Miss Coughlin
My Creepy 5th Grade Teacher
Our Lady of Lourdes School
Philadelphia, PA
1965-66
Her face and neck were caked with white make up foundation that looked as if it were painted on. Her lipstick was Chinese red and exceeded the outline of her lips. Her hair was the color of salt and pepper and it looked like a wiry, brillo pad. Her perfume was pungent and smelly, cheap. Every day, she wore the same thing: a white blouse and black skirt. She wore sensible shoes. In the winter, she wore a plain, black sweater. In the spring, she wore short sleeves. She wore thick nylon stocking with a seam, every day, regardless of the heat. She never deviated.
She never took a sick day, even when she was ill. She would come in with a cold and sneeze and cough on us all day. She stuffed her used tissues up her sleeve. She came to school every day come hell or high water.
In the morning, she stood outside, by the concrete steps in the courtyard. She held the school bell firmly in her hand and every day at 745 AM, she vigorously rang that bell and we were expected to
freeze in any position we held at that time. As we held our statutes poses, she scanned the yard to inspect our compliances. Those who moved, even ever so slightly, were reprimanded for all of us to hear. A second bell was sounded and we were expected to get in to our assigned lines. We were not to run but we were to move with a sense of urgency. We needed to get inside and start learning
right away.
Our classroom was up on the second floor so we got to go inside first. The first floor students could not go in until we were clearly on our way up the steps. This allowed for maximum efficiently of movement.
Our classroom was bland and oppressive. Entering through the door frame every day just filled me and everyone else with dread. It cloaked us. The dark, lifeless school day had begun. We had routines and people were assigned tasks: handing out marked tests, fixing the blinds, collecting homework. Usually, just the smart kids were given these responsibilities. I sat in my seat and waited quietly for my homework to be returned to me.
As we got all our papers and books out, she would make general announcements about who was not
meeting her expectations. Failing grades were announced. Those of us who did not finish
homework assignments were shamed. Never a compliment, just a focus on our sins, what we did wrong.
If a student dared to come in late, regardless of the reason, she would ridicule him as he slithered
into his seat. And then she would stand over him, taking up all of his available space and she would poke him in the head and tell him why she hated lateness. And she would speak with such anger that the veins in her neck would bulge and cause her makeup to crack.
Order, compliance and quiet were paramount to her. And it was expected at all time. And no one was to challenge her. No one was to stray. We were to do as we were told or we would be
hit on the head, our back or the legs with her yard stick or her pen.
Occasionally, she would be called out of the classroom. She would give instructions as to what we were to do in her absence. And no one spoke when she left us for fear that she was setting us up to catch us being disobedient. She could be just outside the door with one foot in the classroom. Or she could be gone for ½ hour. It didn’t matter. No one spoke for fear that she would find out. And when she returned, she called on the good kids to give a report on what had transpired in her absence. They answered in fear and occasionally paid the price in the courtyard for their honesty. But she never intervened on their behalf. That was just the price they had to pay for being smart.
In mid-morning, we had recess. Well, we didn’t have recess but the rest of the kids in the school did.
She thought fifth graders didn’t need a break. So as the other kids ran amuck in the courtyard, we diagramed sentences and filled in long division problems.
When the other kids had Halloween parties and Christmas parties, we had lectures on why school was not a place to celebrate; school was a place to learn. We were told to go home and celebrate with
our families.
She called all of us by our last name only. She never asked anything about us. There was a general
disinterest in us. It felt as if we were a hindrance to her work rather than we were her work. She had a specific amount of instruction to cover. And she was going to cover it whether we learned the material or not.
Nothing mattered more to her, except saying the rosary. Every day, right after lunch, we said the rosary. We were all expected to pray aloud with her as she patrolled up and down the aisles. If it appeared as if someone wandered off to a daydream, she would smack him on the side of the head without missing a beat to her “Hail Mary”.
The fifth grade was heavy, hard and heartless. I was afraid of her and I dreaded going to school
every day. Punishment was metered out randomly so it was difficult to distinguish what was right behavior and what was wrong behavior. It was just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It
was hard to determine what would set her off. So that left all of us on the edge of fear at all times.
And there seemed to be no end in sight at this awful time. Fifth grade was never going to end. So when we arrived to school one Monday morning, we were surprised, elated to see Mrs. Healy, our Girl Scout leader, as a substitute teacher. It appeared as if Miss Coughlin’s mother had died over the weekend and she was going to be out all week. We were overjoyed and would have clapped with joy except for fear of her finding out.
This week was filled with friendly exchanges and recess and moments of physical education. Mrs. Healy, a phys ed teacher by training, took two girls hair bands and we used them as batons in relay races around the classroom. Her suggestion that we get up and run around the classroom startled us.
Initially, we were defensive. And after a little prodding, we got up and ran around like POWs released from prison.
One afternoon, we made sympathy cards for Miss Coughlin. Since we didn’t have any art supplies, we had to make our cards out of ripped notebook paper and pencils. They were collected and put in a large office envelop and someone got to skip off to the principal’s office to deliver our package of goodwill.
The week went too quickly. So Monday rolled around and we all walked to school in anticipation. Would she take another week off? Could I be so lucky?
But my dreams were shattered when I looked and saw her there by the steps in her same, mean, witch
stare. Her mother’s death had not softened her one bit. She rang that bell with the same intensity it had always represented. The war bell had been sounded. The school day had begun. “You are mine now. I dare you to defy me”. So with sunken hearts, we froze and then quickly found our places in our line formation. Our short term moment of liberty was over.
When we got to our classroom, we found a note written on the chalkboard: “Students, thank you for
your cards”. Nothing more was addressed about her mother, her absence or anything else that happened last week. It almost felt like a dream, as if last week,hadn’t really happened to any of us. We just picked up with our routine of order, compliance and quiet.
Sometime later, I don’t remember if it was a few weeks or a few months, but Mrs. Healy showed up again. Miss Coughlin was gone again but this time, no explanation was given. There was a little secrecy to her absence. When we questioned Mrs. Healy, she responded with nervousness. Her answers were curt and vague.
At recess, the other teachers huddled together in gossip. We could hear snippets of their conversations. And we were able to piece together some sort of explanation: Miss Coughlin had had a nervous breakdown. She was in the hospital. I didn’t understand the full implications of
what was going on. But I sensed that she would not be returning. And I was right,
we never saw her again. No one mentioned her, ever again.
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