"Are you sure nuns are girls?" I asked Mom after day one of first grade.
We lived catty-corner from Saint Cecilia's. It cost more than public school but its proximity and discipline well-served a single parent with three latchkey kids. Mom had taken off from work to get me, her youngest, through a nervous first day. She smiled as I entered our flat.
"So, big boy, how was your first. . ."
She'd seen the handprint across my right cheek.
The day's lesson: Nuns are mean hombres. Clad head-to-toe in black except for a white noggin-box and platter-sized bib that hid bosom, ears and hair, they were unlike females I'd yet encountered. Nuns treated first-graders as though all had been reared wrong.
Franciscans had hawk eyes, quick hands, and no mercy. And did they waste time with spanking, paddling, or knuckle-raps. Rather, they face-whacked quick and hard, knowing that a public thumping of one would deter all.
Parris Island was physically tougher than Catholic grammar school, although nuns hit more often than did DIs. Yet life with nuns five days weekly for 12 years made Marine boot camp easier for me than it was for public-school grads. That's why my first impression at PI was déjà vu. DIs wore different garb than nuns but both used the same modus operandi. Adapting was easy.
