Doomed by alphabet and altitude, I always found myself assigned to the first seat in the first row. A sitting duck for Sister Edmund. She seemed to relish her reputation, which she must have known about - how else could one explain the inordinate number of stuttering students in her classroom? The Spanish Inquisition had Torquemada; St. Clement's had Sister Edmund Norman. She demanded unwavering respect, and in those days when spankings and metal rulers were used liberally, she got it.

Given my penchant for questions, our paths were destined to clash. Sister Edmund did not encourage questions - certainly not those challenging anything she said. I, on the other hand, could not stop asking them. At that age my nickname might easily have been "Why?" I remember my mother's perplexed expression when I asked her what would have happened had I been born in China. "Would I have still been a Catholic? I asked. Most ten year-olds are curious, for that matter most of us can probably recall how we once wondered about the world and why it worked the way it did. That is, until society sucks that sense of awe and wonder out of us.

I distinctly recall one dark and blustery fall day, leaves whipped past our window as if propelled by a giant hair dryer. St. Clements belonged to a poor parish in South Ozone Park, a blue-collar neighborhood in New York City. The school pinched pennies anyway it could. That meant cutting back on electricity. The morning I'm referring to the lights in our classroom cast a sickly yellow glow - no doubt because only three of the five bulbs remained. Sister Edmund entered the room as she always did, eyebrows arched, facial expression that of someone who'd been sucking lemons. Classroom chatter died instantly. Those out of their seats scurried to find their place. Hands on her hips, Sister Edmund scowled as she surveyed the room.

At that time Catholic school curriculum required lengthy lessons in the dogma of the Catholic religion. Years later I was reminded of Sister Edmund's method of instruction while watching the movie Full Metal Jacket. I'm referring to the Marine drill instructor. No sooner had she entered the room, Sister Edmund began grilling us on the day's lesson: "Why did God make you?" she asked as if confronting a murder suspect. Eventually she reached the subject my young mind simply could not comprehend.

"Who was the mother of Jesus?" Sister Edmund asked the class. Mary Gaffney's arm shot up - in those days you had to raise your hand and be recognized before speaking. "The Virgin Mary," Mary said proudly.

"And who was the father of Jesus?"

James Bowman raised his hand. "Saint Joseph, Sister Edmund. But Jesus was conceived by The Holy Ghost and the Virgin Mary during the Immaculate Conception." The symbol for the Holy Ghost, or the Holy Spirit as some Catholics referred to this divine entity, was a dove.

At that age I had yet to come to terms with all the details of procreation - a topic certainly not covered in Sister Edmund's class. Several of the older boys had mentioned something about men and women and sexual intercourse. One boy, Nick, showed me photos of people having sex.

"That's where you came from," Nick said.

"What!?" I stared at Nick in disbelief. "Not my mother and father!"

"Yeah, that's why kids look like their parents," Nick explained. "Where'd you think you came from, stupid, a stork?" Nick snickered as he shook his head.

And that's how I learned that intercourse produced offspring resembling the parents. I had always been told that I looked a lot like my father - same eyes, nose, complexion, so I figured there must be something to this sex thing after all. As a result, the Catholic Church's teaching about the Immaculate Conception simply did not compute. How could a woman conceive a child without, well, you know, sex? And wasn't the child supposed to look like the parents?

That morning in Sister Edmund's class I raised my hand. A small voice in the back of my mind told me this was not a good idea, but I couldn't help myself. "Sister Edmund?" I said once she nodded in my direction. "If Jesus was conceived by the Holy Ghost and the Virgin Mary, and the Holy Ghost is a bird, how come Jesus didn't have feathers?"

The collective gasp proved more than audible, it seemed to suck the very oxygen from the room. My classmates waited for Sister Edmund's response. I knew then I'd gone too far. But I couldn't ignore the question. And, at that point, I knew I couldn't help myself.

Sister Edmund didn't say a word. She simply stood there with the sort of expression you might make when you're contacted for an IRS audit.

"I beg your pardon?" is all she managed to say. Always polite, I repeated my question. Now it was Sister Edmund's turn to be perplexed. She excused herself and left the room. About 15 minutes later Father D'Ambrosio, one of the parish priests, appeared in our doorway.

"Would you mind taking a walk with me son?" We spent the next hour discussing dogma, and, of course, my questions.

"Now do you understand, son? Father D'Ambrosio asked. "If you have any more questions about this subject come and ask me, okay?"

"Sure, Father, sorry I caused so much trouble. But I couldn't help myself."

Award-winning and internationally-published freelance writer, Bill Asenjo, PhD writes for numerous magazines, websites, newspapers, and anthologies. Bill conducts writing workshops for Barnes & Noble, Kirkwood Community College and Office Depot, and teaches freelance writing online and at Kirkwood.

Bill is from Iowa City, Iowa.