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By Marie McGrath DavisPublished 2 years ago 17 min read
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Mount St. Joseph Academy, London, Ontario, 1968 - hated it

We who were transferred to St. David School – Grades 7 through 10 – from the various other Roman Catholic schools in Waterloo in the fall of 1967 were, I think, fairly pleased with our new digs. For those of us in Grades 7 and 8 especially, things had taken quite a turn as we went from sitting in one classroom, with one teacher the entire day, to having a Homeroom where core subjects were taught by our Homeroom teacher in the morning then, in the afternoon, we got to wander from pillar to post and classroom to classroom for such exotic subjects as French and Guidance, Typing and Music. There was even a Science lab and dedicated Art classroom. The Science lab had Bunsen burners and the Art room held magical properties. Being a Catholic bunch, we also had one class a week in something called “Revelation” which, really, was just a word to lull us into a sense of not having religion jammed down our throats.

It was during this exact period that Vatican II changed things forever for the Catholic Church. Latin Masses were no longer a thing; Mass was said in the vernacular. The priest no longer faced away from the congregation but betook himself to the other side of the altar where he could behold the faithful flock. No more kneeling at the altar for Communion. We’d now proceed up the middle aisle to receive the host, standing, of all unimaginable things. The priest, instead of muttering something in Latin as he gave us Holy Communion, said – for us in the English-speaking world – “The Body of Christ” – to which we as recipients would respond, “Amen”.

Oh, those where the heady and halcyon days of religious transformation.

I hated it. Even then, I loved Latin and the mystery of it all. I loved the sound and rhythm of the strange words and the sanctity of the Mass itself. Having it all trundled into layman’s terms without so much as a ‘by your leave’, seemed to trivialize its import. I understood there was much more to Vatican II than the changes in the Mass but, for me, it was mostly downhill from there. I remember thinking, even as a 13-year-old, “From the sublime to the ridiculous.” I’m not sure where I’d heard that quote from Napoleon Bonaparte, but it suited the circumstance in my opinion.

But Mass, the Vatican and Papal Encyclicals aside, life at St. David’s Junior High made for some heady times and, while others were enjoying the advantages of social popularity, I most definitely was not. Having been a large child, in the sense of, well…fat, since toddlerhood, I continued to be a large t’ween, then teen. I had few friends, given the teasing I received because of my…’large’sse, and spent most of my extracurricular time with a friend from my primary school who, happily for me, was actually a bit bigger than I, weight-wise.

The point is that, after my initial hair-admiring run-in with the black-haired girl in a Grade 7 assembly, we went our separate ways within the confines of school, as the students who came from St. Agnes remained with St. Agnes classmates (with a few of the St. Michael’s included) and those classes from St. Louis remained intact. In honesty, I don’t remember anything much about her during the remainder of Grade 7 and all of Grade 8.

Grade 9 sent me abroad, to London. Not abroad, per se. But to London. To clarify, London, Ontario, and a different school entirely. My parents, concerned about me for many reasons (some of which I didn’t learn for decades), thought it best to enroll me in a boarding school run by The Sisters of St. Joseph. My understanding (and it was integral) of the switch was the fact that I was just SO SHY - and becoming ever moreso - that any sort of social interaction would render me nearly catatonic. Living every day, in anticipation and dread of the moment or moments that some heartless schoolmate would yell or comment (usually yell) something about my being a ‘fatty’, made my days near unbearable. I would regularly come home in tears and pray that I’d get through the next day without being humiliated in public yet again.

My parents’ reaction to this was that I was being ridiculous. What did it matter what anyone said? I was better than that, better than those ignorant yahoos…I should just ignore them. Easier said than done, you may think? Well, you think right. But they wanted me to learn to stand up for myself, to be unfazed and pay no heed to the taunts. I believe their thinking ran that if I didn’t have home as my place to run away and hide, I’d just naturally develop a thicker skin (not what an overweight child needs, in the literal sense of it) and learn to stand tall and proud amongst my peers. That, and the fact that my mother had spent the entirety of her school years at a boarding school back home in Ireland from whence we emanated, popular and having a great time, convinced them I was likely to benefit from the enforced separation as a boarder at Mount St. Joseph Academy.

Indeed, it was a highly-rated school. I’ll go so far as to say it was quite a wonderful place, with great teachers (nuns the lot of them), gorgeous surroundings, a two-lane bowling alley and well-appointed dormitory accommodations. And, the mouth-watering, delectable and high-carbohydrate selections of foods from which to choose at every meal and snack times (once after school; once after Study Hall).

And I hated it.

Despite loving the school itself, and my classes and teachers, and having the odd friend or two, I was still the butt of many a joke. The song, “Guantanamera” was popular at the time and, my name being ‘Marie’ (in Ireland, pronounced ‘Maaaa’-ree’), my fellow dorm-mates lost no time in changing it to “One Ton o’ Marie”. I soon learned to wear clothes when I showered as the seven other girls in my dormitory thought it great fun to steal my garments and towels from the shower cubby, leaving me naked and stuck in the stall until ‘Lights Out’ when Sister John Mary (whom my fellow dorm girls nicknamed ‘Fang’ because of her prominent front teeth, making no effort to shield her from the taunt) would find me thus stranded; and come to my rescue with towels and night attire. She would ask me what had happened and, knowing the code of dorms and young teen girls, I would just cry and, naming no names, would towel off and, nightie donned, skulk back to our room and my bed.

Of course, Sister John Mary knew exactly what had happened and, moreover, who the most guilty amongst the many culprits were but, despite my silence, I would be blamed when everyone but me would get some sort of punishment. That just made things worse, though I did get access to certain of the amenities in the convent, including the TV room the old, retired nuns frequented. I was, therefore, all the more a pariah.

But the food! I know I mentioned the food. It was splendiferous. And I, having been on doctor-enforced diets from an early age while at home, lost no time in partaking of hitherto-forbidden calorie-laden meals with desserts the like of which I had formerly only dreamed. I’m not sure exactly how much weight I put on that year but I do know that, by the end of Grade 9, when I was released from boarding school confinement and very much alone in our bathroom back home, I weighed nearly 180 pounds. Being always tall for my age, I hoped that I’d grow several more feet to accommodate the scale reading but, though I didn’t know then, I’d already reached my full height at 5’ 4”.

One might think I’ve diverged from my tale of the friendship that has spanned five decades, and into a histrionic dirge about the travails of my own life; but this is all just background fodder without which the rest of the tale loses potency and, to me, import.

That was June of 1968. I was set to return to boarding school in September and resigned to – though horrified and embarrassed by - my excessive weight, and things might have progressed without incident, but for an incident June 30, the last Sunday of that month.

Bobby Kennedy had been shot and killed in the Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles June 6. I had spent my time during the immediate aftermath in the TV lounge – being excused from classes because of my grief – watching the televised coverage. I remember some of the many boarders whose fathers were surgeons (they were an affluent lot) discussing amongst themselves what their respective fathers had speculated about RFK’s chance of survival given his injuries; some thought he’d make it. I certainly prayed he would.

But, of course, he – like his brother before him – succumbed to his injuries. Back home when school ended, I was in constant tears about Bobby, whom I’d so adored, and for the many children – one yet unborn - who had been left fatherless by his assassination.

And that likely would have been the theme of my summertime in 1968, mourning RFK and JFK and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. who had been shot a few months before Bobby. For whatever reason, none that matters now, I have always been engrossed in U.S. history and politics.

But, on June 30, our parish, St. Teresa’s, held its annual summer picnic. My parents didn’t go that year, but a family friend invited me with her family and, so, I happily (albeit tentatively; in social situations, always tentatively) I accompanied her.

When I was in Kindergarten, many years earlier, at St. Teresa’s School (St. Agnes had no Kindergarten), my mother had been my teacher. In my class there was a boy with whom I had become enamored when I was but four-years-old. As we aged, and I would see him at Sunday Mass, my fixation grew. Flash forward to 1963, when I was introduced to The Beatles on a trip home to Ireland months before The Fab Four hit America, and the fact my paramour resembled Paul McCartney had me over the moon any time I beheld him. And, on that very Sunday, at the picnic in 1968, he spoke to me. And he was nice. And quite casual. I waited for the usual commentary on my being overweight, but he said nothing about it. I was besotted and relief would be too understated a word to describe how I felt.

But, then, of course, as my friend and I walked with his friends and him back toward our respective families at picnic end, the thing I most dreaded happened. One of his friends commented on my weight. I can’t remember the exact words, but rest assured there was no intimation of approval.

The mortification was more than mere words can express. I was humiliated, and crushed and wanted the earth to open (wide) and swallow me whole. To be thus embarrassed and disgraced in front of the one and only boy I had ever fancied was annihilating. I, and my world, were shattered.

As I lay in bed that night, in tears of course, I remember telling myself, in no uncertain terms, “Nobody will ever call me fat again.”

And, just over two months later, when I returned to Mount St. Joseph Academy for Grade 10, I had lost 64 pounds.

Of course, I hadn’t done this in any sort of healthy manner. I had just stopped eating. I’m not sure how I managed to get away with it, but I do recall my mother proudly presenting me to her best friend mid-summer, thrilled at my weight loss. There were two weeks mid-July I recall vividly because they were unusual in and of themselves. My picnic friend and her family had rented a cottage for two weeks and invited me along. I ate exactly two nectarines each day, which I bought with the allowance my parents had sent with me. Nothing more.

When it was time to prepare for my return to boarding school, my uniform had to be drastically altered. As a child whose size had always demanded my clothes be handmade, and having had to stand to be measured and tut-tutted about by a dressmaker friend of my mother’s; now having garments being taken in, instead of let out, was glorious. Even more glorious was that, when I returned to school in September, nobody – not even the nuns – recognized me.

I was thrilled.

And the starvation continued, until I could no longer climb the four flights of stairs to my dormitory and had to sneak into the elevator reserved for the retired nuns to get there. My daily intake was 10 ‘dietetic jujubes’, except for Tuesday when lunch was tuna casserole and oatmeal cookies. I would sneak up to the dorm (via elevator) at lunch time every day but Tuesday to down five of my 10 jube daily allotment and do as much of the Canadian Army’s 5 BX exercise plan for women as I could manage. Jumping Jacks and Toe Touches are all I can remember doing before I’d have to make my way back down to the main floor for afternoon classes. I suspect I was able to manage the stairs for my descent, though it’s rather a blur.

By the beginning of November, I had diminished in size sufficiently to warrant a good deal of concern amongst the good Sisters of St. Joseph. Anorexia Nervosa was years away as something familiar to the general public. The nuns – and everyone – knew only that I was wasting away and, for some reason, didn’t seem to be eating. They thought it was some physical ailment and, essentially (I suspect) didn’t want me dying on their watch.

And, so, I was liberated from boarding school, sent packing back home and confronted with doctor’s orders to gain weight. I gamely refused to eat more than the bare minimum, but partook thrice daily of what I was told was a vitamin drink. And, wouldn’t you know it, on came the weight. Of course, the vitamin drink packed a solid 1200 calories a glass, but no one had told me that.

I suspect I’d reached a reasonable weight by the time it was decided I would return to St. David’s for the rest of my Grade 10 year. Having spent the past school year and a bit in the company only of females, the prospect of sharing classrooms with male students was a tad daunting, given my last run-in with boys my age had devastated me to the point of losing nearly 70 pounds. And, while I was no longer ‘one ton of Marie’, I was still as cripplingly shy and socially awkward as ever. Being the new (albeit returning) kid amongst what was mostly a bunch of strangers was, for me, terrifying. I dreaded it but, one Monday that November, I made my way back to St. David’s as a Grade 10 student.

And, oh, how differently I - the more or less new, thin girl - was treated than I had been less than two years earlier. As nerve-wracking and scary as it was infiltrating this group of teens I hadn’t seen since at least 60 pounds ago, I was quickly reassured that, to presage the model, Kate Moss, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” It wasn’t so much that I was lovingly and warmly embraced by all in the class; for me, finally, the constant dread of having the adjectives, ‘fat’ or ‘tubby’ or ‘overweight’ hurled at me, or remarked almost (but not quite) out of earshot by neither female nor male was the best feeling about myself I’d ever had.

Still, I hadn’t suddenly lost the shyness and dread of social situations that had long characterized my life’s path. There were some classmates I knew from my earlier days at St. David’s and St. Agnes, and some who had been incorporated into my new Grade 10 homeroom from the other schools. All were already cloistered into their particular friend units and, knowing I would have to try to fit in somewhere, was daunting. Given my trepidation and the sheer import of that week, I’m surprised I remember absolutely nothing about it other than I survived.

Despite my having made it through the first hurdle, being in that class with so many new people was stomach-churning for me in that panic attack sort of way remains my usual response to enforced social interaction. I still had quite a way to go before anything resembling easy familiarity would attend my school days.

I believe it was Saturday (though Sunday it might have been) at the end of that school week while I was at home doing something or other, when the doorbell rang. Whether I went to open the door myself or if someone else did, then came to fetch me, I don’t remember. This was not a usual sort of thing, someone coming to the house in search of me and I know that, when I saw who it was, I was definitely surprised and rather at a loss.

It was the black-haired girl, the one from Grade 7 who was now in my new homeroom at St. David’s. I had no idea why she was there, much less how she knew where I lived (which, I’ve realized quite recently, I still don’t know) as the walk from her home to mine would have taken more than half an hour.

What was said between us at the door, I don’t remember though, looking back from my vantage point of decades and a bit of learned social norms, I should have invited her in. Such a thing, however, was not within my capability at the time. It would have been so uncomfortable and unimaginable that such hospitality never even occurred to me.

I didn’t invite her in. We parted at the door, but not until she gave me a gift. And, again, I don’t remember in what terms she couched the presentation of the gift, but I suspect it was meant to welcome me to her classroom and invite me into her circle of friends, one I came to learn was large, and well-established. I was absolutely floored by such generosity and kindness, as neither had ever been accorded me in such a manner before.

I’m not sure how we left things there at the door, but I do know I started to cry after she’d gone. I was so taken aback and moved, not only by the gift, but the fact she had found where I lived and walked the distance just to make me feel at home back at school.

The gift may or may not have been wrapped. That I don’t remember, but I do recall how much I loved it, a row of bells attached to a thick, braided royal blue satin rope with a loop to hang from a wall or window. I have cherished it over the years, and taken it with me wherever I’ve lived. It has always been on display somewhere in my house or apartment or room

And I still have it. At least I know it’s somewhere in this house now and, someday, I know I will find it. In the confusing and badly-thought-out series of moves that were made to accommodate my parents’ every-changing decisions about where to live (which included a move back and forth between where they lived and I lived with my family; then, back again after only a few days), many of my possessions were swallowed up into boxes and packing crates. The blue satin string of bells was a casualty of so much indecision and bouncing about.

But I know it’s here somewhere, and that gives me as much comfort today as it did when I received it at the front door.

To this day, I cherish that gift and the kind act that brought it to me as much as I cherish the friendship that began that first weekend after my return to St. David’s. And, in the nearly 54 years since then, Kathie and I have remained fast friends through every life event imaginable.

There are many stories to tell.

friendship
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About the Creator

Marie McGrath Davis

If I didn't write, I would explode.

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