REMEMBERING
SISTER MARY NAZARIUS, B.V.M.
When I was in sixth grade, my teacher was a BVM nun (Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary) and she had come to Chicago from Ireland many years before. Her name was Sister Mary Nazarius and she had a heavy Irish brogue. All nuns at that time were Sister Mary someone. "Nazarius" certainly did not seem Irish to me, so I thought her name must have come from "Nazareth," and maybe it was the Latin version. Along with all nuns being Sister Mary someone, Latin was the only alternate language to English in the Catholic Church. If it wasn't English, it was Latin and it was Latin more often than not.
Sister Mary Nazarius was older than any of my other teachers and had little chin whiskers. She was very tiny, under five feet, and her large rosary beads hung from her waist almost to her knees, or where we thought her knees were. She fingered them constantly, but never seemed lost in prayer. She was very animated and lively when she spoke to her students. With a serious frown on her bespectacled face, she told us the first week of class that we absolutely would not be able to go on to the seventh grade . . . unless we learned to do the Irish Jig. And so, periodically throughout the year with no warning at all, desks would be pushed to the side of the room, and a dance floor would be created. Sister would raise her long black skirt ever so slightly, just enough for us to see her black-booted feet and she would begin, heel -toe, kick - over and over. The music came from an old scratchy record, playing instrumental Irish music that Sister probably brought with her from "home", and she would move around the floor like a small black angel, showing everyone again and again the rhythmic steps of the Irish Jig. She did not seem old then and we knew that our future sucess depended on learning everything we could. Seventh grade would not be denied and we took her challenge seriously.
Close to St. Patrick's day that year, Sister Nazarius told us she had a very special surprise for us. We could only imagine what it was, but she seemed very excited as if she was giving us a wonderful gift. Eventually, the moment came when lessons were stopped, everyone was asked to go to their desks and be very, very quiet. We folded our hands as if in prayer on the surface of our desk and looked at the front expectantly. Sister stood before us and waited until there was no sound at all. I think they teach patience in nun college. Not a cough, not a sneeze, not a foot shuffle; we knew the drill. Then, still keeping her eyes on us, she slowly walked to the door, opened it, and welcomed a small boy into the room. He was younger than we were, had dark hair parted on the side and wore a white long-sleeved shirt with a black tie, knee-length black shorts and black knee socks and shoes. He was very solemn looking and Sister introduced him to us as Michael Patrick. Eventually, Sister put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a slight shake of encouragement and stepped away.
To this day I remember the next few moments as vividly as if they were occurring now. Michael Patrick opened his mouth and slowly began to sing in a high, clear voice the most beautiful rendition of "Danny Boy" that I had ever heard before or since.
"Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . ."
I listened to every word, so intent on the story he told - and I cried. By the time he got to "And then you'll kneel and whisper that you love me. And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me," there was not a dry eye in the room. It was the first time in my eleven years that a song had ever made me cry. When I hear the song now, it still brings tears to my eyes, and I can picture beautiful Michael Patrick, come to us from Ireland to give a treat on St. Patrick's day so long ago. When he stopped singing, we all sat in stunned silence until Sister began clapping and then so did we. Michael Patrick bowed his head slightly in thanks and then left as he had come. He simply turned and went out the door. But we were a group of children so moved in that small moment of time by the gift of a voice, a gift given to us by a beautiful little Irish boy and our beloved Sister Nazarius.
Sister Nazarius was always very interested in helping her students develop their writing abilities and frequently created assignments that would allow our imagination to grow. On one such assignment, I had written a story about a group of children who lived in an orphanage and were the best of friends, having one adventure after another. At one point, I used the phrase "wee ones," and Sister Nazarius was absolutely overjoyed. I don't recall the specifics of what I wrote now, but I remember getting a very good grade and when she asked me to read my story to the class, she chuckled aloud when I read that phrase. I think I may have even put that in the story because I thought she would like it and I was right. It souned like a very Irish thing to write! Her appreciation of my words was so wonderful, not just because I loved her, but also because something that I had done which seemed so natural to me, gave another person such joy. I don't remember a time when I did not want to write, and maybe my experience with Sister Nazarius of the Blessed Virgin Mary gave me the start I needed.
Sister Mary Nazarius was older than any of my other teachers and had little chin whiskers. She was very tiny, under five feet, and her large rosary beads hung from her waist almost to her knees, or where we thought her knees were. She fingered them constantly, but never seemed lost in prayer. She was very animated and lively when she spoke to her students. With a serious frown on her bespectacled face, she told us the first week of class that we absolutely would not be able to go on to the seventh grade . . . unless we learned to do the Irish Jig. And so, periodically throughout the year with no warning at all, desks would be pushed to the side of the room, and a dance floor would be created. Sister would raise her long black skirt ever so slightly, just enough for us to see her black-booted feet and she would begin, heel -toe, kick - over and over. The music came from an old scratchy record, playing instrumental Irish music that Sister probably brought with her from "home", and she would move around the floor like a small black angel, showing everyone again and again the rhythmic steps of the Irish Jig. She did not seem old then and we knew that our future sucess depended on learning everything we could. Seventh grade would not be denied and we took her challenge seriously.
Close to St. Patrick's day that year, Sister Nazarius told us she had a very special surprise for us. We could only imagine what it was, but she seemed very excited as if she was giving us a wonderful gift. Eventually, the moment came when lessons were stopped, everyone was asked to go to their desks and be very, very quiet. We folded our hands as if in prayer on the surface of our desk and looked at the front expectantly. Sister stood before us and waited until there was no sound at all. I think they teach patience in nun college. Not a cough, not a sneeze, not a foot shuffle; we knew the drill. Then, still keeping her eyes on us, she slowly walked to the door, opened it, and welcomed a small boy into the room. He was younger than we were, had dark hair parted on the side and wore a white long-sleeved shirt with a black tie, knee-length black shorts and black knee socks and shoes. He was very solemn looking and Sister introduced him to us as Michael Patrick. Eventually, Sister put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a slight shake of encouragement and stepped away.
To this day I remember the next few moments as vividly as if they were occurring now. Michael Patrick opened his mouth and slowly began to sing in a high, clear voice the most beautiful rendition of "Danny Boy" that I had ever heard before or since.
"Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . ."
I listened to every word, so intent on the story he told - and I cried. By the time he got to "And then you'll kneel and whisper that you love me. And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me," there was not a dry eye in the room. It was the first time in my eleven years that a song had ever made me cry. When I hear the song now, it still brings tears to my eyes, and I can picture beautiful Michael Patrick, come to us from Ireland to give a treat on St. Patrick's day so long ago. When he stopped singing, we all sat in stunned silence until Sister began clapping and then so did we. Michael Patrick bowed his head slightly in thanks and then left as he had come. He simply turned and went out the door. But we were a group of children so moved in that small moment of time by the gift of a voice, a gift given to us by a beautiful little Irish boy and our beloved Sister Nazarius.
Sister Nazarius was always very interested in helping her students develop their writing abilities and frequently created assignments that would allow our imagination to grow. On one such assignment, I had written a story about a group of children who lived in an orphanage and were the best of friends, having one adventure after another. At one point, I used the phrase "wee ones," and Sister Nazarius was absolutely overjoyed. I don't recall the specifics of what I wrote now, but I remember getting a very good grade and when she asked me to read my story to the class, she chuckled aloud when I read that phrase. I think I may have even put that in the story because I thought she would like it and I was right. It souned like a very Irish thing to write! Her appreciation of my words was so wonderful, not just because I loved her, but also because something that I had done which seemed so natural to me, gave another person such joy. I don't remember a time when I did not want to write, and maybe my experience with Sister Nazarius of the Blessed Virgin Mary gave me the start I needed.
