When I think of Catholic school, the following images from my childhood come to mind:
- school uniforms from Henry Barrie in Manchester’s St. Anne’s Square
- getting slapped on the back of the legs by Mrs. McDonald in 4th grade (or Transition 3 in English speak) for talking while lining up after playtime
- inedible school lunches…liver and onions…rock hard rock buns…milk left outside in all weathers
- younger siblings wearing threadbare, but still “wearable” school uniforms
- Sister Winifred boring her finger in to my shoulder blade while she said “You bold girl” — don’t remember what I did, but it must have been *awful* like wearing beige socks instead of white or sitting on a radiator
I miss the comraderie of a private school, but I don’t miss the pettiness of teachers and the incompetent and largely unqualified nuns who taught the lower grades. Teachers now need to have college degrees and certifications, back then teachers needed a teachers’ certificate only.
Some of the teachers at my school had been students at the school. Many did not marry. Their worldview was very narrow. I recall Ms. Pugh teaching a class called marriage and courtship…ahem…she never married.
BTW, the logo represents the order of nuns that ran my school. I can’t find my school crest. My school was torn down to make way for a nursing home and a housing development. So sad. I visited my old school this past month on our trip to England. I think my children were too tired from walking to appreciate it, but at least we mad the trip.