It started with a nun

I'm not kidding, it really did. Her name was Sister John and she had the job of teaching a class of 12 year old girls English. To say we didn't get off to a good start would be a laughable understatement. I've never been able to express myself well verbally. It either comes out sounding the opposite of what I intended, or things would blurt out of my mouth before I'd even had chance to proofread it. My first meeting with the new teacher was no different.

"But.. that's a boys name!" was out of my mouth almost before my lips parted, leaving my good sense spinning in circles wondering where the hell that came from. To say this bride of Christ had a stern face isn't doing justice to just how deep those brows furrowed and her eyes bored into my soul, marking me forever on her shit list.

English wasn't my happy class. Oh, I understood grammar, I adored reading. A book was, and still is, an invitation, a door to a different world that I only had to open and step through to become a part of, totally immersed in it and hating it when I had to leave. As a child I was the sixth “Famous Five” member and didn’t mind at all that Enid Blyton forgot to mention me, it was enough that I could share in the adventure. Oh how I loathed standing up and reading aloud though, I'd stutter and misread words, I'd mumble, my voice getting quieter and quieter until Sister John would sigh in exasperation and tell me to sit down, calling on another child with better powers of speech to continue.

courtesy of www.audio-luci-store.it

It wasn't long into her sentence of being our teacher, that Sister John decided to stage a writing exercise. Her idea was for us to write a story, based around three random objects. It could be about anything at all, as long as these three objects featured prominently. She made sure we understood that if one of the objects was, for instance, a bus stop, then it wouldn't be enough for us to just have our character walk past one. It had to have importance. This got the 12 year old me intrigued. We then got told the objects and that the story had to be on her desk by the next class. I'd like to say I remembered what those objects were all these years later, but I'd be lying.

If you can remember back to your schooldays, in every class, there were the dunces and the swots. The ones that reach their arms to heaven every time a question is asked, and the ones that sink further down into their chairs trying desperately to become invisible. I fell somewhere in the middle. I did however have no doubts that one girl would shine. Jill was teachers pet. Very well spoken, very quiet, very good at English. I didn't dislike her, no one could, she was so nice and sweet she was clearly destined to be a social worker, or at the very least a career in HR beckoned. I was resigned to coming last. Even at 12 I knew my place!

My assignment was handed in with everyone else and I'd like to say I forgot all about it. About a week later Sister John stood in front of the class and announced that she had read all the stories and was going to tell us the results, from who came last, to who got first place. This cheered me up as I guessed I wouldn't be waiting long to hear my name. The nun took a deep breath, raised her eyes to the ceiling and shocked the room.

"Last place - Jill W." The room nearly became a vacuum as 48 budding women gasped in unison. No one expected Jill to come last in anything, including Jill who started to cry. Sister John stoically read the rest of the names and I grew increasingly puzzled. I hadn't heard mine. Had I missed it? Finally the list was exhausted and there I was - First place.

This is where my mouth grabbed the reins bounded on to the horse and took off for the hills. I demanded she check the list. I argued she had to be wrong. That she'd mixed up my story with Jill's. The class was in silence. I wasn't sure if they were still shocked Jill came last, that I came first, or that I was arguing with a nun! It was like the world had turned upside down. Sister John looked at me, listened without saying a word, then walked slowly towards me and put my story on the desk for me to see. I looked down to see, in red pen, "1ST PLACE - well done - SJ" written on the front. I grinned and wasn't the slightest bit upset when she bent towards me and not as nice as you'd expect from a godly woman, quietly said:

"I always knew you were a good storyteller."

She's probably gone to persecute her groom by now, but I'd love her to know how proud I was of myself that day.

Peace.