Inspired by jjimms comments in the thread about making baby jesus cry that is going on over in GQ, I would like to hear what other dumb shit the nuns have been spouting
Rough dates and places would be good, to map the spread of ignorance, as I have gotten the same advice from my nuns as kids in NY in the 60s.
Here is some of the “advice” given in the early 90s on Dublin’s northside.
If you are going to a party, put a magazine in your bag in case there are not enough chairs for everyone and you have to sit in a boys lap. No further explaination given.
If you are going to a party (again with the parties!) you should bring cling-film (saran wrap) in your handbag to put over your glass, to prevent anyone from “slipping something into it”. They were referring to alcohol rather than, say, rohypnol.
I have more of these, but I need to dig them out from the deep-repression attic-space. Hopefully this is enough to get the ball rolling?
I’m afraid I don’t have any wacky, zany nutty stories. The only thing the nuns taught me that I could’ve done without was sentence diagramming (this hasn’t come in handy a single time in my adult life!)
Had her for freshman year religion class, may she rest in peace. It was supposed to be a class about the Bible, and we sat there all year with Bibles on our desks and never cracked the covers. It was one hour every other day of Sister Fontbonne free associating at the front of the classroom. She said at the beginning of the year that she graded on participation, and we should ask lots of questions. At the end of the year, the only girl who got an A was the one who had frankly slept through every class.
Her most memorable lessons:
People invariably sit up in the moment before death. Why? Because they see Jesus coming for their souls.
The Leaning Tower of Pisa leans the way it does because the builders were holding the blueprints crooked while they built.
Oh, she wasn’t the only wacky nun in the school, though. The principal once subbed for the regular history teacher (AP Western Civ, it was) and told the incredulous class that the reason there were protestants in Northern Ireland was because they hadn’t been previously converted to Christianity, and the English converted them. The resounding thunk from twenty jaws hitting the floor has never been equaled in my experience.
My kindergarten teacher was a little Italian nun, Sr. Lina. Fresh off the boat (literally) from somewhere in Sicily. She taught me the song “In A Cabin In The Woods,” complete with all the hand motions and everything. We sang it in school every day, and my parents and grandparents and all their friends used to ask me to sing it all the time, and they would laugh and tell me I was sooo cute.
Why? Because I was singing the words like this: “‘Hep-a me, hep-a me, hep-a me!’ he cried!” Because that is how Sr. Lina sang the song, and that is how I thought the words went. And the truly sad part is, I was maybe 20 years old before I knew how the words are supposed to go.
And I still get them wrong sometimes, out of habit.
How about: “If you think it, it’s still a sin.” and, ergo, “Every sin is a brick you add to the house you’re building in HELL.”
Those nuggets of wisdom were from Sister Bernadette, my 87 year old third grade Benedictine nun teacher. I really thought I was going to hell, but fast, since I have a brother about 4 years younger than me, and boy was he ever annoying to such a very grown up third grader as myself.
She was also the one that smacked me on my ass when I asked her what exams we were having the next day. To my incredulous face she said: “And THAT’S for asking questions.”
I didn’t go back to school for the rest of the year (OK, there was only about a week left), but my parents STILL sent me back for three more years after that. Explain THAT logic.
I didn’t have any problems with the nuns, but my mom had one who used to say that chewing gum was bad because when you chewed gum, all the germs on the left side of your mouth were moved over to the right side and vice versa. Da’hell?
I can’t remember the nuns (only was in a nun run school from aged 4-7, but after that, we had the Christian Brothers).
things I can vaguely remember for a series of unscheduled warnings:
Metallica want you to sell your soul to Satan.
this was part of a 40 minute long lecture on how rock music is evil, and included one of the brothers reading from the inlay card to the Master of Puppets album. what a christian Brother was doing with a Metallica Album, I don’t know.
All rock albums contain bckwards masking wanting you to kill people and sell your soul.
All other religions are evil, and special mention was reserved for Mormons, who aparently believe that Jesus was a space alien from the planet Kolob.
Don’t worry. We all learned very early not to believe a word that came out of their mouths.
We used to get little morality stories with gross endings, kinda like those car accident films they used to show you in an effort to keep from driving badly. Some examples:
1.) There was a girl who always used to sass her mother back. One day, as she was shouting at her mother, her tongue fell out, Actuually, it sorta grew or lengthened, but remained attached at the mouth end. But it stuck way outm down over her neck. And they couldn’t fix it, or cut it out, so it just stayed there, hanging down from her head. Eventually it turned blue and disgusting, and they had to wrap it up in gauze, like a mummy. So don’t sass your mother back.
2.) There was a boy who always threw snowballs at people, and wouldn’t stop. One day someone threw a snowball at him. But this was an iceball, and it had, unknown to anyone, a sharp rock in it. When it hit him, it hurt a lot, and he felt something warm running down his cheek. It turned out to be his eye. So don’t throw snowballs.
3.) There was a girl who alwats used to hit her mother back. One day she was struck dead, and her arm was stuck up, in that hitting pose. The morticians couldn’t fix it, and the couldn’t even close the coffin. Not until her mother came down and struck the corpse. Then the arm fell down, in contrition. So don’t hirt your parents. Not if you want a good-looking corpse.
Ahhh, Catholic school stories. They made me what I am today.
When I was in grade school one of the nuns was always telling me to take my hands out of my pockets. Once she made me wear a pair of her black knit gloves, because obviously the reason I was putting my hands in my pockets was that my hands were cold.
To this day whenever I’m standing around waiting for something and I put my hands in my pockets I will sometimes suddenly pull them out, as if I’m expecting Sr. Cecilia to materalize next to me with those damn knit gloves.
5th grade (approx. 1977) was an interesting year for me–I transferred from one Catholic school to another and discovered where they keep all the freaky nuns.
Sr. Yvonne: “if you sit at the back of the church it doesn’t count because God can’t see you back there.” I made the mistake of saying that I thought God was everywhere and became instantly unpopular with Sr. Yvonne.
Sr. Rita told us that our blood was actually blue, not red. It didn’t become red until it hit the atmosphere.
Sr. Annette told us that the Jews killed Jesus. I said that I thought the Romans killed Jesus. I just didn’t learn after my run in with Sr. Yvonne.
Sr Helena didn’t really tell us much of anything. She was too busy talking to God–outloud and very forcefully–through most every math class. She paused occasionally to read our grades aloud to the entire class and make editorial comments where she deemed it appropriate–“zero again lauramarlane! Well, at least you’re consistent!”
Yep, if these are the bitches to be populating heaven, then I’m packing marshmellows for my stay by the eternal campfire.
I had one really un-nun-like nun, Sr. Roseanne, for 11th grade Religion class. I don’t mean that in a “Wow, she was so nice and cool!” way; she just acted more like a bossy maiden aunt than a nun. I don’t remember learning much in her class, other than the fact that she had had her “rolls in the hay” (her words) back in her youth, a fact that she would work into the class lesson a couple times a month. Icky.
Sr. Marie Therese taught my AP English class in 12th grade – what a travesty that was. This is supposed to be a class comparable to a freshman college English class, and all of our tests were fill-in-the-blank. As in, “In Jane Eyre, Mr. Rochester’s horse was named _________.” No joke. She assigned us a 10-page term paper on a female author of our choosing, and she graded it by measuring the margins. Really, no joke! Content? What was that? I got an 85 on my Edna St. Vincent Millay paper because my margins were off according to her ruler (though it was typed on a computer), and her only comment on the actual body of the paper was “good content.” The students all called her “Sister Skin” because she was so old and wrinkly, and sadly, she chose to retire the year after my class graduated. To think I was that close to actually learning something about 19th-Century British literature…
No Sisters here, nope. It was the Brothers for this boy – Marist Brothers, that is. Boy, oh boy, what joy. But apart from what seemed to be a major hangup about the evils of masturbation, they were pretty cool about facts (and the silliest piece of misinfo did not even come from one of the Brothers, but from a lay youth counselor at one of the periodic “retreats”, about how excessive wanking would cause depletion of phosphorus that would adversely affect the brain).
