Over a business lunch yesterday, the topic of Catholic education came up. We discussed bullies and ass slapping in bathrooms, the usual stuff.
Then it came to nuns.
I had a traumatic experience with a nun. Now by the time I hit grade school in the 1980s, nuns didn’t have much of a role in the church anymore. So I thought. Their role had simply changed.
It happened during the 4th grade at St. Joan of Arc school in South St. Louis. I remember a cmale classmate being pulled from class early in the morning. In between classes, he explained what happened to him.
He told myself and other boys of having to go into the faculty lunchroom. They had a huge curtain up sectioning off the back half of the room. Behind the curtain was a nun and his mother. The nun was an elderly woman, full of wrinkles and a stern look on her face. She made him pull down his pants. She cupped her hand around his testicles and made him cough.
Imagine her with an iron gripped claw.
You must understand we hadn’t heard of such things at that age. His story was unfathomable. And his mother watched?! It must’ve been a joke.
Throughout the day, more boys were pulled from class, one by one, without explanation. They came back with an unexplainable look of horror on their face. The stories were true. Surely, my mother wouldn’t allow such a thing to happen to me. This ridiculous medical exam wouldn’t occur on her watch. My examinations and immunizations were up to date.
Then it happened.
My name was called. I took the long walk down the green mile to the faculty lunch room. It was cold. I pulled back the giant brown curtain to reveal a pudgy, old nun. Right away, she told me to take off my pants. I stood there dumbfounded. She told me again with that tone that suggests I do it if I know what’s good for me.
I dropped my drawers around my ankles and kicked the pile to the side.
“What are you doing?,” she asked with force. “Is that how you do it at home? Put them over that chair.”
My god, my god…why have you forsaken me?
I followed General Penguin’s orders. She grapped the waistband of my tightie-whities and pulled it forward. Her wrinkled, dry, and cold claw for a hand reached forward and grabbed my testicles. She ordered a cough, so I coughed.
Next she had me piss in a cup. I’ve done that drill before. For some reason, she wouldn’t let me close the door though. Granted my back was to her, but it’s still creepy. These situations give me stage fright. It turns a standard 20 second piss into a 3 minute affair.
After I finished, she had me put my clothes back on, and I scampered off like one of those female mongeese on National Geographic that were freshly violated by the aggressive male mongoose.
Well my co-workers seemed concerned that I would share this story with them and at lunch. They asked if she was wearing gloves, and frankly I don’t recall. I may need hypnosis to figure that out.
Looking back it seems like such a bizzare way to give boys their first “man physical”. Now when I go to the zoo, I break out in a sweat when I pass the penguins. Beware of those Catholic schools. I’ve already discussed my repulsion for the priests and their back rubs. Maybe I could sue them for making me the lesser man I am today.