“Samuel will not wait in the lobby. As this is a matter that involves him directly, he will need to be present. I believe it will be an insightful lesson for him on Catholic compassion and empathy.”
Lips pursed, Sister Beatrice gestured to two cloth chairs across from a metal desk. I followed my mother inside and sat. If the lobby was austere, Sister Beatrice’s office was downright spartan. Photographs of Pope Paul VI and our pastor, Father Brogan, hung side by side on one wall. On her otherwise spotless desk sat a six-inch cactus that looked in desperate need of water.
Sister Beatrice’s posture was impeccable, back straight and hands folded on her desk blotter. My mother’s spine likewise never touched the back of her chair, and yet she still managed to cross her legs. I didn’t dare slouch.
“This is a private school, Mrs. Hill. Father Brogan has seen fit to make me its principal. As such I have the authority to decline admittance to any child. This school is not subject to the admissions requirements that govern public institutions.”
“In other words, you have the right to discriminate in the name of God.”
Sister Beatrice’s face flushed. “It is not discrimination. It is . . . careful analysis.”
My mother smiled, and I could not help but think her beautiful in her black-and-white-checked wool skirt and matching jacket, a simple strand of pearls adorning her neck. With blonde hair and blue eyes, my mother always had a youthful appearance, and I would learn—to my horror—an hourglass figure that would generate catcalls well into her forties. My father called her “a looker,” which in my day equated to “a total babe.”
“Tell me, Sister. Would you have denied enrollment to Samuel had he been black?”
Sister Beatrice bristled. “Of course not.”
“Chinese?”
“No.”
“Russian?”
She hesitated, it being the Cold War. “No.”
“My son is of German-Irish descent. He was baptized Catholic in the church at the end of this school’s playground. My husband and I have been faithful and generous parishioners. Samuel can recite the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Act of Contrition. He can make the sign of the cross and knows how to say the rosary. So explain to me, if you will, on what basis you have chosen to deny him admission.”
“It is my belief that because of certain attributes, your son’s presence in the classroom could be detrimental to the learning environment of the other children.”
“You denied Samuel admission because he was born with red eyes, a condition over which he has no control.”
“I believe it will be difficult for your son to fit in, to make friends.” My mother started to speak, and Sister Beatrice added, “The children refer to him as ‘Sam Hell.’”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what does that have to do with—”
“They call him ‘the devil boy.’”
My mother flinched. So did I, having been well versed in the concept of the devil.
“As such, I think your son could be a disruption to the classroom—a distinct likelihood to which we all must be sensitive,” Sister Beatrice finished.
“But not to Samuel,” my mother said, quickly recovering.
“Excuse me?”
“You think it right to be sensitive to the possibility that other children will be insensitive, un-Christian, un-Catholic, un-Christ-like,” she said, “but not to be sensitive to a six-year-old boy whom God created and whom God gave red eyes?”
“Nevertheless, I have twenty-three other students in the first grade to consider.”