If your parents looked down on the public school system like mine did, there is a good chance you ended up in a Catholic school. Yes, those schools that made you dress up and show up for school. I’m actually proud to say I survived 12 years of Catholic school. When I look back at the haunting days of an overly strict education, nuns, priests, and over the top Christmas and Spring Shows, I see what an amazing bootcamp I attended to prepare me for the trials and tribulations of real life.
You know the drill: school shoes, khakis or navy trousers (depending on the parish), Oxford shirt, school tie, and school sweater. All day, everyday. By age 10, I could tie a full windsor like a Wall Street executive, and by high school, I was an expert at matching ties to the shade of my white Oxford I wore that day. Still to this day, when I put on my tie I think about Catholic school. Sister Diane would be proud.
This is a lost art with our generation. When I was in first grade, I had a penmanship class; by second grade, I had a cursive writing class every day. Upon successful approval and certification of my cursive writing abilities, I was forced to write in the official Catholic school font type for the next decade. Because of this brainwashing, to this day I still write cursive in my professional life and it makes my blood boil when I encounter someone who can’t read cursive. This leads me into my next topic…
Catholic schools loved telling their students to take notes on absolutely everything in their black and white marble copybook–hand cramps from writing are something only a Catholic school student can understand. By high school, I was allowed to have an actual pen, a spiral notebook, or a binder which was HUGE. In college, I decided to stick with the notebooks instead of taking notes on my laptop. Now in my professional life, I’m still writing cursive–I’m highly organized and considered a “top performer” because of it.
Although school dances were designed as “social events” for the parish community, they were actually the training wheels responsible for underage drinking, sex, and Sunday struggles I endured from college and into my postgrad life. Face it, school dances were just to find out who could host an after party, which girl you planned to get drunk there, and who was stuck driving Mom’s minivan for the evening to chauffeur everyone. This certainly added to the building blocks of how to live a proper college life.