Alumni Memories

A few days ago, the postman delivered my quarterly College of Saint Elizabeth Alumna magazine.  On the cover were members of the class of '13 surrounding the outgoing President, Sister Francis Raftery.  The banner read, "Sister Francis Raftery Tribute Edition.  As I thumbed through the pages, as I do every time it comes, I looked quickly to see if anyone from the class of 1975 posted any news or in a picture with other alumni.   I then went back and slowly read through the magazine.  I remember Sister Francis teaching elementary education majors. Walking by her classroom, I'd hear her passion for her teaching and for her students.  During basketball season, a daily prayer was chanted for the Seton Hall University basketball team to reach the NIT championship game.  Her brother, Bill, was the coach.   I often wax sentimentally about my days at St. E's but it was more so this time.

It was troubled times during my tenure at the college.  We were still winding our way through the Vietnam War, a recession had hit the economy, Watergate was raging, and the College of St. Elizabeth  let the first of the Protestants in the door in 1971.  A professor remarked the class of 1975 was the first serious class since World War II.  We were more interested in politics and the state of the nation than we were in swallowing goldfish.  We were a challenging lot and we were divided. 

Two things that made it difficult for the college was the drop in enrollment (which is why Protestants were let in) and the College President.  Quite frankly, the Sisters of Charity didn't know what to do with us, nor we with them.  It was so easy to pick us out.  Unbeknownst to the "others" (the code name given to us Protestant gals) classes started with a prayer.  Everyone stood up, Sister began the prayer, people around us recited and we stood dumbfounded.   Those of us with a public school pedigree couldn't wrap our heads around prayer and chalk.  Sister Helen Marie Morris, in the midst of beseeching God for guidance, looked at us with fire and we looked around for the marshmallows. 

Along with the new class of freshman came a new College President, Sister Elizabeth, who did not share her predecessor's view on staff.   Sister Hildegard looked past the most obvious thing at a Catholic institution, religion, and hired an immensely talented and turned out popular professor, Dr. Lowenstein.  That's right, not Lowenstine which would be German, Lowenstein, which was Jewish.  Almost everyone wanted to be in her English literature class.  We got up at 3:00 a.m. just to be the first in line to register for it.  Groans were heard wafting out of the Administration building when her classes closed.  Solemn faces walked across the campus, up to dorm rooms where an array of vodka and gin bottles came out of hiding places to ease the tragedy.    On the first day of class, Dr. Lowenstein glided up to the lectern, cast her eyes upon us and declared, "Congratulations, you are the winners.  Now let's get to work."  We felt blessed, but the blessing didn't last.

Dr. Lowenstein was up for tenure in the spring and we were excited for her.  But not so fast as Sister Elizabeth had a surprise.  Dr. Lowenstein was not to return in the fall.  We could not have "those kind" on the faculty.  The campus erupted, we walked out of classes, we demanded a meeting with the President and we got one.  But to no avail.  What shocked many of us was the silence of many of our classmates.  It destroyed our class. Two years later at graduation, when the main speaker asked us to stand up and show what we thought of the job Sister Elizabeth was doing as President, many of us sat on our hands.  Gasps came from our parents and families, people on the dais turned white.  Those who stood turned to the rest of us and with pleading faces waved their hands for us to get up.  Slowly, ever so slowly we did and just stood silent.

It seems a bit amiss these memories come to the fore while I swell with a bit of pride for being a College of St. Elizabeth alumni.  That pride comes with having learned so much at the feet of women like Sister Jackie Burns. A fabulous History professor, she demanded and demanded and demanded of us and we thrived on it.  And she taught us pride.  One day as we were winding up a  junior seminar class we were moaning AGAIN about the fact there were no men on campus.  Offhandedly, someone asked what's the point of an all woman's college.  All at once, Sister Jackie slammed her hand on the table.  What she said came out like a torrent. She took a deep look into each of our eyes and said because we were to become leaders.  On a coed campus, if there is a class president, it would be a man, editor of the newspaper...man, sports leaders...men....valedictorian...man.  At the College of St. Elizabeth, all leadership and all leaders are women.  Gaining those skills, building that self reliance, possessing a first rate education, knowing who we are and where we want to go...only that comes at an all woman's college.  We were silent as we walked out.   All these years later, I appreciate all that I learned and all that I was given and no truer words were ever spoken.

Summer Time

It's hard to believe we are almost one month out of school.  A great deal was packed into the first 26 days, babysitting the most precious 10 month grandson, Preston and spending time in the Ozarks with Mr. Schmidt.  Although my days were filled with playing, feeding, diaper changing, napping with one adorable little man on my lap; hiking in State Parks, exploring caves and enjoying the company of Mr. Schmidt, one thing remained constant...I can not get school out of my head.
I have to simply say, it was one hell of a year.  We started a new program and while I believe it met the needs of students, in that without it, they would have been shipped to more restrictive schools, it took its toll on me...more than I expected.

In the world of students with emotional and behavioral disorders, they can be divided into the
Es and the Bs.  Es are those who are drowning in the quicksand of self loathing and worthlessness.  The world taught them it has nothing to offer them and they have nothing to offer it.  They come to school reciting the daily mantra of "I don't care.  It doesn't matter.  Who gives a damn."  For some, even the effort to shower eludes them, Frebreeze is the cologne of choice.  That aroma together with stale cigarette smoke and car grease can clear the classroom in under 10 seconds.

The Bs are the in your face type.  The guys tend to be loud, easily pick a fight with the teacher, usually over word choice such as, "It's been five minutes, you should probably get started on the assignment.  It is due at the end of the hour."  The student's face darkens, paper may or may not fly off the desk and the verbal barrage begins..."What, you expect me to do this?  I don't get it...this doesn't make any sense...I don't feel like it...this is baby work...what's the point."  As he spews forth, he looks for buy in from others.  At the beginning of the year, he gets it.  If we do our job right, by October, he doesn't.  That, however, does not stop him, he continues on to June.  It's just nice to know he sings solo, there is no choir.  The gals, who are few, possess fine tuned sarcasm and the ability to hurl entire bags of makeup across the room.  The makeup flies when asked either, (a) put the cellphone away or (b) put the makeup away.  Cellphones don't go airborne as they are needed to continually communicate and complain to others trapped in classrooms around the school.
The commonality of the Es and the Bs is the deep, deep hurt, loss and shame, knowing that their lives  are not what they should  be and believing they are powerless to do anything about it. Working with them, hope springs eternal that an idea might catch, a small taste of success may help them thirst for more and learning new skills may build confidence.  With the mentally ill or those mired in drugs,  it is to use a Jersey expression, "Like shoveling shit against the tide."

Working with mentally ill students is a unique experience.  The task is to help them organize their chaotic thoughts just long enough to get them through the assignments to the final grade in each class.  "My father is the Bishop of Canterbury and my mother's family, I think is from Jupiter.  World War I started with the assassination of Archduke Ferdinande."  Quickly, the teacher stops the conversation and says, "That one, that last sentence, write that down."
And then there are drugs, students who earned a 3.5 average one year, line up a columns of Fs the following year and to them it just doesn't matter.  No more needs to be said. Heart are broken.

I know I have more weeks to spend this summer than are so far spent.  That is a good thing.  More time to spend reading, fishing, spending time with my wonderful family, all will be well.  I just wonder about the students...