True Confessions of a Good Girl

By Jan Tarasovic, 61

I’ve always been a Good Girl, one of those boring people who follow all the rules. Like bad cholesterol, this condition resides partly in my genes and partly in my lifestyle. My uncritical parents pretty much left me alone, trusting the ruler-wielding nuns at school to keep me on the straight and narrow, though they all probably knew I’d walk that line even without the threat of Sisterly retribution.

Early photos show a serious child, straight Buster-Brown hair framing an innocent face never marred by hints of mischief. I was usually staring toward heaven, like Jesus in the pictures that hung in our classrooms. I didn’t sport a halo, but an invisible guardian angel was probably hovering nearby. She would have had an easy job: I’m sure Satan took one look at my incorruptible soul and moved on to more willing sinners.

Like most holy children, I earned only A’s. I always did my homework. The very thought of cheating on a test made my soul curl. My handwriting was slanted at just the proper angle—I was, of course, right-handed—and I was never caught without the appropriate writing tool. The books and supplies in my desk were neatly arranged. The crayons in my Crayola box were lined up perfectly, first in the order determined at the Crayola plant, then, as they wore down at different rates, by height. When Carnation Pink and Spring Green and Orchid grew short and stubby from frequent use, I moved them to the bottom row, while Raw Umber and Salmon retained their perfect tips in the top row, respected but not loved. When I colored too hard and a crayon broke, it felt like committing a sin.

Sin—the obsession of the Good Girl, subspecies 1950s Catholic. There were so many sins to avoid, and the nuns in my sterilized suburban school made sure we knew the whole catalog, as well as the consequences if we chose to disobey. Even if we managed to get away with taking God’s name in vain or forgetting our prayers, the truth would out on Judgement Day and our place in Hell would be guaranteed. Hell, with its eternal fires that tortured but never consumed you, its unquenchable thirst, its terrible loneliness (in spite of being quite crowded), and, hovering over all the suffering, a guy with a forked tail laughing diabolically at all the sinners he had sucked in.

I bought it all with the single-minded innocence of the Good Girl. Okay, I admit to a few transgressions. There was some bullying of my five younger siblings, and once I even stabbed one of them with a pencil, but she subsequently knocked me out with a lead bank, so I figured our sins canceled each other out. But I never took the Lord’s name in vain. I attended Mass every Sunday. I said my prayers. I obeyed my parents and teachers. I tried not to covet my friends’ things, and I certainly never stole anything.

It was hard to pin down the nuns on which sins were Venial (they could be burned off your soul with a few centuries in Purgatory) and which were Mortal (they sent you to Hell for all eternity). Murder, of course, was mortal. So were most things related to the Sixth and Ninth Commandments, the ones about adultery and coveting thy neighbor’s wife. The trouble was, the nuns were so vague about what those commandments meant that it was impossible to know if we’d transgressed.

In spite of the lack of information about the sins of impurity, we were exhorted every day to be pure of mind, heart, and deed. Our bodies were the temples of the Holy Ghost. Purity would protect us and guarantee our place in heaven. I prayed for Purity every day, even taking as my Confirmation name Agnes, after a medieval woman martyred to save her virginity. Whatever that was.

Those of us who were models of goodness and piety were rewarded by being chosen to recite a 22-verse poem at the program honoring the pastor’s feastday, crown the Blessed Mother’s statue during the May parade, or lead the class in prayers and write on the board the name of anyone who dared to open their eyes. I am ashamed to admit that I actually did this. With glee. Perhaps this was, in fact, my earliest sin.

I didn’t notice at the time that all these honors went to girls. Most of the boys did toe the line, but they could never achieve the professional level of obedience we Good Girls achieved. Some of them seemed unable even to try. Harry Pasquerelli was so habitually, determinedly Bad that one day Sister Cecilia grabbed him by the ears and pounded his head against the chalkboard. (These were the days when parents did not file lawsuits over such things. If they heard the nuns had beaten you, they beat you again to make sure you learned your lesson.)

I was astounded by Harry’s Badness. Why would anyone risk such rage? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do—he just never did it. I didn’t get it. At nine, rebellion was not in my makeup. Life was easier if you did the right thing. It kept the adults happy, and if you were as superlatively Good and Smart as I was, you were recognized and loved for it. What more could anyone want?