Parochial Etiquette

The Pride of South Philadelphia stands as two brick buildings separated by three blocks. These buildings have stale underground cafeterias, bumpy parking lots, and fallout shelters. They are staffed by a mixture of both nuns and women who have existed within the same two mile radius for their entire lives. Built prior to optimized insulation and central cooling, the buildings lead you toward frostbite in the winter and heatstroke in the summer. (Minus the main offices, where supervisors allow themselves modern efficiencies.) Children are required to wear navy and white, remain quiet and still, and recite phrases that feel like incantations four times a day.

Saint Monica’s School teaches K-8. It is the educational extension of a Catholic church created in the early 1900s by Italian immigrants. The church includes tall stained glass windows and solid stone with elaborate paintings of various saints across the ceiling. The communion wafers are stored in a golden tabernacle, and as a whole it would lead one to believe that the parish had sufficient funds. It might, but even with families who were required to contribute weekly “offerings” twice during every Mass, there was just never quite enough.

On the singular day of the week that called for gym class, all children wore solid blue sweatpants and white t-shirts with the school’s name and slogan in large block letters,

Saint Monica’s School

The Pride of South Philly

The words stared at me when I looked down, as I lived through nine years of their conception of physical education classes. On some days we sat on square skateboards and kicked our way around a room the size of a New York City studio apartment. (Until we went to the secondary building where gym class was held in a seatless auditorium.) On other days we loosely attempted to play a sport. The kids who weren’t athletically gifted could remain last in line because the gym teacher wanted no part in that. Outside of this weekly 40-minute period of movement, we also had a 20-minute outdoor recess each day. Naturally, this time was solely constructed for fresh urban air. We were not allowed to have playground structures (let alone toys like soccer balls or trading cards), could not run, and girls had to be separated from the boys through the power of a faded white line. Any attempts to communicate across the line would result in a scolding.

A 20 minute lunchtime would begin in our basement cafeteria just before recess. If the entire school had managed to unite in misbehaving—apparently not a difficult feat—the “silent lunch” would be enacted. The sound of a gentle whisper could grant you detention. Even when the lunches enabled dialogue, their rules were a concept foreign to most schools. It cost each parent a fee of $20 a month per child, plus a pre-packed lunch, to ensure that their kid could spend that time on the premises. Failure to pay this fee would result in them being sent home, and failure to bring lunch would result in hunger.

Every few months came with a special “pizza day”. Naturally, these days required payment as well. There was an upfront fee of around $5 and every additional slice was $.50 more. If your parents forgot, or only gave you enough for one slice, you were absolutely out of luck. When considering the fact that snack time, which consisted of sugary juice and a pretzel (another monthly fee) was also unhealthy, it would have been better to get an early start on the concept of intermittent fasting.

Restroom use was a military procedure. Children as young as six were only supposed to use the restroom at two designated times of the day. The entire grade would venture in a single file line as a teacher monitored you walking in and out. As one could imagine, this resulted in long term bladder issues. In fourth grade I would sometimes finish my lunch early and ask to use the restroom before heading outside. One day a lunch lady yelled at me in front of the entire school, saying, “Come on! You use the restroom every day!” I was horrified at this truth.

One might hope that thoughtful and informative classes might make up for the questionable actions listed above, but those did not exist either. They even managed to steer almost every student away from religion. At seven-years-old they told us that animals only have instincts, and therefore cannot love us. A perfect segue into preparing us for reconciliation, where we were meant to confess our sins.

My biggest sin was lying to the priest during the confession.

I typically said that I talked back to my parents, even though I didn’t, because I felt guilty for not having sins. I loved to follow the rules. So I recited those Hail Marys and Our Fathers as if I had committed treason to the church. Although we were supposed to ask what Jesus would do, this was a difficult concept for them to promote. When a pencil fell onto the floor and I asked two kids if it belonged to them, the teacher yelled. “Seriously? Are you going to ask every person here!”

Children growing up in an environment like that could only be expected to have as much tolerance as their elders. I was one of two kids in the school who had an immigrant mother, and unfortunately for them, she didn’t come over from Italy. My father is Italian-American, and although I managed to blend in, there was no covering up my Filipino mother’s accent and skin tone. Several moms despised her when she moved into their neighborhood. They encouraged their kids to hate me, and because I didn't understand, I just assumed I was inconceivably ugly. When I asked the teacher if they could stop the kids from throwing my possessions around, she said that’s just how kids are.

The rare moments we had to display our own self image were on Dress Down Days, which occurred a few times per school year. Kids would pay a fee to wear their own clothes to school. Girls wore Juicy Couture or Victoria’s Secret sweatsuits, and boys wore basketball shorts and graphic tees that went perfectly with their bowl shaped buzzcuts. Aside from these days, you were not even allowed to wear your own coat when the icebox classrooms froze over for the winter. Girls still had to wear dresses and tights in these trying times and I constantly had a runny nose. One school photo perfectly immortalizes the red streaks I often had above my lip from wiping my nose too often. Whenever I show my mother this image, she says, “Oh. I don’t like this photo.”

As a teenager I recalled those memories to a therapist who replied, “Many of my patients went to Saint Monica’s. They’re depressed.” Surprising. However, it has been well over a decade since I left. The years of questionable education have given me a better sense of humor and more empathy. Despite the fact that I am no longer Catholic, can only write in cursive, will never live in Philadelphia again, feel eternal guilt, and have an unnecessarily strong bladder, all is very well. The Pride of South Philly is still operating and for high tuition fees your children can experience this and more. (I hear they’ve even made measures to somewhat improve since then.)