Raised as an atheist in a small family on the remote Plum Island, the very first time I met a priest was at the ripe age of 19, here at Georgetown. It was spring semester and I was getting around to taking my second theology class, Catholicism in Puerto Rico, which I highly recommend, with Father Sandoz. 

Sandoz is about as tall as my shoulder and was probably born before the guy who invented sliced bread, and on the first occasion that I accidentally called him Professor to his face, he took me to the basement of Wolfington to hit my knuckles with a ruler before another Father stepped in (thanks, Duffy). 

Once you realize that he’s hellbent on you respecting him and the whole priest get up, it’s not so bad. He wears the dog collar every day without exception, and I’m pretty sure he’s at Mass every day. I’d never met a priest before so I thought they were all like this. Turns out, my history professor is a priest too, he’s just not flaunting his lifestyle in our face like that. 

But, it’s rough, because Catholicism in Puerto Rico meets once a week for two and a half hours, and the rest of the week I’m learning from dirty laymen, and you kind of just get used to the whole Professor thing. To be honest, the first few weeks of the new semester I couldn’t stop laughing at myself calling this fossil Father to his face. 

The next time that I slipped up and called him Professor Sandoz, he didn’t drag me to Wolfington, but he did tear me a new one (not literally, don’t worry, he’s put those days behind him) in front of the whole class. And the next time, he dropped my grade a letter for ‘blatant and continued disrespect.’ Which sounds like a load of BS to me. 

And, the thing is, for as great as Catholicism in Puerto Rico is, it’s a tough class, and I was already barely keeping a B, and now Sandoz has got his eye on me and my C- every minute of every Monday from 3 to 5:30. So, I got a little shaky. Long story short, after calling him Professor two more times he pulled out the old-fashioned dunce cap and I sat in the corner for two and a half hours straight, fully failing one of my classes for the very first time.  

The day after that, I was in my Econ class when I called the, completely normal, Professor ‘Father.’ I was mortified. At first. Then, everyone started laughing, the professor included, and just kind of brushed it off.

I will admit that I was the kid calling the teacher Mommy in kindergarten, and I thought that I’d changed my ways, but apparently not. It’s just my thing now. I call all of my professors father, and they think it’s funny, and the kids in my classes think it’s funny, and I’m no longer getting chewed out by Father Sandoz once a week. It’s a win-win situation.