A School Resister
I AM proud to say that I am married to a man who hated school.
From his very first day at St. Michael’s Catholic School in Chester, Pennsylvania, where he was one of 74 in his class, A. Wood hated it. He went to first grade without any of the preliminaries. No day care. No nursery school. No kindergarten. None of the cinder-block experiences that kill the spirit of defiance before first grade. He spent the first six years of his life un-institutionalized. He was “Tony” to his four siblings, parents and other relatives in his working class neighborhood.
Here is his description of his first day of school:
That first morning that I checked into my minimum-security prison, I walked to school with my three brothers. We were in the company of my mother, for the only time in my memory.
Only “publicans” went to kindergarten. Catholic school kids were not subject to blackboard tyranny until first grade. We had no introduction to school or its alleged benefits, such as learning the alphabet and the Arabic number system. The only thing I had in the way of preparation was a vinyl pencil box given to me by a deaf-and-dumb neighbor. As a testament to neighborhood insensitivity, we knew her only as “Deafy.”
My first surprise was learning that my name was “Anthony.” I saw it in print, written in magic marker on a cardboard strip and sealed in cellophane.
I was in a room with 71 other first graders whom I had never seen in my life. The room smelled of disinfectant and rotting bananas. I proceeded to talk to the girl sitting next to me.
“Anthony,” and this was the first time anyone had addressed me as such, “We don’t talk in here.” So pronounced Sister Joseph Beatrice of the Sisters of St. Joseph. The nuns wore shoe-length black woolen habits adorned with a starched, circular bib; a sash, and a crucifix and rosary with wooden beads the size of jellybeans. Their severe, starched headpieces appeared hammered into their foreheads. They were attached to the habit with stiff ear-flaps that they said gave them super-hearing.
Since I was enjoined from talking, I began to move from side to side in my desk chair.
“Anthony,” said Sister Joseph Beatrice, “We don’t move in here.” I’m thinking, okay, so what do we do in here. (more…)


