Sister Badass

She was walking terror in black and white. Her splayed feet established an imposing blockade. Her face stopped your breathing. Her voice launched flocks of goosebumps. She taught fourth-grade History at St. Rita’s Catholic school and if you didn’t know your history, you got smacked by the ruler materialized from within her habit. She struck fear in our hearts and swats on our butts. Her 4’11” loomed over most of us like a black storm cloud. Her name was Sister Gladys. She was known as Sister Badass.

I was her favorite subject of torture. I stunk in History. My wrong answer to Napoleon’s final battle question was met with a quick draw of that dreaded smack stick and a flicking sting on the forearm. “Waterloo,” she glared, bending over my desk, blowing her hot dragon breath into my face. “Waterloo, Mr. Wilson. Waterloo. Don’t ever forget it.”

I never will forget Waterloo. Or any of her painful lessons, as she smote me with her swift stick. Sister Badass was a stickler for discipline and accuracy. She expected you to be right. She expected you to pay attention. She knew when you didn’t know. She had a seventh sense about her. Hiding behind open books, slinking low in your seat and avoiding eye contact were no defense against her uncanny ability to read your mind. And she haunted mine.

Sister Badass’ influence was felt beyond the classroom. She was always lurking in the shadows on the playground, in the lunchroom, anywhere you least expected her. And she wasn’t just interested in your failure in History. Running too fast on the playground earned you a quick stick slap on the thigh. Being too loud in the lunchroom got you a surprise sting on the shoulder. Even in church, too much fidgeting provoked her piercing glare. She never missed a thing.

One hot summer day, my friends and I were outside the drugstore, laughing and having a good time, eating ice cream. I finished off my cone and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. From out of nowhere, Sister Badass materialized. She grabbed my ear. Pinching and lifting, she pulled me to my toes. “Use a napkin, Mr. Wilson. You don’t do the laundry. Your mother does. Chocolate stains.” My ear released, my heels hit the ground. She was off in a rippling curtain of black, receding into the sun. The guys fell down laughing. I got a case of the shivers. Never again did I wipe my mouth on my sleeve.

Early every morning I delivered newspapers, tossing them on porches from a big sack on my handlebars. The church rectory was on my route. One day the paper bounced off the rectory porch. Sister Badass flew out the door, stomping after me, shouting, “Mr. Wilson! Get back here immediately!” I skidded to a stop and wheeled around to face her. She glared at me, feet planted wide with her fists perched on her hips. She pointed at the newspaper in the bushes. I got off my bike, picked it up and handed it to her. “Where are you supposed to put the paper, Mr. Wilson?” she hissed through clenched teeth. From that day forward, I got off my bike and leaned the paper against the rectory door.

It got to where I expected her to spring up any time I did anything wrong. She was like a shadow of scrutiny over me, stalking me, waiting for me to slip up. If I picked my nose and wiped a booger under a chair, I looked around to see if she was watching. As I fantasized over my secret girlie magazines, I half expected her to spring out of my closet. When I discreetly fed the dog my liver under the dinner table, I worried that she might be watching through the kitchen window. I thought about her any time I might have done something wrong. She had me spooked. I dreaded History class. I memorized dates, places and historical figures with manic attention to detail, just to avoid confrontation. I became a history whiz.

Throughout my grade school life, I dodged her in the hallways, kept a low profile and did everything in my power not to attract her attention. Still, I felt she had me under personal surveillance. She was always there, somewhere. Finally, I got through 8th grade. I was off to high school, relieved in the assumption that I would never again suffer the scrutiny of Sister Badass. Or, so I thought. On my first day of class as a freshman at St. Alphonse High School, who blew into my buzzing homeroom? The Black Avenger herself, Sister You-Know-Who, newly reassigned. Oh no, could this be true? Four more years of relentless reconnaissance? A sudden hush fell over the room. A pall of gloom descended. Outside the windows clouds obscured the sun. All eyes locked on the dark presence as she stood before the class. Her hands clasped in front of her, she didn’t speak, her eyes passing over each of us. I tried to hide behind the girl in front of me, as those laser orbs scanned the room. “Mr. Wilson.” I heard, as I peeked around the brown curls turning toward me. All eyes tracked with Sister Badass as I turned bright red. I felt the heat radiate from inside my face as cold dread filled my stomach.

“Yes, Sister Ba . . . uh, Gla . . . uh, Gladys?” I squeaked, my throat constricting, my adolescent voice changing. A few titters broke the cold silence.

“Come here, Mr. Wilson.” Her voice was like the low rumble of thunder. On quaking knees, I slinked to the front of the class. Having grown four inches over the summer, I now towered over Sister Badass, a strange unfamiliar perspective. She handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. “Pass this around. I want names and birthdates of each class member.” Relieved she hadn’t whacked me, I followed instructions. Thus began my freshman year under the persistent microscope of my long-time nemesis. But, something had changed. I realized gradually that I had become what my classmates called the “Teacher’s Pet.” I actually started to get the impression that Sister Badass liked me. Instead of the intimidating glare, there seemed a hint of a twinkle in her eye. Though she maintained the tough crust of a Marine Drill Sargent, she now revealed an inkling of a sweet side.

Thirtysome years have passed since my freshman year in high school. Now, when I find myself ill prepared, dishonest or thoughtless, I still feel that presence looming over me, half expecting the quick sting of Sister Badass’ slap stick. She has become part of my conscience.

Last week I visited my old friend as she lay in her hospital bed. Her tiny body had shrunken further from her imposing 4’11.” Tubes probed her fragile limbs as computers monitored her labored breathing. She smiled as I approached her bed. “I’m afraid it’s my Waterloo, Mr. Wilson. You do remember the significance of Waterloo, don’t you?” I smiled through tears that filled my eyes.

Today I’m back at church on a weekday, surrounded by dozens of former classmates. We’re gathered to honor the memory of someone we once feared, but grew to love and respect. Sister Badass lies in a tiny plain casket, as one by one, we stand to tell our stories of how she made us better, stronger, smarter.

It turns out Sister Badass wasn’t so bad after all.