One of many things I regret as a youngster was ever trying to become a member of Sister’s Brigade. My compunction has had to do with telling tales. And as we know, some can tell ‘em, some can’t.
Let me explain:
In the Las Vegas of my early years, there was a great deal of stratification. Although the strata often fell along ethnic lines, I suspect it was more a matter of the haves and the have-nots. And much of the enrollment at my school, Immaculate Conception, came from areas on the east side of town, Grand, Railroad, Pecos and Commerce.
Almost all of us east-siders walked to school; as for many students from the more affluent areas, their parents chauffeured them. And a precious few high schoolers got to drive their own cars. One car driven by a member of a wealthy (for the time) clan, took up lots of acreage on National, in front of the school. Remember, in those days, the 1940s, parking wasn’t a problem.
The student and his sister drove a Buick 8, with huge fenders, bumpers that in September inhaled October, and a width that would accommodate the entire special teams unit of the Dallas Cowboys.
The rest of us simply made do; we didn’t realize we were poor, and we figured those with more “stuff” were simply anomalies. But first let me explain that I’ve never used the copout that my struggles in college were due to an inadequate elementary or high school educational system; nor was I ever fazed by real or imagined slights because of my — and most other students’ — ethnicity.
I did, however, believe that some kids who came from more opulent backgrounds got privileges and got listened to more.
One morning, I had small change that allowed me to buy penny candy from the school-endorsed stash one of the students sold during recess. Those wrapped banana-flavored candies went for a penny. I reached to hand the coins to the seller, but she refused to put her hand out. Instead, she looked at the nearby nun, Sister Mary Maquiladora, with a should-I-touch-his-money? expression.
The nun looked at me, then at the disciple and told me to put the money directly into the box, without making Margie the middle-man/girl. Then, within earshot of several of us, our teacher said something like, “Always let me know if you see anyone misbehaving.” She got an understanding I-read-you smile from the student.
Well, as a 10-year-old, I wondered why the teacher felt she should deputize the student. I wondered what I’d done wrong. Was my money or my hand dirtier than others’? Mom would never allow us to leave the house unplumbed, and although we might not have donned fancy duds, we were clean.
Soon, a posse of classmates, most of them the “haves,” began watching over the rest of us, ready to report any perceived infraction. But back to the thing I really regret: I’d heard the teacher urging her minions to report anything unusual, whether it be fighting, crude language, scholastic dishonesty, or perhaps, even using our bare hands to pay for candy.
I’ve always voted for fair play, honesty and a peaceful school playground, and I’ve also had revulsion toward people who squeal over the pettiest thing. So if Robert dips Peggy’s pigtails into his inkwell (we had them in those days), what’s the big deal? If Arthur has a hole in his shoe, does he become a pariah and therefore become rusticated?
And that’s why now I question my motivation to get on Sister’s good side, to become a member of her brigade.
Here’s what happened: During a spelling test, I heard a nearby classmate whisper the correct spelling to another. Immediately, my hand went up. “Sister, Clarabelle just gave the answer to a spelling word.”
No response.
Thinking I might not have made the point clearly enough, I added, “I heard Clarabelle spell the word: a-c-r-o-s-s.”
The teacher’s reaction — justifiably —: “And look who just made it worse by spelling it for everyone in the class.” Well, that did it. During recess, I certainly wasn’t carried on people’s shoulders for my heroics, for my lust for scholastic integrity; rather, I got shunned for being a tattletale and razzed by others because of my obvious embarrassment.
Let’s look at another angle: What if a charter member of the Sister Mac’s Brigade had exposed someone else for revealing the spelling of a word, and what if the nun had said, “Why Josephine, that was brilliant and heroic”? Would the scenario during recess have been different?
I wondered as I tossed in bed that night, whether things had been totally fair. I believed then — and I still cling to a faint belief today — that it doesn’t matter who says it, as long as it’s true.
Well, I almost became convinced that it does matter who says it. And we can find teachers all over admonishing students to report anything that seems untoward.
But there are just as many who will say, “I don’t want to hear it. Nobody likes a tattle-tale.”