Remembering Mad Dog

It’s funny what can trigger a memory. Recently, a friend mentioned Greg Maddux, former pitcher for the Cubbies and Braves and now a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame. He went by the nickname “Mad Dog,” a label that belied his appearance on the mound.

The moniker reminded me, not of the baseball great but my eighth grade teacher. Her teacher name was Sister Madeline, the terror of eighth graders at St. Anthony’s. “Mad Dog Madeline beatin’ on the children,” was the chant we learned from those who survived her class and lived to tell the tale. No need to say more because that little chorus said it all. At least, it did at the time.

Mad Dog was the stereotypical nun, the sort you find in movies and stand-up routines. Blues Brothers and Sister Act come to mind. And don’t forget Sister Mary Elephant, made famous by Cheech and Chong. I can attest that Mad Dog was no Flying Nun.

We were required to write with fountain pens, cartridge pens we called them. Remember those? You inserted small cylinders of ink and it flowed liberally over your paper. It would have been simpler to use those frosting guns that chefs employ. The pens were easy to smear and even easier to flick ink on unsuspecting classmates.

The first week of school Sister Madeline drilled into us her grading standards. We had to repeat it aloud, several times a day. So effective was her rote teaching, that I can recite it to you even now. I’ve talked to past students and they, too, can recite her percentages.

97-100% was an A. Let’s stop and camp on that one for awhile. Really? Take a fifty question scantron and answer forty-eight answers correctly. Congrats! You’ve earned a B. Earning an A was like trapping a leprechaun or tracking a unicorn.

But wait, there’s more. 85-96% was a B and 80-84% was a C+. I have to admit, it was pretty demoralizing to a good student like me. 75-79% was a C. So much for the normal grade curve. 60-74% was a D. Good thing my employers never saw my eighth grade transcript.

At the end of each day, she filled the blackboard with homework. Math, English, science, religion, spelling, history, all the daily requirements. It was the first time I needed a briefcase for school, lugging textbooks, workbooks, and mimeographed pages. You better return with all the work completed the next day. And since she taught everything, there was no break in any subject.

For Christmas that year, she surprised us all with a wrapped gift. We were truly touched. She had recovered her humanity, a Christmas miracle! She passed out the gifts and smiling, she invited us to unwrap them at the same time. We ripped the holiday paper to discover she had given us small notebooks with a pencil. “Now, you’ll always have a place to write down your homework.” She smiled that Grinchy smile, and filled the board with homework for our Christmas break.

Mad Dog was also renowned for her temper. Nobody dared cross her. Bobby Myers let his blond locks grow too long. When she noticed his hair touching the collar of his white shirt, she told him to get it cut by tomorrow or she’d cut it for him. Bobby did not get a haircut that day. But he got one the next day, right there in the middle of class.

Her favorite response to an unruly student: “You are brazen. You are bold.” The words enunciated with crisp articulation, ruddy face, and a terrifying gaze. When I looked up “brazen” in my pocket dictionary, the first definition was “made of brass.” Brass was a valuable metal. And “bold” seemed like positive, like courageous or adventurous. When we heard those two sentences, there was no doubt she wasn’t handing out compliments.

When Pat Moreno brought in a blowdart gun for show and tell, it was a big hit, much better than my rattlesnake tail. Later on, Mad Dog left the class, and we dared Pat to shoot it across the room. Pat was a big fella. He sucked in a huge breath and expelled a giant grunt. The dart whistled overhead, flew into the blackboard, and removed a noticeable chunk of slate. A collective gasp erupted. Pat grabbed the black hunk and dart and hid the gun. Awaiting her return, we sat in abject terror but united in a silent pact. No snitches here.

Soon after Sister Madeline returned, she saw the damage and immediately demanded someone rat out the culprit. Dead silence. Nobody looked at Pat, and certainly nobody stared into the eyes of justice. The stalemate lasted maybe ten minutes. That day, we were all brazen and bold. That night, we all wrote one hundred sentences for punishment: “I will respect the teachers and classroom at St. Anthony’s.”

The problem with all these memories isn’t that they are untrue. But they’re all told from the perspective of a fourteen year old with little understanding or wisdom. Sister Madeline was tasked with the teaching eighth graders, not exactly the plum job in a school. Combine adolescent hygiene with raging hormones and add a pinch of rebellion. It was her job to be our teacher, not our friend.

With the luxury of time and context, let me balance the ledger on Mad Dog. One day in eighth grade, I forgot my lunch. She noticed. When everyone else went out to eat on the playground, she led me to the convent door. “Stay here,” she said and disappeared. I thought she might call my dad, so the two of them could take turns verbally flogging me for forgetting my lunch. I sat on the cement step in the shadow of the convent door. Waiting.

She returned with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk. “You can eat here. I’ll be back in ten minutes to collect the plate and glass.” When the shock wore off, I gobbled the sandwich and emptied the glass. Ten minutes later, she returned, retrieved the plate and instructed me to join my friends and enjoy recess. Some Mad Dog, huh?

One more of the many anecdotes I could add. At the end of the year, we had a field day, various games on the playground. Not only did we compete in three-legged races and sprints and water balloon tosses and potato races, we earned actual ribbons for winning. She oversaw the events, actually smiling and laughing. She handed out the ribbons. It was the Mad Dog we were never allowed to see, but the one which was probably a truer version of her.

Near the end of the afternoon, after the races had concluded, she ambled toward me. The sun shone brightly. I pondered the past eight years, especially the last one. We stood side by side in silence for a few moments. “Mr. Hurley,” she finally whispered. I glanced at her. “The events are done. Why don’t you go over and talk to Miss Gannon.” Her face displayed a knowing smile. Some how, some way, she had cracked my code. I wasn’t nearly as stealthy in my affections as I thought I had been.

In a single moment, in a singular comment, she shattered my image of her. She was human, not just the master of an adolescent torture chamber. Despite her Catholic frock, she was keenly aware of the desires of young people. Much younger and wiser, far more observant than I had ever realized. And clearly, she had seen and heard things, noting our personal lives beyond the necessary daily schoolwork. I have no idea what I said to Ginny Gannon that day, but I clearly recall my conversation with Sister Madeline.

A few thoughts in closing. By all accounts, Mad Dog Madeline, the real person, fell far short of her terrorist moniker. She wasn’t Pennywise the Clown or Hannibal Lecter. In truth, she was kind, funny, smart, possessing a strong sense of humanity under that habit. She adopted the persona to do the job at hand, educating eighth graders. That her students couldn’t see beyond the first layer is a standard trait of young teens.

A few weeks back, a woman in my speech class stayed after class and said, and I quote, “You are the hardest grader I’ve ever had in college. Maybe ever.” It was spoken from frustration, a vain attempt to get me to change a grade.

I replied, with not an ounce of sarcasm, no sense of retaliation in my comment, “Thank you.” That’s not how she meant it, but I heard a compliment in her words. Rather than escaping the reign of terror of Mad Dog Madeline, I think I teach with a little touch of Mad Dog. Maybe I smile instead of snarl, but I’ve got some Mad Dog. And that’s a good thing because she’s the best teacher I ever had.

Thanks for reading!

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