How Fear Propelled Me To New Heights

A scary nun taught me we all have something to give

The author in grammar school. Second row, middle

---

One balmy spring morning, Sister Ann strode into my sixth-grade class, made an army-like turn to face the class, and announced that we’d be putting on a patriotic show for the students, parents, and school staff.

“Students! I need volunteers to act in our show!”

Sister Ann sounded like she was shouting even when talking at normal volume and her demeanor always frightened me.

Despite my reputation as a jokester, I was an anxious and shy kid.

Dear Lord, let the brave and talented showoffs prevail! I prayed. I’m merely a class clown who jokes to make up for low self-esteem.

The woman in black surveyed the room with her steely gaze. I felt my heart thumping so hard it made my white uniform shirt billow. I said more prayers.

Dear God, please don’t let my heart burst but more importantly, protect me from caving to the guilt trips, rants, and lectures we are about to receive through Christ our lord, amen!

My heart didn’t burst, but Sister Ann’s psychological manipulation did.

“Your decision to volunteer for this show will impact the rest of your lives!”

Her volume was so loud my eyelashes tingled. My heartbeat increased to 85% maximum heart rate or the equivalent of running in place.

The most feared nun at Saint Theresa’s was an expert at reading body language, and I knew her radar’s algorithm. It was a waste of effort to keep your head down or sink in your seat. Like a pit pull guarding a junkyard, the nun would pick on a person if they showed fear. So, my strategy was to act indifferent while showing a glimmer of confidence and interest in my eyes. Sometimes I straightened my ugly green tie and secured its knot for good measure.

The girls enthusiastically filled all female roles. I braced for the impact of her casting the boys.

“Boys! Who would like to volunteer?” She said. “Are the girls better than the boys?”

The words sailed through the air like a poison dart at my forehead. Some hands raised, so I immediately used the half-raised hand method, which means raising your hand as someone else is then lowering it and pretending to be disappointed.

Fortunately, a class kiss ass raised his hand so high his fingers scrapped the tiled ceiling. Sister Ann jumped from her high-top black shoes in jubilation.

“Paul! Good!” Meaning, “Paul is a saint, but the rest of you suck eggs.”

Two more willing participants bowed to the authoritarian. I needed to hold out until all eight roles filled, so I changed strategy. I folded my hands and stared at the blackboard as if seeing an apparition.

Pick weasels in the back of the room. I’m busy talking to the Blessed Mother!

It worked. She cast the last part as I feigned an out-of-body experience. Sister Ann spun toward the blackboard to write the names of those who volunteered.

The show is cast without me! I can continue to watch Gilligan’s Island reruns instead of staying after school! Plus, I am free to crack snarky jokes about the production!

I broke from my fake trance and raised my two hands in victory.

However, the good sister read me with her sisters of Saint Joseph trained eyes back of head vision, so, with her back turned to the populace, she announced, “Mr. Passadino, you will play the lead, Uncle Sam!”

LEAD?

All the air left my lungs, and the classroom spun. In my panic attack, I saw the girls floating on the ceiling above me, looking down at me, pointing, and laughing. Then I saw guys circling me and bobbing up and down as if they were on carousel horses, all laughing. Sister Ann stopped the fun by whipping her pointing stick against the blackboard.

The students stopped laughing, but I had turned chalk white. She told a classmate to take me to the restroom to throw up. Whenever anyone had a physical issue, whether it be a bump, scrape, cardiac arrest, or other, it was the medical opinion of the nuns we had to evacuate the contents of our stomachs to make us well. I could imagine her telling an EMT, “He had no pulse, but he threw-up, which brought him back to us, thank the Lord.”

After returning to the class, Sister Ann told me I would have to dress as Uncle Sam for the presentation. The room spun again. I paraded back to the restroom.

My mom worked on my costume with our upstairs neighbor, Grace, a skilled seamstress. They gathered a Quaker Oats box for my hat and soft material with reddish and white stripes for the pants. The fabric looked like a tablecloth from a local pizzeria. I wondered if they pulled it out from under their lunchtime pepperoni pizza like two magicians.

Glitter, staples, and glue spread over the kitchen table as the two moms cut, glued, and sewed their way to patriotic glory while I ate Hostess Twinkies to suppress an urge to cry.

I was terrified at having to put on what mom and Grace were gleefully creating and was horror-struck as the two well-meaning ladies pasted a clump of cotton on my chin, the sour paste smell wafting up my nose, and the glue tugging on my chin. The two well-meaning women held a mirror for me to see myself. I looked into the mirror and saw Colonel Sanders staring back at me.

My stage debut day arrived. First, my mother and the costume angel helped me into my stage outfit. I looked like I had jumped out of a clown car at the circus.

I stood in the wings, sweat softening my Quaker oats hat and melting the paste on my chin. The beard began a migration downward, and a I entered I lifted my chin to change the force of gravity. Holding my head high created an air of confidence and although I heard some titters, my red, white and blue dazzled the audience’s American spirits and appreciative smiles appeared.

However, when I reached center stage, I became the lost boy in the corn maze. Tears welled up and threatened to spill over as the magnitude of the performance induced stage fright.

Mommy!

Then I looked down and saw the pretty brown-haired actress playing Miss Democracy. She smiled a nurturing smile, and I felt safe. Scripted words flowed from my mouth, “What is a patriot, Miss Democracy?”

We finished the scene to polite applause and some laughter because my bearded ended up turning sideways.

Sister Ann stood behind the last row, nodding her head.

The minor stage success didn’t propel me to join the circus or tell my parents I wanted to be a Broadway star, but later in life, I married a pretty brown-haired girl whose face makes me feel at peace and I’ve performed in countless stage shows.

I thank Sister Ann for selecting a shy kid to play the lead. Her hardball tactics scared the wits from me most times, but her tough-love heart had a purpose. She knew I had something inside to give and she motivated me to do so in her unique way.

Photo by Diane Marmon for CM Performing Arts Center Jesus Christ Superstar (author on right)