“Tell your mother that I want to see her”. These terrifying words, said by Sister Patrick to me in 8th grade still makes me break out in a cold sweat. All that afternoon, I tried to both figure out why this ‘request’ was being made and, more importantly, how to tell my mother. Over dinner, that night, I blurted out the summons. My mother looked at me, long and hard, and delivered the only thing a mom could say, “What did you do, now?”. “Nothing, Mom, I don’t know”, as tears began to flow. The next afternoon, taking public transportation, my mom went to the convent. She later described her ringing the side door bell and, after waiting for what seemed like an eternity, being ushered in for her meeting. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Kowalski, I’ll get right to the point, we’re worried about Edward getting into a Catholic High School, he’s distracted and not doing well in mathematics”, she said. “It would be DEVASTATING, for Edward, we feel, should he not get in”. I don’t know what my mother said to Sister Patrick that afternoon. I do know that she was quiet when she arrived back home. ‘What did Sister Patrick want, Mom?”. ‘Nothing, it was a Mother’s Club, issue, Eddie”. Now, my cousin, Kevin was a grade school teacher at a Catholic School in Harlem and he ran a successful Co-op preparation program for his students. I was drafted. For the next 8 Saturdays I was part of his program. A white kid in Spanish Harlem. After a while, I was accepted by the other kids who were all trying to achieve the same goal – get into a Catholic High School. When I took the actual examination, I did just fine. Now, the post script of this story is that when I did enter my Freshman year, at a Catholic high school, I was fortunate to finish that year academically ranked in first place. I remember receiving the school’s General Excellence medal and bringing it home. My mother looked at it and asked if she could ‘borrow’ it. The next thing I remember was her putting her coat on and saying that she’d be back soon. When she returned home, she told me that she took the long ride into Manhattan arriving at the same bell on the convent door but this time, it was she that wanted to see Sister Patrick. ‘Just wanted to show this to you, Sister’, was all she later told me that she said. She never told me what the good Sister said. I transferred to Xavier the next year. Sister Patrick also told me that I’d ‘never get in’ to that school.
I guess the meaning of this story is knowing what a family is about. It’s not just about love. It’s knowing that your family will be there watching out for you. Nothing else will give you that. Not money. Not fame. Not work. Thanks, Mom. PS, I still can’t multiply a fraction………
The Valley Viewpoint 