Navigating the Journey to Normal

Time and circumstances have a way of shaping all of our lives, from the decisions we make to the paths we choose to follow.

I know that truth all too well:

My journey into questioning authority and perceived rule-breaking began in 1960, when I was a seven-year-old second grader at St. Thomas Aquinas Elementary School in Saginaw, Michigan, and defied my classroom teacher's instructions to write as if I were right-handed.

I vividly recall that my classmates and I were instructed to copy spelling words that September morning onto lined notebook paper.

I was deeply engrossed in making sure my penmanship looked neat, and my letters were perfectly formed when my classroom teacher, Sister Fabiola, walked up to my desk and stopped. Placing one hand on my shoulder and the other on my paper, she turned it so I could not write on it as I was accustomed to as a left-handed writer.

“You must learn to write like a normal person.”
“‘Like a normal person?' What does that even mean, Sister?”
“Like a right-handed writer.”

I swallowed hard.

“But, Sister Fabiola, I’m left-handed.”
“Not in this classroom. Not at this school.”
“My pen doesn’t work in my right hand.”
“Make it work. The left side is the devil’s side.”

She turned and walked away as stealthily as she had when she first arrived by my desk.

But as she did, I slowly turned the paper back to its original position, and I continued to write despite the tears clouding my eyes and my left hand shaking. Now and then, I stopped writing to see if the devil and Sister Fabiola were anywhere around me, spying on my so-called errant and sinful behavior.

They weren’t.

But my classmates were.

At seven years old, I was a rule-breaker in my classmates’ eyes.

At seven years old, I was on the side of the devil in Sister Fabiola’s eyes.

My humiliation was real, and it stung as I was taunted throughout the rest of the day for not behaving like a “normal person.”

“I’ll take care of it,” my father promised his inconsolable youngest child that evening.

The next day, my father accompanied me to school and met privately with Sister Fabiola. I wasn’t privy to their conversation, but I do know that Sister Fabiola never again attempted to change how I held my pen or wrote on a piece of paper.

I also remember that following that meeting, I was never chosen for coveted roles such as cleaning the chalkboard erasers, leading the class to daily Mass, or being selected to play Mary in the Christmas pageant.

At the tender age of seven, I soon realized that actions have consequences and that people are rewarded if they acquiesce to authoritarian rules.

Even rules that make no sense whatsoever.

And forcing me to write like a right-handed person definitely made no sense to me.

Sister Fabiola and I were to “lock horns” again a few weeks later, when our religion lesson focused on the events that took place in the Garden of Eden.

The stories of the Old Testament enthralled me, but I had one nagging question that I innocently asked of Sister Fabiola during class: “If God really loved Adam and Eve, why did He allow the serpent to tempt Eve with the apple? Why did He do that? He could have stopped what happened at any time.”

I can still hear Sister Fabiola’s response: “Sit down, Diane. You should be ashamed of yourself. A good Catholic would never think of asking such a blasphemous question. Put your head down on your desk and don't lift it until I instruct you to do so."

I did as I was told.

A left-handed, bad Catholic who dared to ask questions, I never asked another question in religion class again.

And I never shared that incident with my parents. I was scheduled to make my First Holy Communion later in the year, and at the rate I was going with Sister Fabiola, I feared I would not be allowed to do so.  

Trepidation, obedience, and silence characterized the following years as I learned to "fly under the radar."

Six years later, as eighth grade drew to its close, my parents decided that upon completing my education at St. Thomas, rather than moving on to St. Peter and Paul, Saginaw’s premier Catholic high school, I would attend Douglas MacArthur High School. Their rationale was that the public high school offered a more challenging curriculum, and that I would benefit from the challenge. They also wanted me to experience an environment that included students from all walks of life and religious persuasions.

I was thrilled with their decision and didn’t hide my excitement as I eagerly shared my news with my classmates.

But that decision came with a heavy price.

In fourth grade, I had begun taking clarinet lessons from a Saginaw Township public school music teacher, Mr. D'Angelo, who taught music twice a week at St. Thomas. I loved those sessions as did many of my classmates. I also soon discovered that I possessed a talent for playing the clarinet.

At my eighth-grade graduation ceremony, I was awarded a summer music scholarship from Mr. D'Angelo's program to the renowned Interlochen Center for Performing Arts in northern Michigan.

Immediately following the ceremony, the powers that be rescinded that honor.

As Father Chester explained to my confused parents and one very bewildered graduate, “An error has been made. This scholarship is intended only for a student who will be continuing their education with our Catholic school system. It’s been brought to our attention that your daughter is going to attend Douglas MacArthur. Therefore, she must forfeit the scholarship to a more deserving student.”

A formal letter from the Diocese of Saginaw later that week made it official.

This time, no follow-up meeting between my parents and the school’s administrators changed the decision.

“Life is life, Diane. We don't always get what we want or deserve. It’s time to move on,” I remember my mother saying as she attempted to make sense of the situation to me.

And once again, I realized that rewards are given to those who follow the rules and not to someone like me, a known rule-breaker.

I thought back to these incidents when Dr. Anthony Fauci recently testified before Congress regarding the controversies that arose during and after the COVID-19 pandemic. I was reminded, once again, of all the authoritative rules and regulations that accompanied the pandemic of 2020 and the backlash that resulted when not all of Michigan's residents complied with the orders pronounced by Michigan’s governor, Gretchen Whitmer.

The majority of Michigan's residents did comply with our state’s executive orders regarding COVID-19 and received the vaccination without question.

I was not part of that majority.

Neither was my husband.

We both refused to be vaccinated.

Did our family and friends regard us as being rebellious and non-compliant for refusing the vaccination?

Yes, in varying degrees.

Six years later, some still do.

But the truth is that neither one of us felt rebellious or non-compliant at the time.

Our decision was based on our grave reservations about the purity and efficacy of the vaccine. Our “gut feelings” were that the government had rolled out the vaccine too quickly, and that immediate and long-term side effects were not known.

But we were made to feel rebellious and non-compliant, despite wearing masks in public and keeping the required distance in public venues, by those who stood in judgment of us and were not afraid to share their opinions.

People's perceptions of our choice not to vaccinate determined their reality; not our reality.

Michigan’s 140 executive orders regarding the COVID-19 pandemic didn’t make sense to either my husband or me. They did, however, make sense to many loved ones, loved ones whose children lost a year of their education, loved ones who lost their livelihoods when their businesses were forced to close, loved ones who were denied entrance to health care facilities as their own loved ones lay dying, loved ones who have since battled miscarriages, cancer, myocarditis, and a plethora of other health challenges.

It was their prerogative to submit to the vaccines.

It was our prerogative not to do so.

But few people saw our decision in that light.

Some chastised us openly; others subtly. 

The bottom line was that our belief system and actions were not considered normal given the circumstances that had befallen our state and country.

Just like my belief system and actions were not considered normal when I was beginning my life's journey as a young girl at St. Thomas Aquinas.

During the height of the pandemic, our daughter-in-law gave birth to our second grandchild in Ft. Collins, Colorado.

Since neither my husband nor I was vaccinated, the only way we could meet and celebrate the arrival of our new grandson and offer familial support was to drive to Colorado, a distance of 1300 miles one way.

Along the route through Nebraska, we exited Interstate 80 and stopped for coffee at McDonald’s.

I donned a face mask as I entered the restaurant, but as I did, I noticed that none of the dozen-plus customers ahead of me in line, or seated in the restaurant, were wearing masks of any kind.

I tapped the arm of a rather burly young man standing ahead of me and asked him if not wearing a mask was considered normal practice.

“Normal? Hell, lady,” he replied. “This is Nebraska. We don’t give a shit what you wear.”

I immediately removed my mask, exhaled deeply, and smiled.

And for once, in a very long time, I knew what it felt like to be “normal.” 

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As I have journeyed through my life, I have purposely attempted to make sense of the world around me and live my life with honor and integrity.

I most definitely am the sum of my collective experiences. 

But to force a left-handed child to write right-handed?
To silence questioning?
To take away an earned scholarship?
These are the kinds of actions that can truly harm a child's self-esteem and worldview.

Please know that while I did experience embarrassment and humiliation more than once as a student at St. Thomas Aquinas Elementary School, I also cherish positive memories and friendships that have endured for over six decades. The experiences that befell me made me stronger, and for that I am grateful.

Likewise, I respect the rights of those individuals who were vaccinated during the COVID-19 pandemic; they did what they believed they needed to do, whether by choice or coercion.

As for me, I can handle being deemed a rule-breaker or a non-conformist because, in the final analysis, other people’s expectations and opinions of me do not define who I am. What is important is knowing myself and being true to myself. If that means being considered a rebel, then so be it.

A left-handed, questioning, non-compliant, rabble-rousing, feisty seventy-three-year-old rebel.

I doubt that if she were alive, Sister Fabiola would approve.

But this is my journey, and I can live with that…even on the not-so-normal days...