Show and Tell

Show and Tell in our classroom was interesting to say the least. Romans would have gathered in coliseums to witness its carnage. All of the students knew that there was a fine line between sharing and bragging and when a student crossed this line everyone booed and hissed, our teacher, Sister Catherine, leading the way with the loudest screech of all.

“Oh, take your seat you lousy braggart,” she would yell while picking at the hairy mole that lived within the shade of her nose. On occasion, without warning, a chalk soaked erasure would hit the offender upside the head while he or she stood in mid-sentence. A cloud of smoke steamed from the contact point and an ashen smudge scarred the offender for the duration of class. It was a fate worst than a scarlet letter. The risk of beratement and corporal punishment, however, did not dampen our enthusiasm to ascend to the front of class and share our wonders.

Sister Catherine designated Thursdays as Show and Tell days in the third grade. Always the first class after lunch, Sister asked who had something to show or tell and anyone could raise a hand. Most did.

Jimmy Stein had raised his hand every Thursday since the beginning of the year. At first, Sister Catherine used to call on him regularly. He would walk to the front of class and tell us of a vacation his family took or an entomological fact he learned from his bug scientist father. After a few months Jimmy seemed to exhaust the facts regarding cockroaches and junebugs so he started telling on other classmates.

On one occasion Jimmy walked to the front of class and reported, “Thomas jumped into my square when we were playing foursquare and the ball was really inside the line.” Sister huffed and sent him back to his chair saying, “I should have known better than to call on a fool like you. You truly are your mother’s son, Jimmy. Good thing too, because your father’s a lazy alcoholic.” Jimmy mumbled, “Well Thomas’s a cheater” as he took his seat and the class moaned, disappointed that a turn at the front of the class had been wasted.

When Jimmy realized that he could not use Show and Tell to lodge complaints against classmates he started telling us about his Uncle who always got drunk and exposed himself at family gatherings. Initially, Sister listened on with salivating interest. Then, one day she had to call Division of Family Services after Jimmy told us his Dad got drunk and gave everybody, including his mom, a whooping. After that, Sister stopped calling on his hand altogether. She said that given her mandatory reporting status, calling on Jimmy was all just a big hassle. Especially since one of the major problems with children (and modern women) was that not enough of them were getting whoopings.

I thought God was wise in forbidding nuns to have children. Well, at least not their own. In some absurd twist of irony these deity-imposed barren women were entrusted with other people’s children for eight long hours, five days a week. Why was it that people always thought they knew better than God?

“Now children, who has something to share with the class,” Sister smiled as if she held a treat just out of sight and immediately a number of hands shot into the air. “I think we have time for five presenters today.”

It was easy to see who had something to show. Kids had brought treasures shut away in brown paper bags, double secured with both staples and duct tape to foil any clandestine attempts of early discovery by their fellow classmates. Some kids kept lumps under their regulation, navy blue sweaters or in their salt and pepper pant’s pockets and played gingerly at recess so as not to hurt whichever jewel they concealed within the confines of their clothing.

Mary Riganni (it was a catholic school so there were a lot of Marys) carried a big box into the back of class every Thursday. Week after week, Sister refused to call on her and Mary had to carry the box home after school. Since Mary rode the school bus to and from school, she had to lug that heavy thing up the stairs and down the narrow isle every week. Some of the kids would shove the box to upset her balance and often Mary fell and scabbed up her legs. Each week the box became more beat up and Mary’s legs more bruised. Mary, however, remained undeterred and shouldered her burden each week without complaint.

Sister Catherine rebuffed Mary’s out-stretch hand as a matter of principle. She seemed quite sure that Mary was just a braggart, carrying such a big box around. According to Sister, one of the worst things you could be in life was a braggart. It was almost as bad as being a lawyer.

Half the class had their hands in the air including Jimmy Stein, Mary Riganni, Johnny Galloway, Tony Marrilo, Steven Johnson, Sally Struthers and Abe Vagoda, who we all called fish. I also had my hand up.

Sister teased us. She pointed down one isle but called “Jeremiah Johnson”, Stephen’s twin brother who sat way over at the far end of the classroom. A loud wave of disappointed “ahhhhh” swept through the class as everyone sat back into their seats and calculated their odds of being selected in round two.

Jeremiah had something to show. He walked up to blackboard with his bag clutched under his right arm. Jeremiah’s straight black hair lay flat against his head, coming to a precipitous just above his eyes and ears. Cut in the shape of an upside down bowl, it appeared as though it had given up and died years ago. Jeremiah was thin and dirty and often had the slightest hint of ammonia drifting around him in an invisible mist. The sleeves of his sweater were shredded because he often chewed on them in class like some sort of beaver.

As you may have figured, Jeremiah did not have many friends. He often spent recess alone, playing in one corner of the yard with toys he had brought from home.

Jeremiah reached excitedly into his bag. “I have all five, Super-Power Transforming Pigmies,” he said while pulling the five, primary colored African Tribesman from his bag. “You can take them apart and transform them into individual mulberry shrubs or one nuclear powered hydroponics plant.”

Jeremiah concentrated as he pulled the heads off of four of the pigmies and tried to attach them to the limbs of the fifth. He dropped three of the heads and one rolled under Sister Catherine’s desk. He next tried to attach the arms to the torso so as to make exhaust pipes for the power plant, but these would also not stick and after about five minutes he was standing at the front of the class holding nothing but the dismembered body parts of five pigmies.

As far as Show and Tell was concerned, his performance could not have been a greater disaster. Jeremiah tried to recover by telling us how he came about the transforming Pigmies but this only made matters worse. “My mom gives me one Super Power Pigmy every time I don’t wet the bed, “he said. “If I do wet the bed then I have to go to school without taking a bath.”

Steven hung his head in shame and prayed to be reborn into a different family. For sure, the other kids would be making fun of him today without mercy.

Tabitha raised her hand and asked Jeremiah if he would be receiving a Super-Power Pigmy for his performance last night and Jeremiah weakly answered “no”. Nobody would be playing with Jeremiah today at lunch recess, and while this was no different than any other lunch recess, today they would be avoiding him on purpose.

Jeremiah reclaimed the pigmy head from under Catherine’s desk and returned to his seat amid weak applause. He smiled at his brother, but Steven refused to even look in his direction.

The next two presenters, Johnny Galloway and Sally Struthers barely made it through with their dignity intact.

Johnny showed us an autograph picture of some NASCAR Racer none of us had ever heard of, but as the class had never seen anything autographed before a number of students raised their hands to ask questions. “Where did you get it?” “Did you really meet him?” “How fast does he drive?” “Have you ever seen somebody die in a fiery wreck?”

Sister Catherine had heard enough. “You all are no better than the newly freed Israelites worshipping a golden calve at the base of Mount Sinai.” In an instant, the remaining hands and questions disappeared. “The way you look towards your celebrities. You should all be ashamed. I long for the day someone would bring an autographed picture of the Pope to class or Mother Teresa bless her heart now that she has gone to Jesus. I wondered if you would collect trading cards featuring Jesus or the Saints. Do you think Jesus’ rookie card could fetch as much as the Babe’s?”

“Does the card feature Jesus turning water into wine or overturning a table in the marketplace?” I asked.

“You mind Mary,” Sister Catherine glared, “Jesus is listening and that crown of thorns has given him a terrible headache.” Sister next told Johnny he should spend more time worshipping God and not people who drove like the devil. She took his autograph picture and threw it in the trashcan. Johnny went back to his seat but not before retrieving his photo while Sister lectured us regarding the statistics that would be on the back of a Mother Teresa trading card.

I thought about the Saints trading cards. Photos of men and women with their eyes plucked out, disemboweled or hanging upside down on crosses. “Follow The Lord” would be inscribed in reddish orange flames above the burning, anguished face of Joan of Arc. The back could give a brief life synopsis, list of miracles, route of execution and the number of souls saved attributed to that particular Saint.

I was so entranced with my thoughts of the Saints trading cards that I missed when Sister Catherine asked for the next presenter and then called upon Sally Struthers. Sally Struthers walked to the front of class, her long brown hair waving behind her. She was one of the heaviest girls in class and she said it was because she was big boned. Sister Catherine said that her bones were not the only things big on her body.

Sally had recently traveled to Washington DC with her family. She told us about the Capital and White House and all the museums that they toured. In the Smithoneum she was particularly struck by a display on the starving children in Africa. Sally told us that we should not waste any of our lunch because kids are dying in other countries. She said that for twenty-five cents a day we could feed a nation.

Johnny Galloway said he left half his sandwich uneaten each day on purpose just so some of those kids could come over and get it. Sister Catherine then told Johnny that we all knew that he did not eat his entire sandwich because the Ritalin, which he took for being born to white trash people with poor parenting skills, took away his appetite. She then reminded him that his presentation was a message from the Devil and that he should be busy praying for his soon to be burning soul rather than making jokes.

Sister Catherine looked at the class and gestured her palms upright towards Sally. “All behold little miss righteous up here. Maybe Sally could donate some of her lunch to those starving kids in Africa; the good Lord knows she could use a good fast.” Sally slunk back to her chair; her head hung in sorrow.

When Sister asked for the next victim only Jimmy Stein, Mary Riganni and myself raised our hands.

I walked to the front of class prepared to tell all what I knew. I shook my shirt and brushed off the plaid skirt that was mandated by the Sisters of Perpetual Pain. I told the class that God was my father. I told them how he was tired of ruling in heaven and decided to become human. I told them that Jesus was my brother and that he was born in a doublewide trailer deep in the barren Oklahoma plains.

A hand rose and I called upon it.

“Does God have any cavities?”
“While it has been highly reported by people who have almost died and seen Jesus that God has perfect teeth, I must confess that he has a few cavities. See God really likes candy and his mother was not good at making him brush his teeth when he was a child. He has even had to have a cap placed on one of his front teeth, which he broke while playing hockey.”

“That is ridiculous,” Sister Catherine exclaimed in shock. “Cavities. A cap. You do not know what you are talking about little girl. The Lord’s teeth are as white as alabaster shells. They shine like the stars on a dark night. They are as strong as steal and straight as a righteous path. They most certainly could withstand the assault of a hockey puck.”

“Maybe he was hit by a stick,” one kid offered.

“Or a hockey stick,” Sister Catherine emphasized. All the kids marveled at the strength of God’s teeth.

“Well, now that you mention the color of God’s teeth,” I said. “While it is not all that important, they are a little yellow because he loves to drink coffee.”

“What kind of flooring does God walk on?”

“I’d like to report marble, because once again most sightings include God walking on a marble white tile of most exquisite beauty, but again I must confess that often he walks on wood floors, concrete sidewalks and actually spends the majority of his time on linoleum.”

“Linoleum.” Sister Catherine huffed and smoke flared from her nostrils. She rose from her seat and I could tell that she was upset. I had not even had a chance to tell the class about Jesus’ message. “Mary you blaspheme,” she said. “God would never walk on linoleum. Even as Jesus entered the Holy City, people laid palms at his feet. Please take these words back; you surely have no idea of the terrible things of which you speak.”

“Sister, I am quite aware of what I speak. The appearance of God and Jesus really is not that important. The color of their skin, eyes and hair are all physical attributes. Even the sex of God is unimportant,” I said.

A murmur passed through the class quicker than a cold at the mention of the words “sex” and God” in the same sentence. Sister had been struck dumb.

I talked quickly because I knew my time was limited. “God the Father and Jesus the son remain superstars in religious circles, but their true epistle can only be realized when one regards them as simple human beings just like every person sitting in this classroom. Jesus was just an ordinary person and the life that he led, a life of sacrifice and love, is one which all of us could achieve. We all have the power to produce heaven on earth but first we must stop following belittling, separatist and intolerant rhetoric.”

“The Church of God is about unity; it is the church of men that works at division. We must see that God is black, white, Arab, Jew, Christian, Protestant, male and female. There are no differences between people whatsoever. We have formed not from cells of separation but inclusion. One of the biggest mistakes my father admits was making us unique, not because there is something wrong from that which makes us different, but because we use those differences to create partitions. The divided world appears cruel but all we really have to do is be kind to each other and love is ours to possess. We can do this because Jesus did this and he was divinely human.”

Wham. The erasure hit the back of my head before I could duck.

As I walked out the door I heard Sister call the name of Mary Riganni. I was upset to be going to the Principal’s office, after all these weeks I was not going to get to see what was in that box. I wished her luck.

I sat in the Principal’s office, sitting on the same wooden bench and watching the same clock that I had seen so many times before today. Only this time I could see no justice in being there. My father was speaking with Principal Ned. The clock ran at its normal pace because I knew that my father would not be angry with me this time.

I was stunned to soon be joined by Mary Riganni. She carried with her a beautiful round orb about the size of a bowling ball. I found it mesmerizing. I looked deep into its crystal recesses and saw a glorious violet much like the edge of a rainbow. It brought me peace.

“What is that?” I asked.

Mary looked at the globe and then over at me. “It is a Soul Revelator, one gaze into its core and a person will see the color of their soul.”

“Wow,” I exclaimed, “that may be the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen. Why were you sent to the Principal’s office?” I was unable to remove my eyes from the hypnotic glow emanating from the depth of the Revelator. “Sister couldn’t have thought you a braggart for bring such an awesome thing as that to school.”

“Well, all the kids were looking into it and shouting out the different colors and emotions that were unveiled to them. Every soul has its own unique color and feeling. Well any way, Sister Catherine pushed some children aside saying ‘let me look into that thing’.”

“That still shouldn’t get you sent to the Principal’s office,” I said.

“Well, the problem was,” Mary paused. “When Sister gaped into the Soul Revelator she couldn’t see anything. I guess her eyes were not open.”

I nodded my head in understanding hoping that one day she would discover the ability to see the beauty of her soul.