By the time I was exiled to Maryville, I was really tired of all the games. Sister Consuela almost always spoke to me in a clipped and icy tone. I was her young puppet. She was the evil puppet master. Sister Consuela seemed to search in her evil bag of tricks to find the most despicable or boring job in the nursing home and give it to me. What she didn't know and never asked was that I'd spent the summer after high school working in our local nursing home washing adult diapers. I was comfortable with things she was not. Being uncouth had its advantages.
The civilian employees at Maryville accepted me very quickly. Sister Consuela spoke to them just as she spoke to me. They didn't appreciate her condescending and superior tone. I had more in common with the lay staff than I did with the Sisters. Sister Consuela's watchful eyes saw how quickly I made friends. She didn't like it. Like prisoners of war, we learned to give each other secret glances and to check the hall for surveillance by the enemy before stopping to talk. We went so far as to some times post a lookout to warn of coming danger.
The meaner Sister Consuela was to me publicly, the more sympathy I received from my "mates in the trenches." One day after she was especially abusive, the two male janitors stopped me in a hall way and quietly said, " You don't have to put up with this. Leave. You can stay with us if you need some where to go."
I was shaken by their offer. It may have been completely sincere and with no strings attached but I remained wary of what could have been an indecent proposal. I was young and inexperienced but I wasn't stupid.
It wasn't just the men who offered refuge. Maryville had a young vibrant activity director named Kaley. We hit it off right away. She warned me to be careful and offered me refuge on many occasions. Sister Consuela's "wingman" Sister Thomas warned me to stay away from Kaley but never bothered to say why. Determining who was most sinister was not that difficult.
I had been very careful not to complain or tell tales of what happened outside of public view. Surprisingly, the Sisters treatment of me was very disturbing to the outside world. The outside world didn't know the half of it. Their empathy arose from what they observed. Their belief in me and their obvious disgust at how I was treated helped me more than I realized at the time. Once I left the convent, I never saw any of them again. I hope they all moved on to bigger and better things.
Since I had no problems handling the laundry, Sister Consuela put me in the kitchen. I served up trays of pureed everything that looked more like vomit than food. I had to work very quickly to get the trays loaded and delivered and I did. Being competent and capable seemed to anger her more. Then she tried to punish me by assigning me to work with an obsessive compulsive dentist. Every one of the lay staff refused to work with him after word about his peculiar style leaked out. I had no choice. I suddenly became a part-time dental hygienist who used an ancient suction machine that vacuumed spittle and pieces of broken teeth and tartar into a clear Mason jar. I can't tell you how disgusting that was.
Within minutes, I could see that this dentist's behavior issues were too great a strain on geriatric patients with health issues. I went to the Director of Nurses at the nursing home and told her what I was witnessing. She was kind and really cared about her elderly charges. She actually believed me and had me document what was happening. The dentist was let go. I can still see him leaning against the nurses station, pleading for his job with tears in his voice. It was a heartbreaking no-win scenario.
Soon, I was told that I'd be staffing the front desk and handle incoming calls. At that time the waiting list in this Cadillac of nursing homes was about three years unless you had money or the right family name. Phone calls poured in. People desperately sought a good nursing home for their relatives. I listened to many a desperate and exhausted caller who pleaded for a home for their family member through tears. In the background, Sister Consuela would often appear and make motions for me to hurry the caller off the line so I could take more calls and not tie up the switchboard. The callers sadness often tapped into my own and despite Sister Consuela's impatient gestures I couldn't cut them off. I listened. It was the least I could do.
Angry at some imagined crime, Sister Consuela punished me by giving me the job of cutting up scrap paper and stapling them into smaller note pads. For three days, that is all I did for 8 hours a day. Finally, at the end of day three, she steamed by and snapped, "Alright you're done here."
I never knew why I was given this punishment. I was bored almost senseless but I coped by daydreaming. In my mind, I led an alternate life. I traveled the world and had interesting adventures. Life had already given me practice in coping. I was better at it then they ever imagined.
For Christmas, she told me that I would be dressing up as Santa Claus for the employee party and for the residents. Naturally, shy, I dreaded this job. When the time came and I was in costume, I suddenly found myself in character. The staff couldn't guess who I was. My Santa even delighted the icy Sister C who laughed like a young child. My performance bought me several days of better treatment. She seemed to need a Santa to thaw her heart. I kept this realization to myself. Who could I tell? Who would believe me? Part of me felt sorry for her. Hating her was easy. Pitying her was not.
During all this time, Sister Consuela was meeting with Sister Felicity or so they said. Their efforts weren't producing the result they desired. For a while, I felt like I was winning but this victory was bittersweet. Winners and losers existing side by side in a convent based on a concept of community was disheartening. From day one it had been easy to see that there were "haves" and those who were relegated to the "land of have-not."
Eventually, they discovered how to break me but before they did, I gave them a bit of a ride.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Biker Nun Rides Free
Pressure kept increasing. I lost weight and had trouble sleeping as I waited for the next lesson or ridiculous assignment. Sister Felicity was determined to prove I wasn't nun material. I was determined to pass the tests.
I looked for ways to escape. While exiled to Maryville, I asked my parents for a bicycle for my birthday. Money was tight and they bought what they could afford, an old rusty English touring bike. In my eyes it was beautiful. I threw myself into its renovation. Carefully removing rust and layers of old paint to discover a beautiful detailed emblem underneath that celebrated the bike's original manufacturer. My old bike was a diamond in the rough.
My bike restoration project was so much more. Inside, I knew that I was also a diamond in the rough. In working on the bike I was working on myself. With each new layer, I uncovered, I felt more whole, more capable. Once the bike looked like it hadn't stood out in the rain for several years, I rode it every chance I could get. For some reason, I didn't take time to change into civilian clothes. Instead, I'd take off on this bike dressed in my habit complete with veil.
Up and down busy Farmington Road, I would ride. Why I didn't cause accidents as drivers took their eyes off the road to stare at a modern version of "The Flying Nun", I'll never know. I made that bicycle fly. My veil fluttered behind me in the air current I generated as I rolled over the miles alongside busy Beaverton traffic.
My bike rides became the high point of my day. I was alone and free. It was the only time I could feel like a whole person. It was the only time I could feel like me. Being me, in the convent, seemed to get me in trouble. I couldn't figure it out. All through grade and high school, I was the "good girl". Now in the convent, I'd been cast in the opposite role. I didn't know how to play it. The harder I tried to regain my familiar "good girl" role, the worse things got for me. The authors of this drama were way off base.
The power structure of the order still had a pre-Vatican II frame of mind. They were old school, demanding authority by virtue of their position. They often ignored their responsibility to be good leaders.
I came from a post-Vatican II world. I was part of the Baby Boomer Generation. We walked in the age of psychology and Aquarius. We questioned authority as we watched riots and saw blood shed at Kent State. We saw two Kennedys assassinated before our eyes. We lost Martin Luther King. Vietnam's body count entered our homes while we ate dinner. We heard and saw through the lies of Watergate. We came from a time of turmoil and learned to question the motives of our leaders. We watched those leaders rise and fall. Those that clung to power had failed us. Those that had tried to lead had been shot down. We had seen the "man behind the curtain." We had lost our innocence in a spray of bullets. Our ideals lay bloodied at our feet.
What was true of my generation is not true today. Many older people have chosen to forget. Many younger have chosen not to see. It will always be easier to abdicate personal responsibility. It requires very little effort to simply believe what one is told. It is the easy way.
That has never been part of my nature. Questioning comes as easily to me as breathing. It is part of who I am. I celebrate it. I knew that so much of what I witnessed and much of what had happened to me was wrong. Ignoring it didn't make it right. Not ignoring it made my life harder. I could have been like Sister Zelda and carried on elaborate surveillance on suspects and lied to cause other people trouble while painting myself an avenging angel. It just wasn't me.
For me, God will always be better served by an honest, questioning soul than by ignorant sheep who are too easily led by temporal leaders. I, the poster child for "the good girl" had always been a closet rebel. Who I was, what I believed posed a threat to the power that was. It was in Sister Felicity's and Sister Christine's best interest to drive me out and to shame me into silence. My biggest fault was not believing in myself more and taking so long to save myself.
Sister Christine had made inappropriate sexual advances on several occasions. I had a right to say, "No."
I also had a responsibility to report it. The leaders had a responsibility to act on it. They failed. They made me the scapegoat for their own failures. I knew that then.
When I rode my bike, fast, furious and free, I was beginning to understand that I would have to move forward into my future. Those rides alongside busy traffic were showing me the world beyond convent grounds, a world that was raw and real. It invited me into its' imperfection assuring me that I was worth saving. There was a place for me. It was not within convent walls.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Laughing in the Dark
Despite all the awful things that were happening, there were good times as well. Going out to Baskin and Robbins for ice cream could actually be filled with lots of fun. Treats were less common than in real life so something this simple was cause for a mini-celebration. There was the time when Formation hiked Eagle Creek in the Columbia River Gorge. We came back exhausted but really pleased by our outdoorsy accomplishment.
We would sometimes enjoy the use of the convent beach house. This large, wonderful house sat on the edge of the beach on the Oregon coast. Once there, we'd change into civilian clothes and enjoy an almost normal life. On one of these trips, we discovered that we would be sharing the house with one of the diocesan priests. There was a room on the first floor that had an adjoining bathroom. This bathroom had a door from the room and from the enclosed porch. Father had this room. As we were busy cleaning up the house before leaving to head back to the valley, Sister David opened the bathroom door from the enclosed porch thinking it was a broom closet. Instead, she opened the door on Father who was using the bathroom at the time. In a panic, Sister David ran to tell us what had happened. Sister Philip and I laughed so hard, we cried.
Father, who was less embarrassed than Sister David (He'd grown up with sisters for siblings.) attempted to find Sister David to tell her that it was just an accident and not to worry. She was so embarrassed she tried to elude just such a meeting and scurried around the large beach house with Father closely behind. At this point, I was almost on the floor with laughter. Of all of us, Sister David was the most squeamish. She didn't even like anyone to touch her wet laundry and her "things" which was code for underwear. We used to tease her about her "things" just to get her going.
Sister David, Philip and I were soon a tight knit group, one that the powers that be would often try to break up saying we were a bad influence on each other. They accused me of being the ring leader and the most negative of influences. It didn't stop us from getting together every chance we could. We helped each other cope largely through laughter. We lived in a rather insane world with the inept in charge. Our world was rich fodder for the wickedly amusing. We had nicknames and code words for so many things we'd almost developed our own language. In the face of much sadness and trauma, we found room to laugh.
One summer evening, the young Sisters joined one of the bishops that lived on the convent grounds for a trip to Rose's for dessert. As the day gave way to evening, we drove up the tree-lined lane on the convent grounds toward the bishops house, when Sister David spotted what she thought was a wounded bird in the road ahead. She insisted the bishop stop the car. She got out to survey the bird and soon slunk back into the car seat, colored a deep shade of red. Within seconds, Sister Philip and I figured out what had happened. The bishop asked Sister David how the bird was and she struggled to formulate an answer. In the back seat we laughed even harder. It wasn't a wounded bird in the road. It was two birds mating. Noticing Sister David's discomfort, the bishop looked at the birds again and suddenly realized what was really happening. He started to blush and stutter. Sister Philip and I laughed so hard I almost wet myself.
The day Sister David found the crotchless underwear on the older Sisters clothesline, she had to come get us. We stood under an outdoor clothesline laughing like crazy people. Exactly what was so funny, I don't remember but I do remember the tears of laughter and how this discovery, made us smile for days. Sister David was a natural comedienne. Tall, double-jointed, she had a physical presence that lent it self to physical humor. She was and still is laughter waiting to happen. Of all the young people in Formation, Sister David always struck me as the most "nun-like" the most naturally suited to a religious life. She left the convent shortly after I did and had years of interesting adventures, even teaching in Saudi Arabia during the first Gulf War. Later, in life she entered a Franciscan order which seems like the perfect match. We helped celebrate her final vows with the Franciscans. It seems that she was finally able to find a home, a place where she belongs and has much to offer.
The laughter that we shared bound us together. We had a common enemy and a common goal. Once I left the closeness of our friendship began to unravel. We remain in contact with each other but our connection isn't the same. Each of us left for our own reasons. While we were together in the convent, we desperately needed each other. We enjoyed one of the closest friendships I've ever had. Part of me will always miss them and the laughter we shared. We were laughing in the dark. It's not such a bad way to enter the lion's den. Each of us would have to face our lion alone.
We would sometimes enjoy the use of the convent beach house. This large, wonderful house sat on the edge of the beach on the Oregon coast. Once there, we'd change into civilian clothes and enjoy an almost normal life. On one of these trips, we discovered that we would be sharing the house with one of the diocesan priests. There was a room on the first floor that had an adjoining bathroom. This bathroom had a door from the room and from the enclosed porch. Father had this room. As we were busy cleaning up the house before leaving to head back to the valley, Sister David opened the bathroom door from the enclosed porch thinking it was a broom closet. Instead, she opened the door on Father who was using the bathroom at the time. In a panic, Sister David ran to tell us what had happened. Sister Philip and I laughed so hard, we cried.
Father, who was less embarrassed than Sister David (He'd grown up with sisters for siblings.) attempted to find Sister David to tell her that it was just an accident and not to worry. She was so embarrassed she tried to elude just such a meeting and scurried around the large beach house with Father closely behind. At this point, I was almost on the floor with laughter. Of all of us, Sister David was the most squeamish. She didn't even like anyone to touch her wet laundry and her "things" which was code for underwear. We used to tease her about her "things" just to get her going.
Sister David, Philip and I were soon a tight knit group, one that the powers that be would often try to break up saying we were a bad influence on each other. They accused me of being the ring leader and the most negative of influences. It didn't stop us from getting together every chance we could. We helped each other cope largely through laughter. We lived in a rather insane world with the inept in charge. Our world was rich fodder for the wickedly amusing. We had nicknames and code words for so many things we'd almost developed our own language. In the face of much sadness and trauma, we found room to laugh.
One summer evening, the young Sisters joined one of the bishops that lived on the convent grounds for a trip to Rose's for dessert. As the day gave way to evening, we drove up the tree-lined lane on the convent grounds toward the bishops house, when Sister David spotted what she thought was a wounded bird in the road ahead. She insisted the bishop stop the car. She got out to survey the bird and soon slunk back into the car seat, colored a deep shade of red. Within seconds, Sister Philip and I figured out what had happened. The bishop asked Sister David how the bird was and she struggled to formulate an answer. In the back seat we laughed even harder. It wasn't a wounded bird in the road. It was two birds mating. Noticing Sister David's discomfort, the bishop looked at the birds again and suddenly realized what was really happening. He started to blush and stutter. Sister Philip and I laughed so hard I almost wet myself.
The day Sister David found the crotchless underwear on the older Sisters clothesline, she had to come get us. We stood under an outdoor clothesline laughing like crazy people. Exactly what was so funny, I don't remember but I do remember the tears of laughter and how this discovery, made us smile for days. Sister David was a natural comedienne. Tall, double-jointed, she had a physical presence that lent it self to physical humor. She was and still is laughter waiting to happen. Of all the young people in Formation, Sister David always struck me as the most "nun-like" the most naturally suited to a religious life. She left the convent shortly after I did and had years of interesting adventures, even teaching in Saudi Arabia during the first Gulf War. Later, in life she entered a Franciscan order which seems like the perfect match. We helped celebrate her final vows with the Franciscans. It seems that she was finally able to find a home, a place where she belongs and has much to offer.
The laughter that we shared bound us together. We had a common enemy and a common goal. Once I left the closeness of our friendship began to unravel. We remain in contact with each other but our connection isn't the same. Each of us left for our own reasons. While we were together in the convent, we desperately needed each other. We enjoyed one of the closest friendships I've ever had. Part of me will always miss them and the laughter we shared. We were laughing in the dark. It's not such a bad way to enter the lion's den. Each of us would have to face our lion alone.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Past
The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all they Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Omar Khayyam
"The Rubiayat"
In telling the tale, I may have been less than respectful of my youthful self. After all these years, it is still challenging not to view my younger self critically. Putting up with obviously inappropriate behavior as long as I did can embarrass me still. Today, as serendipity would have it, I came across these lines from "The Rubiayat." To state it simply, the past is past. It does evoke a desire to nurture a younger and more vulnerable me.
Just the other day, I went to the dentist. The hygienist who worked on my teeth was a very petite and delicate woman. She also exuded a frailty that left me feeling very protective and maternal toward her. I spoke more quietly, more carefully, more thoughtfully so as not to damage this frail and beautiful bird of a woman.
As I lay with mouth wide open and my toes higher than my head, I had time to think about why I had this protective reaction toward an adult. Maybe, I was being perceptive and picking up on her vulnerability. It was also something more. I was feeling frail and vulnerable that day. Meeting her tapped into this vulnerability. I felt protective of her because I felt protective of myself.
While ever cognizant of my limited intellect and perception, I am also very aware that I can credit my survival in the convent to my intelligence and perception. Those were very crazy making years. Of that I'm very sure. A young, idealistic, naive me did what she had to do. Thank God, I was clever enough to find ways to cope. Those ways may not have always been very effective or mature but given the situation, I did the best I could. I wish the same could be said for those in charge. Their authority gave them a greater responsibility to care for those who had to answer to them. They failed me miserably. I can still feel angry about the injustice of it all.
I'd like to think it is possible to feel that anger, to protect a younger self, while trying to understand the whats and whys that would motivate others to act in ways that defy goodness. I'll never know what was in their heads or hearts. I only remember what was in mine through the hazy lens of time. Still, I am the hero of my story. The past serves me best when it conforms to this heroic telling. Yet, even this heroic telling is just one story in a sea of many. Objectivity and truth lie somewhere at the bottom of this sea.
This is not to say that I can not carry a part of the truth. I can apply reason to discern what this story can give me today in the here and now. If I can resurrect feelings of empathy for this young woman, this abused me while letting go of bitterness, I can free myself to act more wisely and with greater care for my present self. Lately, I must admit being a bit hard on myself both in the present and in the past. The vicissitudes of life were tossing me around while adrift on a stormy sea. Weariness crawled inside me and took up residence in my soul. Pieces of the past were wounding me anew. I colluded with the wounding by being less than kind toward myself until a tiny stranger and an old friend, reminded me to take care.
Moves on: nor all they Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Omar Khayyam
"The Rubiayat"
In telling the tale, I may have been less than respectful of my youthful self. After all these years, it is still challenging not to view my younger self critically. Putting up with obviously inappropriate behavior as long as I did can embarrass me still. Today, as serendipity would have it, I came across these lines from "The Rubiayat." To state it simply, the past is past. It does evoke a desire to nurture a younger and more vulnerable me.
Just the other day, I went to the dentist. The hygienist who worked on my teeth was a very petite and delicate woman. She also exuded a frailty that left me feeling very protective and maternal toward her. I spoke more quietly, more carefully, more thoughtfully so as not to damage this frail and beautiful bird of a woman.
As I lay with mouth wide open and my toes higher than my head, I had time to think about why I had this protective reaction toward an adult. Maybe, I was being perceptive and picking up on her vulnerability. It was also something more. I was feeling frail and vulnerable that day. Meeting her tapped into this vulnerability. I felt protective of her because I felt protective of myself.
While ever cognizant of my limited intellect and perception, I am also very aware that I can credit my survival in the convent to my intelligence and perception. Those were very crazy making years. Of that I'm very sure. A young, idealistic, naive me did what she had to do. Thank God, I was clever enough to find ways to cope. Those ways may not have always been very effective or mature but given the situation, I did the best I could. I wish the same could be said for those in charge. Their authority gave them a greater responsibility to care for those who had to answer to them. They failed me miserably. I can still feel angry about the injustice of it all.
I'd like to think it is possible to feel that anger, to protect a younger self, while trying to understand the whats and whys that would motivate others to act in ways that defy goodness. I'll never know what was in their heads or hearts. I only remember what was in mine through the hazy lens of time. Still, I am the hero of my story. The past serves me best when it conforms to this heroic telling. Yet, even this heroic telling is just one story in a sea of many. Objectivity and truth lie somewhere at the bottom of this sea.
This is not to say that I can not carry a part of the truth. I can apply reason to discern what this story can give me today in the here and now. If I can resurrect feelings of empathy for this young woman, this abused me while letting go of bitterness, I can free myself to act more wisely and with greater care for my present self. Lately, I must admit being a bit hard on myself both in the present and in the past. The vicissitudes of life were tossing me around while adrift on a stormy sea. Weariness crawled inside me and took up residence in my soul. Pieces of the past were wounding me anew. I colluded with the wounding by being less than kind toward myself until a tiny stranger and an old friend, reminded me to take care.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Hiding Places
When the world feels unsafe, where do you hide? Never one to wear my emotions on my sleeve, despite my rather public breakdown, I tried to bury my feelings even deeper. I also found an assortment of hiding places, places I would not be easily found. When things got too stressful, I took refuge in a number of places that served me well.
There were a series of wooden closets that lined the long hallway of the dormitory floor. The dorms were the first place any one looked. The wooden closets were never searched. I remember hiding their while listening to them look for me in the various dorm rooms. I prayed they wouldn't find me as I remained just feet away, hardly breathing. Not being found felt like a small victory.
There was an empty room at the end of the hallway that most assumed was locked. It was not. I often hid there because once inside I could lock the door. During one search, one of the posse called out my name saying,
"Sister Carol, if you're in there, open this door."
I kept perfectly still and waited.
When she left, possibly to return with a key, I slipped out and fled to another of my secret hiding places. Animal me was learning to elude my predators.
My favorite hiding place was an old unused library. It sat at the end of a long hallway on the bottom floor of the grade school. Crammed floor to ceiling with books, the books flowed out of the shelves and into piles, piles everywhere. It was a maze made of books and a perfect place to hide. It smelled dusty and musty. I often had to stifle sneezes but being in the company of those books felt oddly comforting. The sane part of me was ashamed of my childish hiding. The crazy part of me just wanted a safe place to regroup before the next onslaught.
At this point, I must clarify that the vast majority of the Sisters had no idea what was going on in Formation. Most of the Sisters seemed to genuinely like me and were often genuinely kind. When I eventually decided to leave, they were sadden by the loss. Unfortunately, having made enemies in higher places within a system that controlled communication, and bringing a fragile vulnerability with me, I became a perfect target for the powers that be. They saw their treatment of me as "guidance". To me, it felt like torture.
For many years, I've viewed this part of my past as a "me vs. them" scenario. The impersonal "they" were the enemy and I the victim. As long as this was how I saw it, this was how it felt. It was never that simple.
For purposes of telling the story, I often fall back into viewing things this same way. Sister Zelda sounds like a royal pain in the tail feathers. Sister Felicity may sound like the perfect soul-less villain. This is only part of the larger truth. The larger truth often lies just beyond my grasp but I believe it is there. It smiles at me from the edge of my awareness.
How do you tell a story from all perspectives? How do you tell a story where everyone is at once victim and victimizer? If it were easy, wouldn't we have more stories that do just that? But if we did, would anyone be interested in reading them?
We all create our own stories. I hope that in your story, you are the hero and that at the end of whatever quest you pursue, you remain the hero and are better for having made the journey. Life, other people, sometimes even we, ourselves, often interrupt our stories. Everything we have known up to that point, changes. We change. How we view ourselves and our lives is dramatically altered by things outside our control. How easy it is to see those things beyond our control as evil. And, sometimes they are.
Creating dichotomies helps us cope, helps us fight against something which in turn helps us define who we are. We see ourselves as opposite the evil we reject and yet who would we really be without it in our stories? Seeing someone who caused us harm or opposed us, as human beings like ourselves is a constant challenge. How often have some of us heard, "Love the sinner, hate the sin?"
Humans seem to have a horrible time living up to that, this one included. We are more complicated and yet more simple than we imagine.
There were injustices against me during the convent years. Things happened that should not have happened in a perfect or more ideal world. But they did happen, right, wrong or hopelessly indifferent, it's up to me to take the raw elements of this story, this particular way I view my world and my life and turn it into a story that helps me live a slightly better life than I did the day before. My experience is simply my experience. There are other ways of seeing it, there are other ways of being in it. Remain ever aware of that and your life, your story will never read quite the same again. Your life will become a richer story, with more color and complexity than you can imagine. Enjoy the unfolding of the tale.
There were a series of wooden closets that lined the long hallway of the dormitory floor. The dorms were the first place any one looked. The wooden closets were never searched. I remember hiding their while listening to them look for me in the various dorm rooms. I prayed they wouldn't find me as I remained just feet away, hardly breathing. Not being found felt like a small victory.
There was an empty room at the end of the hallway that most assumed was locked. It was not. I often hid there because once inside I could lock the door. During one search, one of the posse called out my name saying,
"Sister Carol, if you're in there, open this door."
I kept perfectly still and waited.
When she left, possibly to return with a key, I slipped out and fled to another of my secret hiding places. Animal me was learning to elude my predators.
My favorite hiding place was an old unused library. It sat at the end of a long hallway on the bottom floor of the grade school. Crammed floor to ceiling with books, the books flowed out of the shelves and into piles, piles everywhere. It was a maze made of books and a perfect place to hide. It smelled dusty and musty. I often had to stifle sneezes but being in the company of those books felt oddly comforting. The sane part of me was ashamed of my childish hiding. The crazy part of me just wanted a safe place to regroup before the next onslaught.
At this point, I must clarify that the vast majority of the Sisters had no idea what was going on in Formation. Most of the Sisters seemed to genuinely like me and were often genuinely kind. When I eventually decided to leave, they were sadden by the loss. Unfortunately, having made enemies in higher places within a system that controlled communication, and bringing a fragile vulnerability with me, I became a perfect target for the powers that be. They saw their treatment of me as "guidance". To me, it felt like torture.
For many years, I've viewed this part of my past as a "me vs. them" scenario. The impersonal "they" were the enemy and I the victim. As long as this was how I saw it, this was how it felt. It was never that simple.
For purposes of telling the story, I often fall back into viewing things this same way. Sister Zelda sounds like a royal pain in the tail feathers. Sister Felicity may sound like the perfect soul-less villain. This is only part of the larger truth. The larger truth often lies just beyond my grasp but I believe it is there. It smiles at me from the edge of my awareness.
How do you tell a story from all perspectives? How do you tell a story where everyone is at once victim and victimizer? If it were easy, wouldn't we have more stories that do just that? But if we did, would anyone be interested in reading them?
We all create our own stories. I hope that in your story, you are the hero and that at the end of whatever quest you pursue, you remain the hero and are better for having made the journey. Life, other people, sometimes even we, ourselves, often interrupt our stories. Everything we have known up to that point, changes. We change. How we view ourselves and our lives is dramatically altered by things outside our control. How easy it is to see those things beyond our control as evil. And, sometimes they are.
Creating dichotomies helps us cope, helps us fight against something which in turn helps us define who we are. We see ourselves as opposite the evil we reject and yet who would we really be without it in our stories? Seeing someone who caused us harm or opposed us, as human beings like ourselves is a constant challenge. How often have some of us heard, "Love the sinner, hate the sin?"
Humans seem to have a horrible time living up to that, this one included. We are more complicated and yet more simple than we imagine.
There were injustices against me during the convent years. Things happened that should not have happened in a perfect or more ideal world. But they did happen, right, wrong or hopelessly indifferent, it's up to me to take the raw elements of this story, this particular way I view my world and my life and turn it into a story that helps me live a slightly better life than I did the day before. My experience is simply my experience. There are other ways of seeing it, there are other ways of being in it. Remain ever aware of that and your life, your story will never read quite the same again. Your life will become a richer story, with more color and complexity than you can imagine. Enjoy the unfolding of the tale.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Dark Valley
The sequence of events is still clouded by a gray haze. I was bounced around between assignments which were more like punishments than anything else. At some point, the stress caused me to break. Writing about it is still difficult because I still carry strong feelings of shame. If I step outside myself and look at the situation more objectively, I would only feel compassion for someone in my position. Inside I still feel embarrassed. Why couldn't I have been stronger?
I don't remember the when or whys of it but one night while living back at the main convent, I started crying hysterically. Sister Zelda who was my roommate at the time was irate. She went to summon Sister Christine. Sister Christine's idea of comfort was not mine. The nightgown I was wearing tied at the front of my neck. Sister Christine would untie it and try to fondle me. I kept fending off her advances which only made my hysteria worse. I felt like I'd died and gone to hell.
News of my scene spread like wild fire. I was now officially the resident crazy. Sister Felicity ordered me to see a diocesan priest who also counseled local religious. From the start I viewed him as part of enemy forces. He would soon give me reason. After more than several sessions, Sister Felicity, came up to me and told me what she and this priest had discussed in my regard. It was a blatant violation of client confidentiality. Fortunately, I still had enough sense of self to know that I'd been violated. I didn't hesitate to let Father know the next time I saw him. I gave him a good lecture on trust and his responsibility as a licensed counselor. He apologized and told me he'd been wrong to discuss me with Sister Christine. I tried to believe him.
This person who was supposed to help me was not to be trusted. Part of me really could have used some sane guidance. Many sessions were spent with my sitting in an angry silence while he fell asleep. Even though I wasn't talking having the person who is supposed to listen to you fall asleep doesn't feel good. It certainly wasn't the way to gain my confidence or trust. Eventually, I felt sorry for him, the exhaustion he brought to his job, the impossible position we both seemed to be in, and finally having me for a client. Young, damaged, immature but smart enough to know how to push his buttons. He really wasn't a bad guy. He was a guy with two feet in a system that wasn't always sane or healthy.
What I did tell him about the situation didn't exactly inspire admiration of how the Sisters were running Formation. He often couldn't disguise his frustration and disapproval. In retrospect, he was probably amazed that I'd want to stay and eager to determine why I was so self destructive. I was as much a riddle to him as I was to myself.
After this incident, things were never the same. Sister Zelda and her latest posse of troublesome admirers were convinced I was dangerous and unstable. This was the same situation that played out with the young nun who disappeared shortly after our arrival as postulants. The writing was on the wall. Inside I felt hopelessly broken and confused. I knew it was crazy to stay in this crazy place. Sister Christine had gotten bolder with her advances but I couldn't report it without suffering the consequences. Mentally and physically I was suffering. I started to loss weight. My stomach was upset all the time. Headaches were frequent. I lived in fear of what would come next and I knew that whatever was coming was not going to be good.
Explaining why I stayed is something I can not do. At the time, I had my entire life invested in staying and becoming a nun. Broken, sleep deprived, feeling physically sick, made thinking clearly a challenge. I'd spent months being told how awful I was and how arrogant and I believed it. I believed it.
I don't remember the when or whys of it but one night while living back at the main convent, I started crying hysterically. Sister Zelda who was my roommate at the time was irate. She went to summon Sister Christine. Sister Christine's idea of comfort was not mine. The nightgown I was wearing tied at the front of my neck. Sister Christine would untie it and try to fondle me. I kept fending off her advances which only made my hysteria worse. I felt like I'd died and gone to hell.
News of my scene spread like wild fire. I was now officially the resident crazy. Sister Felicity ordered me to see a diocesan priest who also counseled local religious. From the start I viewed him as part of enemy forces. He would soon give me reason. After more than several sessions, Sister Felicity, came up to me and told me what she and this priest had discussed in my regard. It was a blatant violation of client confidentiality. Fortunately, I still had enough sense of self to know that I'd been violated. I didn't hesitate to let Father know the next time I saw him. I gave him a good lecture on trust and his responsibility as a licensed counselor. He apologized and told me he'd been wrong to discuss me with Sister Christine. I tried to believe him.
This person who was supposed to help me was not to be trusted. Part of me really could have used some sane guidance. Many sessions were spent with my sitting in an angry silence while he fell asleep. Even though I wasn't talking having the person who is supposed to listen to you fall asleep doesn't feel good. It certainly wasn't the way to gain my confidence or trust. Eventually, I felt sorry for him, the exhaustion he brought to his job, the impossible position we both seemed to be in, and finally having me for a client. Young, damaged, immature but smart enough to know how to push his buttons. He really wasn't a bad guy. He was a guy with two feet in a system that wasn't always sane or healthy.
What I did tell him about the situation didn't exactly inspire admiration of how the Sisters were running Formation. He often couldn't disguise his frustration and disapproval. In retrospect, he was probably amazed that I'd want to stay and eager to determine why I was so self destructive. I was as much a riddle to him as I was to myself.
After this incident, things were never the same. Sister Zelda and her latest posse of troublesome admirers were convinced I was dangerous and unstable. This was the same situation that played out with the young nun who disappeared shortly after our arrival as postulants. The writing was on the wall. Inside I felt hopelessly broken and confused. I knew it was crazy to stay in this crazy place. Sister Christine had gotten bolder with her advances but I couldn't report it without suffering the consequences. Mentally and physically I was suffering. I started to loss weight. My stomach was upset all the time. Headaches were frequent. I lived in fear of what would come next and I knew that whatever was coming was not going to be good.
Explaining why I stayed is something I can not do. At the time, I had my entire life invested in staying and becoming a nun. Broken, sleep deprived, feeling physically sick, made thinking clearly a challenge. I'd spent months being told how awful I was and how arrogant and I believed it. I believed it.
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