The Uncouth

Dictionary.com defines the word uncouth as:
1. awkward, clumsy, or unmannerly: uncouth behavior; an uncouth relative who embarrasses the family.
2. strange and ungraceful in appearance or form.
3. unusual or strange.

When I was exiled to the last of the less than pleasant assignments, (Maryville Nursing Home) the Sister in charge liked to call me "uncouth."  Already sensitive about my humble origins and obvious lack of opportunities for refinement, this name calling hurt.  Some of the sting was removed by reminding myself that Sister Consuelo's sense of etiquette was at least 50 years behind the times.  Here are a few of my faux paus.

1.) Exposing my elbows. 
I was supposed to be wearing 3/4 length sleeves.

2.) Wearing tennis shoes to lunch after working all morning. 
Wearing an apron and a bib safety pinned to one's scapular was not.

3.) Not pouring wine on the correct side. 
I was told I'd be serving at a dinner for local bishops.  Knowing that I'd be under attack for incorrect serving behavior, I consulted a book on etiquette which indicated that wine should be poured from the side that was the least intrusive.  Unfortunately, my book was not fifty years old when experts were certain that a particular side made one sophisticated and the other a hopeless rube.   Enter one young and hopeless rube.

4.) Not having shoes with 1 1/2" heels. 
I hate shoes and shoes with heels hurt my feet even then.  I walked around in proper shoes for several years and ruined my feet.  Curses upon you Pharisees!

5.) To my utter surprise, I was criticized for coming from a small rural town as if this was something I could control.  To make it more ironic, the order itself originated in my small rural town.

I'm not sure what had happened in their own lives to turn them to the dark side.  I'll bet it was a lot of idiotic criticism and character assassination by previous generations who'd also given in to the dark side due to social pressure and this antiqated training that was supposed to turn a person into a worthy religious.  It was cruel and destructive.  All the sugar-coating in the world didn't change what it was underneath.

I hated this nonsense.  Even though I knew they were full of crap, (please, pardon my liberal use of the common colloquialism.) I'd blush and apologize.  I smile when I think of rewinding the past.  I'd tell them what I really thought.  I'd shame the crap right out of them.
 
I'll admit, I didn't know a lot about fancy table manners and had to learn by watching at the convent.  We didn't use napkins at the dinner table at home.  I used my younger sibling's shirt.  When our dad was gone, we'd had some epic food fights.  There had even been a phase of silverware tossing by a younger brother.  Dinner (supper, in the world of the uncouth) was a raw and often dirty experience.  At supper, we were always subjected to the evening news.  We watched the body count from the day's fighting in Vietnam while trying to choke down our food.  Hueys were flying across our television medivacing the wounded, while we ate.  When Dad was home there was a lot of table pounding, shouting and silverware bouncing with each pound.  He couldn't hear the news over the lively conversation of six children.  Life was raw, real and hopelessly uncouth.  I still have a hard time sitting at the table with my own family even now. 
 
Yet, when it's all said and done, I'd sit at the noisy, silverware dancing, bloody body count droning in the background any day before sitting with a bunch of hoity toity nuns and bishops who were so removed from the real world, it was a tragedy.  They seemed to possess the arrogance of kings while lacking the understanding of the responsibilities of leadership.  They lapped up wine and fancy food and discussed the generous gifts of parishioners.  Most often they discussed their own accomplishments and waxed poetic on their own exaggerated sense of importance.  God bless the uncouth.  I'm certain they have a higher place in heaven than most of the bishops I've met.  

There are bishops who are genuinely kind human beings.  I've known a few of them well enough to be convinced of their leadership.  I respect them.  Unfortunately, I've also suffered the company of  bishops who are annoying, self-centered human beings.  While exiled to Our Lady of Good Counsel in Milwaukee, I was enlisted to help clean the current archbishop's living quarters.  He lived in a separate suite that had been carved out of the original convent.  Let's just say that this bishop was more than comfortable.  If I'd been convinced of his kind heart and basic goodness, I would not have begrudged him his comfortable lifestyle.  Secular priests don't take vows of poverty.  They are not intrinsically inferior because they do not.  To me attitude speaks volumes.  If and when, one's comfort separates them from understanding the real problems in the real world of the real people they serve, then a lifestyle adjustment might really help.

While I was a postulant, the Sisters hosted a meeting of regional bishops.  Those of us in Formation were assigned a dignitary.  It was our duty to follow them around all day and see to their needs as well as help them find their way around the grounds.  I had the dubious honor of accompanying the archbishop of our local diocese.  It was frightfully educational.  All day, I listened to the archbishop tell tales of his accomplishments.  He had about 3 or 4 stories, which he recycled repeatedly during the years he served the diocese.  They were boring and hopelessly long winded.    He could talk forever about absolutely nothing.  When it came time to really say something, you wouldn't get it from this man.  Listening to him ramble on that warm summer's day so long ago, I quickly formed an negative opinion of him.  He never provided me with a reason to change that opinion.  Standing in a summer's breeze, listening to another version of the story he'd told that morning, I could see that the "emperor had no clothes on."

And so, when months later, I was pouring wine for a small group of bishops and Superiors within our order, I remained as invisible as an ugly wall sconce.  No eye contact, no thank you or acknowledgment except from one.  Unlike his companions, he acknowledged my existence, thanked me, and gave me a smile of sympathy.  In his eyes, I could see he was suffering their company as well.  This was a man I could respect and I do to this day.  When I was publicly scolded in front of these dignitaries for my uncouth way of serving wine, this one kind bishop shot me a glance that touched my soul.  I knew that I had done nothing wrong.  I also knew that there was something wrong with the tone of the celebration, the extravagance and the arrogance that hung over the table like a heavy cloud of cigar smoke.  I'm pretty sure that after dinner while the wine continued to flow freely, cigars were passed around the table for the men.  I was relieved of my duties due to my inability to not act in an uncouth manner.  Praise be the Uncouth!  Being embarrassed publicly in front of these clowns was not as devastating as I'm sure Sister Counsela hoped it would be. 
 
I felt like I'd walked into Mr. Peabody's Way-Back-Machine without a helpful Sherman as a side kick to orient me to this new time and place.  Instead of fighting to stay in this crazy convent, the smart side of me was beginning to ask, "What am I doing here?"

The Sisters at Maryville lived a rather charmed life, at least some of them did.  There was a special cupboard in the convent that contained all kinds of chocolates and alcohol.  The dispensing of this secret stash was left to a privileged few.  I never saw it shared with anyone but I did notice the content of this cupboard dwindle and replenish.  Yes, I'd peek out of curiosity.  They kept constant tabs on me.  It was way past time someone kept tabs on them.  Each of the Sisters had their own separate bedroom with adjoining bathroom.  Most of them had televisions hidden in their closets.  They'd retire to their rooms shortly after dinner and watch TV while probably indulging in some of the stash from the forbidden closet.

Those of us who were relegated to the Cinderella class didn't have tv, bourbon and chocolate.  We would congregate in a small drab room.  In this room were several uncomfortable chairs, all facing an old television set.  I soon dubbed this room, "the television altar".  We faced the television in the same way we faced the altar in chapel.  All that was missing were the stain glass windows.  I liked the other Cinderella Sisters that congregated there.  They didn't find me too uncouth.  They treated me like an equal even though most of them were quite a bit older.  They didn't like what was happening to me.  They knew I was being punished.  These Cinderellas were exactly the kind of Sisters that should have been in charge.  They were often scandalized by the extravagance and decadence of the powers that be.  They'd suffered their cruelty and did not find it necessary to be cruel to others in return.  They were not afraid to be human.  In their humanity, their goodness shone.  They were a light to me.