As I careen toward the end of yet another semester, I’m knee-deep in grading and thinking back on my grammar school days at Our Lady of Ransom Catholic School in Northeast Philadelphia where my teacher, Sister Joseph Denise, deftly employed rubber stamps to express her disappointment in my work.
More often than not, poor handwriting and a general air of disheveled malaise earned me the mark of the weeping angel:
While the best I could possibly hope for was an outside shot at earning the angel of gradual and marginal improvement, who, it appears, was armed for no apparent reason with a whisk broom but didn’t have wings:
This, by the way, was the same class where I raised the question of whether the prayers of my classmates unwittingly helped criminals escape from the long arm of the law.
It was a very long year for everyone involved.