by Eileen Donnersberger on January 31, 2019.

High School put me way outside of my comfort zone. I’ll explain.

I grow up in a small, working class parish on the Southside of Chicago. No one had much money but it didn’t matter because since none of us did, we didn’t know that some families could afford nice vacations and new clothes. Oh, there were a few families that we considered “rich.” One was the Martin’s who owned the butcher shop. Another was the Neary’s whose father was an insurance agent and only had two children. But for the most part, my friends and I worn hand-me-down clothes and received recycled toys for Christmas.

I never shopped for clothes in a store until college when my girlfriends asked me to go Evergreen Mall with them. I had never been in a department or clothing store. We went to Lerner’s, then a popular women’s clothing store. I remember Kathy Hogan asking me my size. Size? I had no idea what she was referring to. My clothes were hand-me-downs from Eleanor Martin (the daughter of the Butcher) or from the poor box in the parishes in which my sister, a nun, served. I got first pick from the donated clothes. I just tried things on and if they came close to fitting, they were mine.

I purchased two items that day, a brown A-line skirt and a light tan blouse with a wide circular collar and a little, skinny bow down the front. Jackie called it my “brown outfit.” Knowing it was the only decent thing I had, every time I went out, he’d ask, “which brown outfit are you wearing today?” 

One Christmas when I was about nine, I received a doll that I recognized as one of my old ones dressed up in new clothes. I never let on to my parents and remember my dad taking me to the car barns with him that day to pick up his check. “Aren’t you taking your new doll?” he asked as we were about to leave. Sheepishly, I pick it up and followed him out the door. I think I felt cheated then, but later realized how difficult it must have been for them at the time and feel blessed that despite their hardship they tried to make a little girl happy on Christmas Day.

So it was against that backdrop that I set off for Mother McAuley High School. McAuley was not my choice for high school. As in all things back then, it was my mother’s choice. My friends were all going to Mercy High School, but my mother wanted me at McAuley, which was new and attracted a “higher class” girl. In other words, girls from wealthier more educated families.

I went along with it because that’s what I did back then. I did what I was told without a thought of questioning it. My mother wanted me at McAuley so that’s where I went.

The first year was not a good time for me. It was miles from my home (I had to take four buses to get there), I was the only girl from my neighborhood that went there, and most of my new classmates had experiences far different from mine. 

I vividly remember the first day of school standing in line in the cavernous, 50’s-style modern foyer and listening to the girls behind me talking about their summer. Mimi Slackey (to this day I remember her name and what she looked like – short and round) was telling her friends that she had just gotten back with her family from a vacation in Italy and how much fun the plane ride was. 

Italy? Italy?! Really!? The word leaped around in my brain. Did people really GO to Italy? How was that even possible? And on plane? Oh, I’d had trips with my family to places such as Niagara Falls to visit my brothers in the seminary, but they were car trips with six to eight of us stuffed in a car for the three or four day trip to get there (no expressways back then). My mother would pack sandwiches and we’d stop and eat them on the side of the road when we got hungry. A plane ride to Italy was beyond my comprehension. Suddenly I felt very insignificant

Freshman year was long. For the most part I was miserable and felt totally alien from my classmates. I finally did meet a girl on one of my bus rides that I could hang out with. She lived not far from my home and also in more of a working class area. We hung out, but she really was a lot different than me; but I felt fortunate to have someone to eat lunch with and talk to after school.

In retrospect, it was my immaturity combined with my naiveté and shyness that kept me isolated. Back then I was shy – painfully shy. It never would have occurred to me to strike up a conversation with someone I didn’t know or reach out for friendships.

That all changed in sophomore year. Somehow, I was put in a Speech Class (despite my shyness, I loved that class). One assignment was to give a reflection on something. I choose the crucifix (remember it was 1961 and I had been raised indoctrinated in the Catholic Church). At any rate, it was, by all accounts, a powerful monologue on the suffering of Christ. Kay Coyne, who you all know, was in that class and loved the speech. She came up to me after and stated talking and invited me to join her and her friends at their lunch table. (That, as they say, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship).

It was great. There were six other girls who laughed and talked for the full 45 lunch period. They not only made me feel welcome, they made me feel like one of them

We went on the call ourselves the “Unsinkables.” We got into all sorts of trouble at lunch because we were so loud. But I loved it. With them, I joined the Choir (the choir director let me join, but told me to just open my mouth but don’t sing cuz my voice was so bad), the theatre group and the Legion of Mary.

Our group consisted of Kay, Peggy O’Connor, Betty Looney, Pat Ryan, Marilyn Moore, and Pat Duch. Betty got her family car a lot so we would drive around on a Saturdays nights and end up at the Pancake House on 95th Street. We’d and drink coffee, eat cinnamon rolls and laugh until two in the morning.

I still see Kay often, Peggy and Pat Ryan several times a year. Pat Duch died in her 30’s. Her death was quite a shock. Pat was the cherished only child of an older Polish couple. Unknown to Pat, her biological dad died of a heart attack when she was a baby. Her mom remarried and the new husband adapted Pat and raised her as his own. Pat did not find this out until several years before her death. As fate would have it, Pat, like her bio dad, died of a sudden heart attack at a young age.

Betty Looney got married before any of us, became a nurse and we never heard from her again. Attempts to find her have been futile. Marilyn Moore is dead too, although we don’t know when or how. Apparently she went on to become a social worker. 

Kay has her MSW and was a social worker at Oak Forest Hospital for many years. Peggy has her RN and late in life she got a PhD in Nursing. Pat Ryan was a schoolteacher, now retired.

These old friends mean a lot to me. We were young and idealistic together, we thought we would solve all the world’s problems. Then we matured, got educated and began careers. Some of us married and had children. For a while – busy with careers and/or families – we grew apart.

But growing older has its advantages. One of them is to realize the value of old friendships. Now we make an effort to see one another often. And when we gather together today, in many ways we are sixteen again. We laugh hard and still talk about the world’s problems. Only now we know its no longer us who will solve them. It’s our children and grandchildren who must face new world problems. We pray for them and hope they do better than we did.

(One last word on Mother McAuley. It wasn’t my choice, but I am happy that’s where I went. I got an excellent education which was was well rounded – – for in addition to a challenging educational curriculum, it provided a wide range of cultural classes, such as Art Appreciation, Music and Theater. Importantly, the nuns taught critical thinking skills that have helped me all my life.)