Page 23 - Free the Idea Monkey

So there I was, sitting in Sister Nancy’s reception
area fighting back tears. I could feel my heart pound-

ing in my face as I played with a thread on my hand-
me-down (from my older brother Bill) uniform
pants. Sister Helen stared straight ahead. I
think she was growling, but I can’t be sure.
Sister Nancy came out of her office,
smiled at me (did she just glare at Sister
Helen?) and asked us to come in.
“Good morning, Mr. Maddock.” (Gulp, she
knows my name!) “Tell me, Sister Helen, what
opportunity have you brought me this lovely
Monday morning?”

Sister Helen fixed her cold, blue eyes on me. She cleared her
throat, gritted her teeth and did indeed growl, “This young man,
George Maddock, refuses to answer to his name.
I have told him that in my class, you must
answer to your name. He does not seem to
understand how to follow rules.”

I never looked up from my pants thread.
Surely they could see I was working on something
important and would leave me alone. “Mr. Maddock,” Sister Nancy
said gently, “Why aren’t you responding to your name?”

I wish I could tell you that I was strong enough to recite my own
little declaration of independence, and explain that Sister Helen’s
rules were stupid and a person had a right to be called whatever
they like. Or that I talked about our family’s tradition of naming kids,
and how while I was proud of being named for my dad and grand-
father, I was still my own person. But the truth is, I could barely
keep it together. Through quivering lips and tear-filled eyes, I said,
“Because my name is Mike.”

Sister Nancy nodded knowingly. She’d seen this type of situa-
tion—and stubbornness—before. She turned to my teacher and said
sternly, “Sister Helen, you will call this young man Mike. Do you
understand me?”

8 FREE THE IDEA MONKEY