My school years aren’t something I can look back on fondly. They were anything but pleasant. Sixteen years of Catholic school meant sixteen years of nuns — lots of them — whose mission seemed to be terrorizing us into learning. Discipline was a given. Armed with rulers, bibles, or just their bare hands, they searched for anything even slightly out of line and pounced. I ended up on the wrong end of those rulers more times than I can count. I can still feel it.
That was Catholic education back then: you learned out of fear. It wasn’t much different from home. Fear was the driving force in every part of my life. Perfect grades were demanded, and I rarely fell short.
I was always the odd one out. Shy, quiet, afraid of my own shadow. I kept to myself, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I didn’t fit in. I had a few acquaintances, but not real friends. Friends weren’t allowed in my house — they were considered a waste of time, time that should be spent cleaning or watching my siblings. No one was ever welcome. Kids brought noise and “bad ideas,” according to my parents.
So I listened instead. I listened to the stories my classmates told about their families — parents who cared, homes filled with warmth, normal childhood things. Their stories made me ache. I wanted what they had, but my reality didn’t resemble theirs at all. And as my parents always said, “deal with it.”
Sometimes someone would ask for help with their work. I always said yes. I found myself doing their homework, letting them cheat off my tests, even writing a term paper once. I didn’t like it, but it was attention — and something close to gratitude. It was the only way I knew to fit in, even though it wasn’t the kind of belonging I wanted.
After‑school activities were forbidden until high school, and even then the rules were strict. My parents didn’t want to waste time or gas driving me anywhere, so I had to walk. I chose activities that happened right after the last bell — gymnastics and cheerleading — sports I was good at, sports that made me feel like I existed outside the walls of my house. But the rules followed me everywhere. My chores had to be finished before bed, no matter how late I got home. It wasn’t easy, but the little bit of freedom those activities gave me was precious, and I guarded it fiercely.
Growing up different wasn’t something I chose. It was something I survived. And even now, looking back, I can see how hard I worked just to carve out the smallest spaces where I could breathe.
Still standing, haven’t been hit by a ruler or slapped in a long time,
K.