The Feral Dogs

This story is taken from my blog: bridgetkellyinhaiti.blogspot.com.  During the summer of 2013, I was  running a Wellness Program in Jacmel, Haiti.

Tuesday, July 30- They sit under our tables, at our feet, as we eat.  Four feral dogs hang at our hotel.  Some of the guests toss pieces of food to them.  The kitchen staff feeds them the table scraps; they are better feed than many children in Haiti.

Last night, around 11PM, we noticed the maintenance man tie two of the dogs together on the same piece of rope.  He began dragging them off somewhere.  The dogs cried out in protest. We intervened and he released them, begrudgingly.  We ask what he intended to do with the dogs.  He doesn’t really answer us.  But he does comply with our request to let the dogs go.

Two hours later, I am abruptly awakened by the sound of a dog, howling in pain and fear.  These sounds are horrible.  Then there is a loud, blunt cracking noise.  The howling stopped abruptly.  The silence was deafening and unnerving.  I think to call to Frank to ask if he just heard what happened.  But the moment was just so upsetting that I didn’t want to drag him in to this sorrow if he didn’t hear it.

This morning we notice only two dogs, one of which is now walking around with a very serious limp.  The absence of the other two dogs weighs heavy on all of us.  Slowly, we all confess that we heard the bludgeoning of the dog.

Jack

JACK

My Grandfather

June 5, 1900-December 5, 1974


Lying in bed
Dying of cancer
I call to him
It’s too painful to answer
I look into his sad blue eyes
And hear his painful cries
Tossing and turning
His body is burning
It’s an effort to live
But he keeps on trying
Such a thin line
Between living and dying

Snow Geese Migration

 

I am lost on a country road with nowhere to turn around.  I finally see a driveway on this long, narrow road so I make a quick U-turn.  All of the sudden, I hear a loud noise and look to my left.  There are thousands and thousands of snow geese in this farmer's back yard.  I stop the car and just watch. I have never seen so many living beings on one place as I see at this precious moment.

Daintree Rain Forest, Australia

Where the rain forest meets the reef.

Mount Everest

Mount Everest stands over 29,000 feet.  Few people have climbed to the top and I am not one of them.  While I admire their courage, tenacity and skill, I do not even want to hike to the base camp, let alone go up to the death zone and risk my life.  So when the pilot told us to look out the window and glimpse at the view of the mountain, I was thrilled.  We were flying at 32,000 feet and this is the closest I am ever going to get to this monster of a mountain and that is close enough for me.

Gangrene Has Set In

A young man comes to our wellness clinic with a serious foot injury.  He has already been to the local hospital where the doctor recommended that his foot be amputated. Gangrene has set in.  The man grieves over this thought.  If he loses his foot, he loses his job.  He begs Mary, our doctor, for some sort of intervention, some sort of miracle.  Mary also recommends that he have his foot amputated before the gangrene spreads up his leg.  But he is not ready or willing to surrender to this option. 

Under protest, Mary designs a treatment plan filled with an exorbitant amount of antibiotics.  She gives him a two week window of treatment and tells him if he is not better, he must have his foot amputated.  She tells him she will pray for a miracle. He thanks her profusely. Then he limps out of the clinic with his arsenal of antibodies and a glimmer of hope.  Mary, however,  spends the rest of her day and week swallowed up in sadness and hopelessness for this man.

(This story is part of a series of stories about my time in Haiti at a Wellness Program. The complete story can be found in bridgetkellyinhaiti.blogspot.com)

The Tea Bitches: Parts I & II

Bejing, China

Feb. 2012

The Tea Bitches: Part I

 Leaving the walls of the Forbidden City, I was approached by two women in their late thirties. 

 "Hello, Hello, You speak English, I speak Chinese.  Ha, ha, we walk with you and practice our English."

When I am in Asia, this is a request that is made of me a hundred times over.  I never say no but it is tiring to be interviewed by these people.  And it is equally hard to be polite when they distract me from my original plans.  So these two women, Jen and Tan, tagged along and asked me the same damn questions I am always asked. “You from America? You have husband? You have children?  Where your family?"

After about a half hour, Jen, asked me if I wanted to join them for a cup of tea, "It very cold today. Tea hot, good for you.  Good for you digestive system." It was cold and I was tired so I said yes and off we went to a nearby tea house. Jen seemed to know everyone in the place and they seemed to know her. We got a private room and Jen asked me what kind of tea I liked.  I asked to look at a menu and reached for the one on the table but Jen grabbed the menu and abruptly said, "No, this not ours.  This something different." She handed me a different menu and suggested that we try a variety of teas.  So a waitress in her 20s can in and poured us six different cups of tea and all of them were great.

Then the waitress came in and mentioned something about my credit card and handed me the bill.  I was a little confused but noticed that the second woman, Tan, looked away, almost in shame and then I knew something was up.  I looked at the bill and it was over $300.  Jen told me I could put this bill on my credit card.  I protested and said that this was outrageous but then Jen pulled out that original menu and I saw that all of the prices were grossly inflated. The three of them worked in unison on this scheme and I realized I was not going to get out without paying some sort of hefty price.  Then I heard the gurgle of the boiling tea pot.  Jen was holding a pot of hot water, standing right beside me.  I didn't think she would throw it on me.  But then I also didn't think she would try to take me for my money.  So I just angrily decided to cut my losses and get out unhurt.  There were three of them.  Now, they were all talking to each other only in Chinese and the waitress was growing impatient.

"I don't have my credit card with me.  I don't have enough money to pay for this." I tell them without confidence. "That OK", Jen says, "we pay half and you pay half.  You pay more because you college professor and we just lowly kindergarten teachers".  So they forked over about a third of the cost.  I paid the equivalent of about $200 and we quickly left after that.  Once outside, Jen asked if there was anywhere I wanted to go next.  I told her I had to leave right away; I wanted to get away from her.  She seemed surprised, but said goodbye.  I went back to my hotel, seething with anger.  When I was in the midst of the confrontation at the tea house, I just thought that I had to get out unhurt.  But now that I was away from them and safe, I was so angry with them and with myself.  How did I let this situation get so out of hand?  And when I reflect back, was I being cowardly or prudent?

The Tea Bitches: Part II

I was up all night, so angry that I couldn't sleep.  So I decided that I would go to the police station in the morning and file a complaint.  I was not going to leave Beijing until some sort of justice had been served.

I was up, bright and early by 7AM.  It was till a little dark outside but I didn't care. I went down to the front desk and asked the staff member if she would call the police for me.

"No, I can’t" she tells me.

"Why not?"

“I don't know the number".

"Can't we look it up?"

 "I don't know how to do that"

"Well, we can look it up on the Internet," I suggested with a little tone.

"No, the Internet is broken for three days now."

"No it isn't. I used it last night and your system is on right now.  Can’t you look up the number for me?"  I am determined that she is going to help me.

"No, the police will do nothing about it.  It happens all the time.  Last week a lady lost $500.  Police can’t do anything because they didn't see it."

Finally, she relented and drew a map of where she thought the local police station is so I set out on my own to find the police.  But that was a wasted effort because I found nothing that remotely resembled a police station.  So I came back to my hotel in defeat but more determined that the staff woman was going to help me.

I implored her to help me but she was unmoving in her steadfast position that the police would do nothing. 

"Get your manager," I demanded. 

So she walked to the back room. When she returned, she told me that the manager was not going to come out because the police can do nothing.  Now I was furious.  In my loud voice, so that the manger could hear, I told her that she had a responsibility to help her guests and she should not he harboring criminals.   Then the manger appeared.  She said they had a night watchman who helped out the lady who lost the $500.  He wrote something on a piece of paper and told the woman to take it back to the shop and she got half of her money back.  The manager called the night watchman at home and he dictated something to her. She wrote it down, told me to go to the tea house right away and see if I could get some of my money back.  I asked her twice what was written on the note but both times, she just ignored my question.

So with note in hand, I marched off to the tea house with anger and determination.  As I opened the door I was greeted by a pleasant young woman and I immediately stepped in to my crazy mood.  I showed her the note and yelled that I demanded all of my money back.  She jumped in fear and I felt empowered.  She immediately called her boss and as she was talking to this woman, I was yelling in the background, "Tell her I am not leaving until I get my money."  I was immediately offered half of what I paid yesterday.  "No," I barked back loudly, “I am not leaving until I get all of it."

Just then he door opens up and in walks the waitress from yesterday.  She begins to greet me but then she realizes who I am.  Her coworkers call to her in Chinese to give her a heads up that a crazed lady is in their midst. She quickly throws out an offer for a 75% return on my money.

"No, I want it all.  I have already called the police and I called the US Embassy and I filed out a report on you."  That seemed to get her attention. "You no go to the police for this."

Then I noticed a police officer outside so I ran to get him.   He directed me to go to Tiananmen Square to get police help.  I came back in a police car and three police officers and I left with all of my money.

For more stories about my time in china, please feel free to look at my blog: bridgetkellyinchina.blogspot.com

The Tea Bitches: Part I- A Scam In China

Bridget Kelly in China: The Tea Bitches: Part I:

Friday, February 24, 2012

The Tea Bitches: Part I

 Leaving the walls of the Forbidden City, I was approached by two women in their late thirties. 

 "Hello, Hello, You speak English, I speak Chinese.  Ha, ha, we walk with you and practice our English."

When I am in Asia, this is a request that is made of me a hundred times over.  I never say no but it is tiring to be interviewed by these people.  And it is equally hard to be polite when they distract me from my original plans.  So these two women, Jen and Tan, tagged along and asked me the same damn questions I am always asked. “You from America? You have husband? You have children?  Where your family?"

After about a half hour, Jen, asked me if I wanted to join them for a cup of tea, "It very cold today. Tea hot, good for you.  Good for you digestive system." It was cold and I was tired so I said yes and off we went to a nearby tea house. Jen seemed to know everyone in the place and they seemed to know her. We got a private room and Jen asked me what kind of tea I liked.  I asked to look at a menu and reached for the one on the table but Jen grabbed the menu and abruptly said, "No, this not ours.  This something different." She handed me a different menu and suggested that we try a variety of teas.  So a waitress in her 20s can in and poured us six different cups of tea and all of them were great.

Then the waitress came in and mentioned something about my credit card and handed me the bill.  I was a little confused but noticed that the second woman, Tan, looked away, almost in shame and then I knew something was up.  I looked at the bill and it was over $300.  Jen told me I could put this bill on my credit card.  I protested and said that this was outrageous but then Jen pulled out that original menu and I saw that all of the prices were grossly inflated. The three of them worked in unison on this scheme and I realized I was not going to get out without paying some sort of hefty price.  Then I heard the gurgle of the boiling tea pot.  Jen was holding a pot of hot water, standing right beside me.  I didn't think she would throw it on me.  But then I also didn't think she would try to take me for my money.  So I just angrily decided to cut my losses and get out unhurt.  There were three of them.  Now, they were all talking to each other only in Chinese and the waitress was growing impatient.

"I don't have my credit card with me.  I don't have enough money to pay for this." I tell them without confidence. "That OK", Jen says, "we pay half and you pay half.  You pay more because you college professor and we just lowly kindergarten teachers".  So they forked over about a third of the cost.  I paid the equivalent of about $200 and we quickly left after that.  Once outside, Jen asked if there was anywhere I wanted to go next.  I told her I had to leave right away; I wanted to get away from her.  She seemed surprised, but said goodbye.  I went back to my hotel, seething with anger.  When I was in the midst of the confrontation at the tea house, I just thought that I had to get out unhurt.  But now that I was away from them and safe, I was so angry with them and with myself.  How did I let this situation get so out of hand?  And when I reflect back, was I being cowardly or prudent?

Antarctica

 

It's a little warmer today than yesterday but still -10F.  So we decide to take a ride around the bay in the zodiac boats.  We bundle up as usual and make our way down the gangway and slip into the crowded boat.  The ambient air is uncomfortably cold as we settle on to a space on one of the sides.  We snuggle together in hopes of just a little more body heat. And then we take off and zip into this cove of ice sculptures.  We are surrounded by nothing but massive mounds of ice and its beauty leaves us speechless.

Reading Glasses in Peru- 2004

   Distributing Reading Glasses in Peru- 

 

It is late afternoon, just a little bit cooler than it was at noon but still very hot.  We board one of the handmade log canoes and make our way downstream, shielded from the sun by the massive protection of the trees. We are headed to one of the local villages, which sit right on the banks of the Amazon River. 

   As we walk along a poorly designated path, Victor, our guide, show us every plant and its medical purpose.  We touch leaves that serve as contraceptives and spontaneous abortions.  A tree bark heels an upset stomach. And leafy plants cure cancer, headaches, sore muscles and just about anything else. 

    W e meet the mayor and his wife. He proudly invites us into his humble home.  It’s about the size of my cabin and five people sleep in that one tiny space.  There are three single beds on the floor and two hammocks suspend from the ceiling.  There is no other furniture in this house. A singular light bulb hangs from the ceiling.  On Tuesday evenings, there is electricity for two hours.

We visit the Anglo church and the only item on the bare walls is a lone, plastic clock.  There are no crucifixes or religious pictures.  If Victor hadn’t told us that this is the church, I would have assumed it was a town meeting hall.

We visit the two schoolrooms for grades 1-6.  One teacher hasn’t arrived yet to start the new school year.   So those students haven’t started school yet.  The other classroom serves the older kids. There are about 20 of them. This teacher holds her 1-½ year old baby on her hip as she gives instruction on math skills.  There are no supplies, no books, very little paper, poor lighting, distracting mosquitos and it is hot.  There is nothing going on in that classroom that is conducive to good learning.

As we begin to head out and leave the village, Victor leads us to a town square where everyone congregated.  The mayor gathered everyone to meet us there.  It is here and now that he is going to distribute the eyeglasses I brought for them.  I had 20 pairs of gasses and had given them to the mayor to give out as he saw fit.

He announces that we will start with the older people so people line up by age.  The oldest, a fail woman who looks to be about 90, tries on a pair.  No, no good.  So that pair is passed on to the next person, a man who is satisfied with this offer.  He takes his glasses and steps out of line. This goes on until the first 20 people find a pair that fit their vision problem.  Someone came with one page of an old newspaper and that tattered page is passed down the line for people to read as they try on the glasses. There is a great mood amongst everyone.  There is lots of laughter and everyone waits patiently in hopes of finding a pair of glasses that fit them.  Not everyone leaves with new glasses but no one seems to begrudge this inequality. 

One old man hobbles up to me.  He takes my hand.  He kisses his new eyeglass case.  Then he touches his forehead with this case and then he touches my hand with it and then he mumbles some inaudible words of thanks.  I stand in complete awe of this very moving moment, overwhelmed with joy and he walks away, oblivious to what a profound moment this moment is for me.

When we leave the square to head back to our boat, the villagers cheer and clap and chant for me. I lament that I didn’t bring more pairs of glasses. I climb back in to our rickety boat and we frantically wave to each other until our boat finally disappears from their new, clearer line of vision.

Swimming Lessons from a Bully

Swimming Lessons
From A Bully

YMCA

Ardmore, PA 

Summer, 1964

I didn’t want to go to camp.  But my older brother and sister went last summer. So my parents thought it would be a good experience for me, as well.  Kathy hated it and Jimmy loved it. It was a YMCA camp in Ardmore and we spent most of the day outside, in the heat, running around.  So no wonder Kathy hated it and I just knew that I was going to hate it too.  I liked to play inside, quietly with my dolls and friends.

So when my parents told me that they had signed me up for a six week program, I felt sorry for myself. My summer was to be a summer where I had been sentenced to six weeks of hard exercise and, in the heat, in the suburbs.

One the eve of my sentence, I had dinner with my grandfather.  He spent much of our conversation talking about why I was going to love camp.  It was going to teach me so much. I was going to get to run around and play games.  I was going to meet new people and I was going to learn to swim.  Now I didn’t know why I had to learn to swim because we lived in the city and no one had a swimming pool. Quite frankly, this skill probably would be as useless as teaching me how to drive a farm tracker (another skill I wouldn’t be using).

But then, just as he is telling me that swimming was a lifelong skill and everyone should learn to swim, he tells me a story about his brother, a well-trained swimmer, almost an Olympic swimmer, who dove off a board, somehow hits his head and died.  At the age of 24. End of story.  Well, why would anyone want to learn to swim after hearing that story?  Then Jack tells me that the moral of the story is to be careful no matter how trained, how skilled, how strong you are.  Water is more powerful.

So now I go off to camp not only with a dread of the outdoors but now with my new found fear of the water.

We start the day on a football field that is hard, dusty and buggy.  There are no restrooms, only port-a-potties which my mother has trained me not to use because they transport all sorts of deadly, deadly diseases.

We have lunch which my mother packed.  My lunch is peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread and an apple.  This is the only lunch my mother ever packs for me.  And I don’t like peanut butter and jelly and wheat bread.  An apple is fine but it really isn’t satisfying if you are truly hungry.  The kid next to me is eating a large hoagie, potato chips, tasty kakes and chocolate milk.  He doesn’t offer to share any of his food with me. Since I am not eating my sandwich, I am left with time on my hands to count my mosquito bites.  I have 12 bits just from this morning.

After lunch, we clean up and walk to the pool across the street. I feel as if I am walking to my death.  I am on my way to drown.

We get the locker room and the girls who go to public school are very comfortable with stripping down naked and putting on their bathing suits.  I go to catholic school.  We don’t strip down naked, ever.  So I don’t know what to do. I decide to take my suit and change in the stall.  This will give me the privacy I need and then I will be close to the toilet as I throw up from anxiety about my pending drowning from falling off the diving board and hitting my head.

I sit in that stall and contemplate my fate.  I am in a panic and I think about running away but somehow I muster up my courage and put my suit on and come out of the stall.  I look around and see that the locker room is now empty.  Everyone has left me.  I don’t know where to go.  I try a few doors but they don’t lead to the pool.

 So I just sit and wait until everyone comes back and then I change back in to my clothes. As I put my bathing suit away, I rinse it under the facet to make it wet.  That way, there will be no suspicion on my mother’s part when I unpack everything at home.

At dinner, my brother gives a glowing review of the day at camp.  My father asked me how it went. “It’s alright” is all I answer. 

“How did you like swimming?” he wants to know.

 “It’s alright", is all I answer.

Then my brother chimes in, “Hey, I didn’t see you at the pool.”

“I was there.”  I answer defensively. The conversation changes and I am spared any more need to continue to lie.

The next day, we follow the same routine and I execute the same survival plan. And I am beginning to think that I may not die after all.

It is now the third day and some little snot-nosed girl asked me why I wouldn’t go to the pool.  I pretend that she isn’t speaking to me and I don’t answer her.  I just take my suit and run to my stall.

When it is safe to come out, I sit on my usual bench and wait patiently. As random thoughts are dancing through my head, a big wooden door opens up and a large woman in a bathing suit comes in.  A pungent whiff of chlorine fills the room.

“You!!” she barks at me.  “What are you doing in here?  You aren’t supposed to be here.” She speaks to me in a tone you would use on a street thug, not an 8 year old girl.  And immediately, I become afraid of her. “Get out there,” she demands, pointing to the pool.

She holds the door open for me and I scurry under her arm, placing my foot on the wet, slippery tiles floor and I slide away from her. She blows her whistle and call to the man who appears to be in change.  ”Hey coach, I found her.  Is this the kid who’s been missing?  She was just sitting in the locker room."

 Mr. Potts comes over to me.  He’s a big, burly guy with lots of hair on his chest, a whistle around his neck, and red bathing trucks that might have fit him ten years ago but not today.

“Where have you been” he demands to know. 

“In the locker room” I say timidly.

"Doing what"?  Why weren’t you out here?”

“I couldn’t find the pool”, I tell him.

That brings an uproar of laughter and mockery.  And I see the snot-nosed girl out of the corner of my eye.  She is delighted with the results of her tattle tale actions.

“Well, you found the pool now, so jump in”, says Mr. Potts.

“I am afraid.” I tell him.

“Afraid! Afraid!!” he repeats loudly so that everyone can now hear him.  “Afraid of what?” he asks curtly.

“Of getting my face wet” I meekly reply.

“Well, we’ll take care of that” he says with confidence.

I feel a moment of relief.  But that is short lived because he picks me up and drops me right in the water.  I feel myself sinking to the bottom. I am sinking in slow motion. I am frightened beyond belief.  This is my moment of death.  But then I just pop right back up and my head peeks up and I try to orient myself so that I can climb right out of the pool.  I quickly wipe my eyes and look around.  But then I feel the force of Mr. Potts large hand on my head.

“Here, this will help you get over your fear of the water.”  His tone is mocking.

 And he bobs my head up and down in the water.  He took me by surprise so I didn’t have time to catch my breath.  So now I am under water and I can’t get away from his grip.  I don’t know how long he kept me under there.  It seemed like days.  But he finally lets go of me and moves away from me.  And I am left alone.  I made my way to the side of the pool.  I just clung on to the ladder, stunned, trembling and gasping for air.  I had survived.  I was not dead. But I was now damaged goods.  I never got over my fear of the water.  I never learned to swim.

Dealing with ISIS- A Scary Opinion

Dealing With ISIS
A Scary Option
A Bar at the Airport
February 2015



We are sitting at a bar, in the airport.  He is waiting to go home.  I am waiting to start my vacation.  We get on the topic of ISIS.  He speaks with the tone of a wise man, one who has all the answers, “I tell you, I know exactly what to do.  You want to know what to do about this?  You remember what we did to Hitler?  Bomb them.  Bomb every last one of them.  Just like Hitler.”

But I tell him, this enemy is different.  “With Hitler, we knew where to find him and all of his soldiers wore the same uniform.  These guys are everywhere.  We can't identify them”.

“I know, can you fucking believe it.  They’re in London and Paris.  They are bombing Paris now. Shit, they’re everywhere”.  We gotta stop them, NOW!”   His voice has a little desperation as he speaks.

“So where do you drop bombs, everywhere?” I ask a little smugly.

“Yea, everywhere.  East of the Mississippi.  Every fuckingwhere”.

To read more stories, check out:   bkmemoirs.blogspot.com

 or  bkmemoirs.wordpress.com

Miss Coughlin, My Creepy 5th Grade Teacher

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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