When I was 5 years old in Kindergarten, Mondays were the day that the nuns teaching our class at St. Francis De Sales grade school would collect the money for our milk break. I forget how much money was needed but I vividly remember to this day that my mother would sometimes forget to give me my milk money.
The time for the collection was announced and the nuns routinely went around to everyone asking for their contribution. I would sit in my area wherever I was (remember it’s kindergarten) and if I didn’t have my money. I would feel such shame. I wouldn’t say anything but I would just look at the floor feeling so so sad. Sometimes, tears would come to my eyes. The nun would have to get on her knees to talk to me because I was so frigid and detached. She would say to me that it was ok that I didn’t have my money. I still would not acknowledge her, the shame overwhelming me. She would ask me if I wanted plain or chocolate? I’d always say chocolate but still staring at the floor and in such emotional pain. I remember one of the nuns had to actually pry my hands opened to give me my milk.
After school, I would tell my mother that I needed money for milk. I don’t know if the nuns called my mother or if they gave me a note but I know I always remembered to tell her I needed my milk money on the Mondays she forgot.
But, by the weekend, I would forget. Monday would roll around and I would be off in the car with my mother to be dropped off at school while she went to do something for or about my alcoholic father. Or, maybe she was going to work as a substitute teacher, typing teacher in the local junior high school. Mom had allot on her shoulders when I was 5.
