Page 22 - Free the Idea Monkey

“George Maddock?” she asked. (She smelled like Listerine.)
I continued to whistle.
“GEORGE MADDOCK?!” she demanded. (Listerine mixed with
Sanka.)
“My name is Mike,” I stated flatly. I was mad. How does she not
know my name? It wasn’t my first year in the school. My throat was
beginning to constrict and my eyes were welling up, but I wasn’t
going to have someone—even if she was a nun—convince me that I
did not know my own name. A guy has to have his dignity.
“Your name is George Maddock, and you will answer to your
name! Is that clear?”
“NO!” I took a deep breath and said,
very slowly, and with great emphasis,
“My...name...is...MIKE. MIKE Maddock.”
That was it. I was done talking to
her until she called me by my name. I
clammed up and stared at a fascinating
piece of skin on my right index finger.
At this point she turned really red. I
mean really red. It was clear we had moved
beyond whatever punishment I was going to
get for disobeying a rule. I started wondering what happened to
11-year-old boys who give nuns a heart attack.
“We’ll see what Sister Nancy has to say about THIS!” Sister Helen
bellowed as she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door.
(Author’s note: Nuns are unbelievably strong. I’m pretty sure I still
have bruises on my arm. I don’t know if this Herculean strength is con-
nected to righteous might, sexual repression or the Vatican-sponsored
weight room, but you don’t want to mess with these ladies. Trust me.)
Sister Nancy was our principal. She was different than all the
other nuns. She always wore business suits, always seemed inter-
ested in us kids and was always smiling. Every day she would walk
the halls and talk to everyone she saw. She had not spoken to me yet,
but I’d seen her stop and talk to my friends about their weekends,
hobbies, interests. She really seemed quite un-nunlike. Sister Nancy
was nice. But she was still a nun and I was still in trouble.

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