A Catholic school that makes a difference
During a conversation I once had with an acquaintance, I made the observation that my nephew was enrolled in a Catholic elementary school. I thought it was an off the cuff remark, similar to “yes, there is a lot of pollen this season.”
But she seemed to take my comment as a gauntlet thrown down at her feet, because she started to explain to me why she would never send her children to an “exclusive” private school. She was all about the public experience, how great it was for kids to learn about “diversity.” Since this was a casual conversation, I was going to just ignore the lecture, until she came to the part where she said, “I think that kids in private schools, especially Catholic schools, never learn about tolerance.”
It was at that point that my good manners, had they existed, would have melted away. Since they didn’t exist, it was fairly easy for me to tell her that she had a very narrow view of what goes on in Catholic schools, and that I had to run because my tolerant, well-rounded, culturally evolved nephew (he is learning Russian) was waiting.
People these days are all about inclusion, and that’s fine. But the type of inclusion that my acquaintance was referring to is easy. It’s all about superficialities, that have more to do with culture and tradition and suburban lawn signs.
That doesn’t take any heavy lifting.
What’s harder is that other type of inclusion, the one that looks at a person beyond gender and race, beyond class and breeding, beyond history and experience, beyond the superficiality of social justice memes, and sees what the Quakers call “that of God in thee.”
And the Catholic school my nephew attends just got an award for figuring out how to not only do it, but to do it so well that it got the notice of Archbishop Nelson Perez. I’m not surprised.
Saint Katharine of Siena is a relatively small K-8 school in Wayne. The adults strive to make the building into a home, the students into a family. That sounds trite, but in this case it’s true. Most of the children go to SKS not because of the academics (which are good but not cutthroat), not because of the haute cuisine in the cafeteria, not because of the luxurious facilities.
The reason is much simpler: SKS is a place where children feel as if they’re loved, appreciated, and “seen.”
Last month, the archdiocese held a “Mass for Persons With Disabilities, The Deaf Community, Family, Friends and Caregivers.” It was celebrated in the spirit of Pope Francis’ words, “I pray that each person may feel God’s paternal gaze which affirms their full dignity and the unconditional value of their life.”
At that mass, SKS was singled out for making a child with Down syndrome feel welcome, loved, appreciated, and truly “seen.”
In a world where we debate whether women should have the right to abort if disabilities are detected in utero and when genetic engineering is bringing us closer to creating “perfect” children, the school’s efforts to make a Down student feel as special as any other child, no better and no worse, neither ignored nor cosseted, is rare.
I find this to be typical of St. Katharine’s mission, like all Catholic schools: Harness the power that lies in acceptance that is neither forced, self-conscious or politically advantageous. Love has no color, no shape, no IQ, no gender, no athletic prowess, no technique or style. Love is an ecumenical, unconditional birthright.
That’s obvious, at St. Katharine’s. Much of the credit should be given to Bud Tosti, the principal. Mr. Tosti sees every child
in his school as part of a larger family, not temporary residents of the academic community. He sets the tone for the other adults who work at SKS.
Don’t believe me? Okay, listen to Molly MacVeigh, a seventhgrader who’s been at the school since kindergarten:
“SKS is more of a family than a school full of teachers and students. I never realized how much I valued it until I was virtual and couldn’t go in person last year. It’s a blessing that we have been in school since September and have not shut down once this year. That says a lot about the teachers and our nurse - they all want to keep us happy and safe.”
Molly makes an important point. During the past year, when we’ve all had to operate under the shadow of COVID, most public schools chose to remain shuttered. This forced kids to learn how to interact with monitors
and disembodied voices. Going against that trend, many of the parochial and private Catholic schools like SKS reopened the classrooms as soon as they feasibly could.
This meant making herculean efforts to ensure the safety of the students, and they did it. You did not hear those teachers complaining about exposure. There was no hesitancy in getting the kids back at their desks for September (and if there was, it was successfully hidden from the children themselves).
Much of the credit for this goes to Suzanne Manion, the school nurse, who moved heaven and earth to make sure that (1) the kids were safe and (2) they weren’t freaked out by the need to wear masks, work behind plastic shields, stay at awkward distances and forego the usual daily traditions like eating in the cafeteria. She is heroic.
My nephew has been at SKS for seven years. My sister sent him there because, as she explains, “When I was looking for schools, my friend Tara Frohner told me about SKS. She’d sent all five of her children there. Knowing I was looking for a place that would provide a loving and safe environment for a timid 6-yearold , she was sure he would flourish. And he has.”
At a time when we’re obsessed with things like “critical race theory,” getting rid of books that offend people for inexplicable reasons and refusing to acknowledge the importance of being together in the same room, knowing that schools like SKS exist makes it much easier to breathe.
Even with that mask.