On Sunday, I came across a vendor at the Hillcrest Farmers Market selling old typewriter keys made into jewelery. She had an old Smith Corona on the table and my mind immediately jumped to the thought of Miss Bernadette Cunyon. And the regret sank in. Is it just me? When I feel remorseful, I get this funny feeling in the back of my teeth and a weird taste in my mouth. (Guilt Spit, a course of remorse, a shot of rue stew, a lament mint.)
Miss Cunyon taught typing to EVERY recalcitrant, smart ass, full of piss and vinegar 15 year old entering the hallowed halls of Mount Saint Mary Academy in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. Perched high upon a hill, the oldest high school in Oklahoma also served as a convent for The Sisters of Mercy. Although not a nun, Miss Cunyon lived at the convent.
Miss Cunyon was old. She was pretty deaf. She always looked just so with a bouffant 'do and an eternal little smidge of pink lipstick. She had a croaky, smokey little voice and hardly ever smiled. She seemed kind of joyless. I wonder how it is that she ended up living in the convent. Did she ever have a lover? Was she content and happy and fulfilled?
Shit! I think back to the torture the poor woman endured and feel bad that I added to it. Bernadette held court in the oldest room in the building. It had linoleum floors, an old steam radiator heat system and held about 40 students at a time. It was long and narrow and had a raised platform where her desk sat, the strategy being that she could see everything and quell any possible teen uprising.
Each morning after prayer, the boys would roll pennies across the floor into the radiator. We would all laugh when we heard the familiar little tinny rumble of those pennies rolling and the ultimate clank they would make as they crashed into the hissing radiator. Miss Cunyon would look up, screw up her aged, wrinkly, lipstick encrusted puss into a frown and ask why we were laughing.
Since she was deaf, we would answer her- only we would not vocalize. We would only mouth the words. She would then turn up her hearing aid and approach. We would continue to mouth the words until she got close. Then we would shout really loud and blast her poor little ears to smithereens.... I KNOW... How horrible we were. Oh man, I HATE that I took part in that. I only did it once -to be cool. Truth be told, I did it once and felt so awful.... It didn't sit well with me then and it feels even worse now. What a little monster! My mom always taught me to champion the underdog and I usually did. But the chance to be cool overrode my heart.
I am sorry, Miss Bernadette Cunyon. You've haunted me all week. It's like you came back to DEMAND your due. Okay, I wrote it. I wrote about you and for you. Actually, I TYPED it. I typed, using techniques learned long ago by a fifteen year old wise ass. And may every student you taught to type pause at one point or another and remember you fondly. Here it is...
Oh Bernadette Cunyon,
your name rhymed with bunion.
You held the keys
to shift characters with ease.
With your bouf hair so purty
you made order of Qwerty.
You were deaf to click clack
and all teenage attack.
Lived your life with the nuns.
Did you ever have fun?
Did you have a secret lover
hidden under holy cover?
What would you say to us now?
We place our heads down and bow
to a keyboard god so small.
And we watch words and world glow
across a tiny glass window.
Class began with reflection
ending high on correction
made of fluid and time tests
to increase our perfection..
(Can I mention the classmate with the eternal erection?)
Oh, Bernadette,
Would you now fret?
We’re fast and furious with our opposable thumbs
texting anything, nothing, numbers and sums
Thank you, Cunyon
for teaching the young ones
about letters, position and carriage return
Sleep eternal, dear Bernie,
sweet rest you have earned.
