My unquestionably most important life teacher was a Dominican nun. I can’t recall her name. But I remember she was a diminutive soul – only in stature – with enveloping creme and black robes, long rosary corseting the waist, cascaded down the edge of her lithe frame, with a head-dress so poised that not even Coco Chanel dare upstage.

In the stretch of one word – “plodder” – this Latin teacher defined me in plain spoken English. The word – plodder – denotes nothing especially distinctive, elegant, or seemingly attractive. Rather it conjures the image of an indefatigable, unflappable, unquenchable person, thing, state of mind. Indeed the very spoken word itself can chill psychic vertebrae.

Sister knew from whence she spoke. The most skilled surgeon could not excise the truth with greater precision. Totally grounded – an unflying nun – a woman of unimpeachable integrity, learned ways and loving Light – who would bear witness only to her truth. It was she who told me who I was, who I am, and who I am becoming still.

The prescient moment occurred on an otherwise common freshman school day, circa fall, 1962. No trespassing leaf on the ground nor summer-spent fly would ever again soar the reach to which I would be transported that day. 

The ultimate in pedestrian-speak – plodder– would utterly transform the configuring arc my life would loop.

I embraced Sister’s declaration with unabashed enthusiasm. Suddenly I knew unalterably who I was and who I would come to be – no mere actualizing second in time.  Rather it was a lightning bolt of illuminating truth that would lead my way.

While other teens may have balked – brusquely rejecting this description – I wore the plodder characterization as a shield of honor. I knew who I was: a plodder.
How did Sister seer my interior landscape? Was it because she watched me struggle with ancient Latin translations – thereby rejecting cheerleader tryouts – so as to advance my worldly status to Latin Club membership? Or perhaps it was because she knew my disappointment as an incoming student in not being assigned a seat in the new building (as some others were) and thereby relegated to the old-building-annex-status? 

The latter most circumstance scorched my soul with both envy for those other- wise situated and dismay over my self-perceived ‘second tier’ bona fides. Suddenly such youthful angst was replaced by a truly unique identity, exclusively mine: plodder.  While others might assume all manner of superiority – both fanciful and real – no matter – I am: the plodder!

Remarkably and quite tangibly all elements of my high school life fused with revelatory harmony. I knew who I was and that come what may my designated destiny – plodder – could never be displaced or out-distanced, by anyone. 

What better tribute may I fashion to Sister and her Dominican Sisterhood: I plod.  While I am capable of breakneck feats of imagining and reality, throughout I am ‘true to my school’: I plod. I may dissect, distract, downturn, delight, deflect, develop – persistently – I plod. Give bent to others’ more mystical, magical, mysterious methods and means, I still prefer the plod. It is my nature. To that ancient-souled Sister (R.I.P.) who guided me in discovering mine own self, I am true. 

Frances E. Scanlon, Esq., a member of Mary’s Nativity, Flushing, is a graduate of St. Agnes Academic H.S., College Point, which is currently celebrating its 100th anniversary.