by Chris “Coach” Phelan

The third graders were out for recess. Bradley and I went with them. He wanted me to stop Joan from getting between him and Suze, a pretty girl in our class.

It was a game of cat-and-mouse between Joan and me, but Bradley got to talk to Suze. She didn’t seem to mind his attention.

When the bell rang, the class lined up to go into Sister Paula’s classroom. Sister Paula was the best nun in the school. We took our seats quickly. She gave us a workbook assignment, and off we went.

Before we got through the first question, the door flew open. Principal Mother Joanna blew in like the wind. She was carrying “The Paddle” with her.

Mother Joanna yelled, spit, and spewed words that no one heard. Then she called my name, and demanded,. “Come here. Now.”

“What for?” I said. “What did I do?” I walked slowly down my row in front of 23 students.

Mother Joanna yelled, “Bend over!”

I was about to be embarrassed more.

“What did I do to deserve this?”

“You were caught flirting in the schoolyard, young man.”

Flirting? As an eight-year-old, I didn’t know what flirting meant. Before the first of 12 whacks landed, I knew this was all wrong, out of bounds and. I was innocent. Then, agony began. With the first THAAWACK, tremendous pain matched my confusion.

THAAWACK!

Two! I thought I was going to collapse.

THAAWACK went the third. GEEEEEEEEZ and crackers!

THAAWACK! I wouldn’t start dating until I was 23.

THAAWACK! Aaaaghr.

THAAWACK! I wouldn’t marry until I was 40.

THAAWACK! Halfway.

THAAWACK! I’ll never make it.

THAAWACK! All eyes were on me.

THAAWACK! My sobs were as much for the pain and shame as for not understanding why.

THAAWACK! I lost count. EXCRUCIATING pain!

THAAWACK.

THAAWACK.

She stopped at 13. She lost count. Lucky me. Thank God for the saints, the rosary, and Mother Joanna’s arm for getting tired. I was still alive.

I was a crying sopping mess.

Mother Joanna yelled at me some more. Told me to take my seat. At eight years old, I was disgraced and charged with a crime I didn’t commit, couldn’t define or spell. Mother Joanna left.

When Mother Joanna was gone, Sister Paula told everyone to take out a piece of paper. “I want you to write 20 things about the U.S. Government by the end of class. Go”. Sister Paula gave the class something to move their attention off me.

I grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling. I couldn’t see the lines or write words on my paper that was getting soggy. My hands and body trembled. My tears ran as I gagged to breathe.

Sister Paula walked the aisles slowly to check our assignments. When she turned down my row, I was still a mess, trying to understand what had just taken place and get myself together. She looked at the assignments, passing each desk with her hands inside her black habit.

Finally, she came to my desk which was at the end of the row.  

Sister Paula paused and put her right hand on my desk. Leaning in slightly, she spoke two words that would make my world right and give me respect, again.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a hushed tone.

Her hand didn’t leave my desk for a moment that seemed to go on forever. She gave me a nod that seemed to say she knew about the injustice but couldn’t stop it. Everything would be OK because Sister Paula nodded it so.

“Everything will be all right,” I nodded back just as slowly. “I’m sorry, too.”

She knew it was a sham. She knew I was innocent. The tenderness and admiration she showed through two words and a hand of kindness spoke volumes about her.

***

Forty-four years later, back in the same town, I walked into a store and there she was, attractive with light-brown and blond hair and a soft, slow, and deliberate speech pattern. It had to be Joan. After I gave her my name, she said she knew exactly who I was. I had confirmation; it was Joan. As I looked into her eyes, remembering our playful times together as children.

“I want to ask you about something that happened in our class.” I paused not wanting to overwhelm her.

“If I remember correctly, I was paddled. Do you remember that?”

“Yes. There was nothing I could do to stop it. There was nothing we could…do.” Joan was clearly getting upset. I had to ask the big question.

“Do you know WHY I was paddled?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. For flirting.”

I had validation! It did happen!

“Yeah. Flirting,” she said. “The nuns weren’t too cool on that boy-girl thing.”

“Flirting?” I asked in disbelief. “I didn’t know what that was.”

“You were the wrong person. Someone made a mistake and didn’t stop it before it was too late. All of us saw you up there. Me, Bradley, Suze. We were afraid to say anything to stop it.

We were afraid we would get punished.”

 “I don’t remember Suze,” I said.

“We finished recess where all of the school’s kids were running around. Everything was innocent. We went up to our classroom. Mother Joanna, the school principal, came barging in.”

“I remember her clearly,” I said. “What happened after we played in the schoolyard?” This was the first time I’d talked to someone who knew what took place.

“Mother Joanna yelled at the class. And then she called your name to the front.”

Joan took a breath and went on. “It was horrible.”

“Joan. I was humiliated for something I didn’t do. I didn’t understand what was going on. Why didn’t any of you stand up for me?”

“I know. I know.”

Then, after all those years and all those questions, after ghosts and memories, I heard those two words again that can heal the world and, at the same time, change it.

“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “I’m so sorry.”

In the end, we all survived third grade and went to the next grade. Paddling was abolished.