Names

There is no hell like the level of torment an eighth grade parochial school boy must endure when his homeroom nun hates his guts, and Sister Mary Letitia sure hated mine. She was one of those tall, skinny nuns who always looked a little constipated. Her lips would purse and her face redden when she got angry, and she wore those kind of glasses that would reflect light back at you, so you never really saw her eyes, only the glowing circles of her rimless granny glasses.

School had only been is session for two weeks, and I felt I had a target painted on my back. We all thought it was because Sister Letitia was in charge of the choirboys, and I was an altar boy. In our parish there was a natural rivalry between the choirboys and altar boys. It seemed to me the choirboys were spoiled little creeps, because they only showed up in their red cassocks and fancy white lace surplices on Sundays and Holy Days to sing during High Mass. On the other hand, the altar boys wore black cassocks and simple white cotton surplices, and we were at church every day, even when no one was watching. We did all the work, and those prissy choirboys got all the glory. In fact, the only kid in class that Sister Letitia seemed to like was Francis, who had a wonderful voice and sang beautiful solos in the choir; a boy who could sing like an angel, but who in actuality was a nasty little twerp. She treated him like a movie star.
 
Every Tuesday and Thursday I served the eight o’clock Mass for Father Dolan, and when the Mass finished at eight thirty, no matter how fast I ran the three blocks from church to school, it was impossible to be starting my eight thirty class at that same instant. I would come in a few minutes late, and although she knew I had just served Mass, that would be old Sister Letitia’s excuse to make my morning miserable. She always called me up to the board and gave me the hardest math problem, just to make me look like an idiot in front of the class.
I was up at the board again, the all my classmates staring at me, and had no idea how to do the problem she had given me. Sister Letitia glared at me, red in the face, glasses almost incandescently glowing. I thought she looked more like a devil than a nun.
 
            “Sister I do not know how to do this problem.” It was what she wanted. I had to confess I couldn’t do it, and then I could sit down and she would teach the class how to solve the problem. It was a game she always won.
Later that morning during recess, I spotted my friend Dwayne. I had known Dwayne since the first grade, and we had always been good friends. He was undoubtedly the richest kid in class, which was no big deal I guess. The unusual thing was that he was black, and his family had their own house, and didn’t rent a duplex or a tenement like most of us. His shirts we always new, not hand me downs like I got from my cousin, and his pants never had patches in the knees either.
 
Lately though, I had been feeling uneasy around him for reasons I couldn’t explain. He was across the schoolyard sitting with some of the girls from our class. As Eddy and I walked over to say hi, I realized what had been bothering me. I noticed Dwayne sat exactly like the girls, knees together, back straight, and hands folded in his lap. When he did use his hands when speaking, they were delicate little movements, just like the girls used. As Eddy and I neared the group of girls and Dwayne, it suddenly came to me that Dwayne was better at acting like a girl than most of the girls were.
 
Eddy and I stood by the bench where the girls and Dwayne were sitting. I always felt awkward around girls, like they were some other kind of creature beyond my understanding. I would kid around and stuff, sometimes act like a total idiot showing off, but I had no idea what they were really thinking. All the girls did was giggle no matter what I tried. Dwayne gave me a grin, and a girlish wave. Eddy started laughing for a reason I didn’t get.
            “Dwayne,” I said, “we need a name for Sister Letitia.”
When Dwayne gave someone a nickname it stuck. Dwayne had coined some doozies, like The Mouse for Father Montrose, the quiet little French Canadian priest who just came to our parish; and Buff for the janitor who never took a shower – Buff was short for buffalo, because we all imagined that’s what he really smelled like. Dwayne smiled and the girls giggled. He made a big deal of concentrating while the girls just shot out some names.
            “Sister Mary Miserable,” said Emily
            “No, no, Sister Mary Puke,” grinned Maddie. That was a possibility to me, but Dwayne shook his head. 
            Dwayne grinned. “I got it! From now on Sister Letitia is … LaTit!
It was perfect! We all slapped Dwayne on the back, and within five minutes, every kid in the schoolyard knew LaTit’s new name.
We went back into class, and as LaTit glared at us, she somehow did not seem nearly as intimidating.