My Adventures In Mexican Catholic Kindergarten

I remember 1982 because it was the year my father decided that he’d had enough of the American Dream. He’d been laid off, and he was not certain that he would be able to get his job back as a laborer for the railroad company. So the decision was made to pack my mother, sister and myself off in a journey back to the motherland. The plan for my father was to find a couple of odd jobs so that he could save a little money and join us.

Adapting to life in Michoacán was not easy – especially because I had come from an apartment complex overlooking the 60 Freeway. I was a curious child, and everything overstimulated me. There was so much freedom in Mexico and my mother was in the right for trying to smother me in safety. I was the kind of kid that would not think twice about pestering the hindquarters a horse or donkey, a la Bugs Bunny.

My first school was located in a barn. I remember spending my recess breaks observing the livestock. Up to that point all I knew was pigeons, cats and dogs. I had never even seen a chicken that was not a McNugget. So I climbed over the pigpen and tried to catch a glimpse of the magical animal known as a pig. I wanted to know where all the bacon and sausage came from. I loved that school because, from time to time, the teacher would scream when a rooster would hop from one of the beams and land on the book she was using to teach us.

Then the day came when my father decided that he had made enough money. He had my mother and my sister and me move out of my grandmother’s house in Michoacán and join him in his hometown in Jalisco. We would now be living with his relatives and my sister would accompany me in attending a “proper school.”

My aunt enrolled us in Catholic school.

I had nothing against the Catholic school, or the nuns that ran it. The exception I took was that I was not accustomed to being hit by anyone other than my parents – and that was the kind of school that hit you over any matter with no hesitation. I still remember receiving my first beating on the first day of matriculation. The egregious sin that I had committed was that I did not know the lyrics to the Mexican national anthem. I had only been there a month. I did not even know that Mexico had a national anthem.

The sad part is that I did not even see it coming. The nun asked me to put my hands out, so I did, palms up. She then turned them over so that my knuckles were up, and she let out a ruler smack that cut through the air and into my hands. I withdrew my hands before impact, but I only succeeded in making her angrier. She had another nun hold my arms out and she tore into me including an additional one for moving my hands in the first place.

Now, keep in mind that I have been stabbed. I have been burned. I have been electrocuted. I have been hit by fast moving projectiles, BB gun pellets; I have been ejected from a moving vehicle. Last week I was even bitten by a small child to the point where I was able to lift him up off the ground before he chose to release the bite. Yet, I have never felt physical pain like that. Hallelujah.