  In eighth grade, at my gorgeous catholic school (which really does explain a lot about who I am, if you think about it) I had the single most poignant person for a teacher. Mrs. League taught nearly all of my classes. Religion, U.S. History, Literature, Christian Life Issues, and Social Etiquette. She was twenty-seven, just married, and gorgeous. Seriously, I aspire to look that good. Everything she did was somehow unexplainably cool.
Examples: She never looked at anyone's records from previous years (she said that would give her prejudgments on people, and she was a firm believer that people change. Good to bad, bad to good. ) She also expected more of me than I expected of myself, and graded me accordingly. Anyway, I'm feeling proud today. I don't know why. This epidemic will be soon followed by massive self-loathing and undoubtedly a trip to Confession.
But anyway, I'm going to brag while I feel good about myself. This self confidence is few and far between. Here are some things that Mrs. League wrote about me: -" Mr. and Mrs. Z.... I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy having Anna in class. I am grateful for her leadership skills especially. Anna has two 3rd grade 'buddies' in Mass on Thursdays.
She is WONDERFUL with them and truly acts beyond her years. She is a pleasure to see each and every day. " -"I am impressed with Anna's gentleness. It is important for her to know that she demonstrates God's love to others. " -"She contributes insight and meaning to class discussions as well as an excellent knowledge base. " -"Anna handles social studies with ease... She has an excellent grasp of tough concepts, especially when it comes to government-oriented areas.
" -"She is a voracious reader and will often research a subject further on her own. This is to be admired. " The truth be told, most of this is total crap. I mean, nice crap. Lovely crap. An idealistic view of Anna the Student.
My catholic education, brief it was, damaged me beyond compare. Mrs. League was sort of a guardian angel, the kind that elected me Citizen of the Month whilst I daydreamed of running away from home. The angel that wrote me Honor's Recommendations when I oh pined for the love of Sean. The same Sean who pointed out my eating disorder to the world, I can still hear the taunt "Anna the Anorexic!". She was an angel who wrote letters to my parents during the days when I was tormented by Allison O' Neil and Angela Wilkins for being any number of things... pale, too smart, too opinionated, emotionally fucked up, unathletic. Oh God!
I promised myself Cataldo would not end up on this blog. No no no... why the fuck does Junior High creep into ever area of my life?!? It's an unitchable scratch, a stain that bleeds beyond my skin. I wish I could wash away those memories, even if it meant getting rid of the good ones. Just to never have thoughts of inadequacy whenever I see a plaid skirt or a polo shirt. To associate something else besides a feeling of hopelessness with logo-less above-the-ankle socks.
I wish I could explain how perpetual this feeling is... it's every week now! Every fucking week! I swear, it's post-traumatic-stress-syndrome. Like a Vietnam vet, I sit and have flashes of my years there. Shoplifting downtown and destructing the daycare. My trips to the office and the times I cried in the bathroom.
Smiling, acting rebellious. Claire being expelled. Me being suspended. Britney Spears-inspired skirt alterations. Maryellen dying her hair red. Tampon-ing houses.
Peeing on people's doorsteps at three in the morning. Truth or dare. Independent films. Lying, getting caught. Pancakes with everything-- and vodka! Jack Daniels, Peppermint Snobs.
Throwing up. Laughing. Being laughed at. Ditching my old friends. Hurting. Lying some more.
Being exposed. Missing seventh grade. Class trips. Being included and hating it. Affectionately.... Anna 
