"Sister Star of the Sea" is the title of a poem I wrote many, many years ago. It was a tribute to the most remarkable teacher I ever had, Sister Maris Stella, a Franciscan nun who taught multiple subjects at Assumption High School in Wisconsin Rapids in the late 50's and into the 60's. A biology, English, and science teacher, she was not at all dramatic. Her voice steady, she pronounced her words with utmost precision, but at times they seemed to drone on for my teenage ears. However, she was persistent in her desire to impart knowledge to me and fellow classmates whom she addressed as Mister or Miss, followed by our last names. Considerate and kind, she was a professional teacher, not our friend.
In literature classes, she had us endlessly recite aloud lines from Shakespeare's "Merchant of Venice." To this very day, I can recount Shylock's speech to Antonio in the rialto, the marketplace. I empathized with the Jewish merchant, Shylock. At one point, he pleaded with Antonio to change his attitude toward Jews, “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"
During one class period, Sister discussed Antonio's part in the play. After class ended, I approached Sister and told her I disagreed with her premise that Antonio was a nice fellow. As far as I was concerned, he was a schmuck who was both dismissive of, and abusive toward, Shylock because Shylock was a Jew and had money while Antonio, a Christian, needed to borrow money from Shylock. In fact, I pointed out that Shylock's daughter, Jessica, in love with Lorenzo, hated being a Jew: “Alack, what heinous sin is it in me/To be ashamed to be my father’s child!/But though I am a daughter to his blood,/I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,/If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,/Become a Christian and thy loving wife."
Sister Maris Stella's face turned red. "Why didn't you raise your hand and voice your opinion during class time, Mister Smullen?" The very next moment, her demeanor softened as she smiled and added, "You are the very first student, ever, to think what I thought when I was your age and to feel what I felt when I first read this play. What I said about Antonio is the opinion of many scholars. It was not my opinion."
Figuratively bowled over by her revelation, I was literally shocked the next moment when she said, "I want you to give a speech in class regarding your point of view, our point of view."
I waited an indeterminate amount of time before I could answer. "Uh-uh-uh-uh-I can't."
As a secondary stutterer, I was not only highly aware of my word faltering, stumbling, and hesitating, but I was distraught for being such a bumbler. Most of the time, I remained silent in class but afterward in the hallway I chatted amiably with classmates until I tensed up and started sputtering and pausing.
My older brothers and younger sister, Annette, mocked me whenever I became excited and spluttered. When she was in her mid-twenties, Annette revealed to me she had chosen to become a speech therapist partially due to her guilt feelings but mainly due to Sister Maris Stella's helping me overcome my speech inhibition.
"I insist you give the speech, Mister Smullen. Tomorrow, after school, I want you to meet with me for fifteen minutes in my homeroom, and we'll plan your speech."
I was horrified. Never would I give a speech. Never could I. So, I didn't meet with her the next afternoon or the one after that. The following week, she announced after the end-of-class bell's buzzing, "Mister Smullen, I want you to remain."
When the last of my fellow students vacated the room, Sister stood and approached me. Softly, she placed a hand on my shoulder. "I know," she said, "how difficult it must be for you to stand in front of the class and talk. I want to help."
I met with her that afternoon. The moment I started stumbling, she said, "Mister Smullen, I want you to stutter on purpose."
What was she saying? Was she crazy? She must've read my thoughts. "You heard me, on purpose."
I stuttered purposefully for a short while but my long term habit of attempting unsuccessfully to correct word halting was firmly entrenched:
"Continue to stutter," she insisted, "on purpose." Thus, I deliberately stuttered each and every word, for at least a minute and then stopped. The next afternoon, she asked me to intentionally stutter for two minutes. She took out from the folds of her habit what looked like a pocket watch, which she used to time me. For the next two weeks, she lengthened the amount of time at our subsequent meetings. When I'd start uttering my words normally, I'd begin to laugh.
She, too, chuckled nearly unnoticed and, oh, so softly. At those times, her face turned sunset red. The good nun smiled and said, "Now, I want you to start giving your speech minus the stuttering, but whenever you feel as if you are going to have a problem, stutter on purpose."
Following her advice, I gave the speech every afternoon after school the entire next week.
Speech Day arrived. Sister called my name. Less than confident, I strode to the front of the class. As I turned to face the group, terror struck me with a force I could not imagine. I couldn't speak. I wouldn't speak. I had to pee as I watched fellow students anxiously snicker while others whispered.
"On purpose, Mister Smullen," ordered the good nun as she sat at the student desk I had occupied.
Thus, I started to deliberately stutter my words. Students began paying attention to them. Unbelievably, my speech rhythm began to flow like a stream in springtime. I felt buoyant. I was confident. I made my case for Shylock.
After I finished, the classroom exploded with applause. A few male students whistled, including Ben, a far more troubled stutterer than I. In his attempt to whistle, he spit all over his desk. I made my way back to my desk. Sister Maris Stella stood and allowed me to be seated. She, too, was applauding.
At a high school class reunion some years ago at a country club on Wisconsin Rapids' outskirts, I showed up because fellow classmate and lifetime friend, Kathy Rash, told me Sister would be there. Still a Franciscan, the nun hadn't changed much except she no longer wore the black habit. I handed her a file folder. Inside was a signed copy of "Sister Star of the Sea." She opened the folder and read the poem. She must’ve read it a number of times. Finally, with head lifting, she smiled. "May I keep this?"
"Yes", I said and began to recite Shylock's lines she had us memorize so many years ago. When I finished, I said, "You are the reason why I am an English teacher and a writer."
For the first time in my life, I witnessed Sister Star of the Sea show emotion. Her tears glistened like stars on a clear Wisconsin’s December night.
Sister Maris Stella died a few years back but she lives on in my memories and hopefully within these simple written words.
In literature classes, she had us endlessly recite aloud lines from Shakespeare's "Merchant of Venice." To this very day, I can recount Shylock's speech to Antonio in the rialto, the marketplace. I empathized with the Jewish merchant, Shylock. At one point, he pleaded with Antonio to change his attitude toward Jews, “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"
During one class period, Sister discussed Antonio's part in the play. After class ended, I approached Sister and told her I disagreed with her premise that Antonio was a nice fellow. As far as I was concerned, he was a schmuck who was both dismissive of, and abusive toward, Shylock because Shylock was a Jew and had money while Antonio, a Christian, needed to borrow money from Shylock. In fact, I pointed out that Shylock's daughter, Jessica, in love with Lorenzo, hated being a Jew: “Alack, what heinous sin is it in me/To be ashamed to be my father’s child!/But though I am a daughter to his blood,/I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,/If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,/Become a Christian and thy loving wife."
Sister Maris Stella's face turned red. "Why didn't you raise your hand and voice your opinion during class time, Mister Smullen?" The very next moment, her demeanor softened as she smiled and added, "You are the very first student, ever, to think what I thought when I was your age and to feel what I felt when I first read this play. What I said about Antonio is the opinion of many scholars. It was not my opinion."
Figuratively bowled over by her revelation, I was literally shocked the next moment when she said, "I want you to give a speech in class regarding your point of view, our point of view."
I waited an indeterminate amount of time before I could answer. "Uh-uh-uh-uh-I can't."
As a secondary stutterer, I was not only highly aware of my word faltering, stumbling, and hesitating, but I was distraught for being such a bumbler. Most of the time, I remained silent in class but afterward in the hallway I chatted amiably with classmates until I tensed up and started sputtering and pausing.
My older brothers and younger sister, Annette, mocked me whenever I became excited and spluttered. When she was in her mid-twenties, Annette revealed to me she had chosen to become a speech therapist partially due to her guilt feelings but mainly due to Sister Maris Stella's helping me overcome my speech inhibition.
"I insist you give the speech, Mister Smullen. Tomorrow, after school, I want you to meet with me for fifteen minutes in my homeroom, and we'll plan your speech."
I was horrified. Never would I give a speech. Never could I. So, I didn't meet with her the next afternoon or the one after that. The following week, she announced after the end-of-class bell's buzzing, "Mister Smullen, I want you to remain."
When the last of my fellow students vacated the room, Sister stood and approached me. Softly, she placed a hand on my shoulder. "I know," she said, "how difficult it must be for you to stand in front of the class and talk. I want to help."
I met with her that afternoon. The moment I started stumbling, she said, "Mister Smullen, I want you to stutter on purpose."
What was she saying? Was she crazy? She must've read my thoughts. "You heard me, on purpose."
I stuttered purposefully for a short while but my long term habit of attempting unsuccessfully to correct word halting was firmly entrenched:
"Continue to stutter," she insisted, "on purpose." Thus, I deliberately stuttered each and every word, for at least a minute and then stopped. The next afternoon, she asked me to intentionally stutter for two minutes. She took out from the folds of her habit what looked like a pocket watch, which she used to time me. For the next two weeks, she lengthened the amount of time at our subsequent meetings. When I'd start uttering my words normally, I'd begin to laugh.
She, too, chuckled nearly unnoticed and, oh, so softly. At those times, her face turned sunset red. The good nun smiled and said, "Now, I want you to start giving your speech minus the stuttering, but whenever you feel as if you are going to have a problem, stutter on purpose."
Following her advice, I gave the speech every afternoon after school the entire next week.
Speech Day arrived. Sister called my name. Less than confident, I strode to the front of the class. As I turned to face the group, terror struck me with a force I could not imagine. I couldn't speak. I wouldn't speak. I had to pee as I watched fellow students anxiously snicker while others whispered.
"On purpose, Mister Smullen," ordered the good nun as she sat at the student desk I had occupied.
Thus, I started to deliberately stutter my words. Students began paying attention to them. Unbelievably, my speech rhythm began to flow like a stream in springtime. I felt buoyant. I was confident. I made my case for Shylock.
After I finished, the classroom exploded with applause. A few male students whistled, including Ben, a far more troubled stutterer than I. In his attempt to whistle, he spit all over his desk. I made my way back to my desk. Sister Maris Stella stood and allowed me to be seated. She, too, was applauding.
At a high school class reunion some years ago at a country club on Wisconsin Rapids' outskirts, I showed up because fellow classmate and lifetime friend, Kathy Rash, told me Sister would be there. Still a Franciscan, the nun hadn't changed much except she no longer wore the black habit. I handed her a file folder. Inside was a signed copy of "Sister Star of the Sea." She opened the folder and read the poem. She must’ve read it a number of times. Finally, with head lifting, she smiled. "May I keep this?"
"Yes", I said and began to recite Shylock's lines she had us memorize so many years ago. When I finished, I said, "You are the reason why I am an English teacher and a writer."
For the first time in my life, I witnessed Sister Star of the Sea show emotion. Her tears glistened like stars on a clear Wisconsin’s December night.
Sister Maris Stella died a few years back but she lives on in my memories and hopefully within these simple written words.
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