at what she handed me and read her three perfectly written words, "I love this." Below is what I submitted to her:

In the afternoon of cornbread,
I see my grandmother standing over a hot stove,
Tasting her spicy caldo.

In the afternoon of cornbread,
I hear grasshoppers chirping through the fields,
Making their way to their homes.

In the afternoon of cornbread,
I feel water on my back as I backstroke in the lake,
Tanning my already burned body.

In the afternoon of cornbread,
I taste salty sweat on the necks of my nieces,
Coming in after a day in the sun.

In the afternoon of cornbread,
I smell gasoline and diesel of a lawnmower,
Eating its way across our yard.

Summer days flood my memory,
Reminding me of my family,
In the afternoon of cornbread.

While I may change a few of the images and ideas NOW, this is where my creativity was then; but it was the first time I truly realized I had a gift. Someone, who knew nothing about me, looked at something I wrote and loved it. I was a writer. A vessel of ideas, memories, imagination and dreams. This blog is a beginning for me; a start to what I can only hope will help me reach my goals. I hope that my thoughts and stories to come will bring a sense of comfort, and even entertainment, to those who read it. It's funny, all I needed to get started was just a little bit of cornbread and a dream.

Till next time...