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| Five Year Old Stephanie, Our Lady of Fatima, 1950s |
My initiation was the day I entered first grade at aged five. I didn't have the the privilege of kindergarten. I couldn't write my name, recite the alphabet, or read. I didn't show up with money for lunch. What I did have was a new, hand-sewn emerald green dress and polished saddle oxfords. My mother, low on the concept of preparation for school, yet high on the notion of readiness for the fall fashion season, had made it. Within half an hour of entering the classroom, Sister Benignus assigned me to the "Blackbirds." It didn't take me long to realize that was the F Troop of Our Lady of Fatima. The sassy dress with shiny buttons didn't soften down-the-nose stares coming from the first-teamers, the "Bluebirds."
Lunch break was a huge relief, until I realized it took a quarter to get it. The nun who found me hiding in the hall brought a sandwich and carton of milk. That day dealt a serious blow to the confidence of this girl who stood outside the front door, hands firmly planted on her hips ready to take on the world. Eventually, I worked my way out of blackbirds and into the blue.
Within six years, I became an A+ suck-up to nuns. I felt ready to join their tribe. My private Catholic school offered ten girls the opportunity for a one-month trial period in the convent at Our Lady of the Lake in San Antonio. I enrolled in the journalism track and entered the convent on a trial basis. The test drive turned out to be a quick trip to Hell. I cleared the chastity and poverty bars with no effort. In 1958, not many twelve-year old girls were prostitutes who owned property. Silence and obedience were far more difficult for me, a motor-mouth.
Each evening in our dormitory, we gathered our toiletries and headed down to a cavernous bathroom banked by ten sinks on one side and five showers on the other. No nuns accompanied us. Bright lights and ten girls constituted a party in my mind. I made folded fans with wet paper towels and passed them out with all the charm of a cigarette girl in a New York bar. "Here, honey, take one. They're lovely. It's hotter than hell in here. Unconditioned air is a bitch." Pretty soon, most of the girls in the dorm heard about the gathering and joined in. And then out of nowhere, there she was, Sister Quintilla. Quintilla the Nun. Standing at the door, her glare screamed, the Devil always manages to ensnare souls. I knew it would be you.
My last day at Our Lady of the Lake was as auspicious as my first day of school. The "Inquisition" huddled around a table in a room with no windows, behind a closed door. Each girl was taken in for her private conference for the nuns to consider her vocation. When it was my turn, the murder of crows recounted my shortcomings as novitiate. There were gilding the lily. I knew I hadn't passed their muster. "You don't have a calling, dear. Consider yourself passed on by the Sisters of Divine Providence."
I walked out into the clear light of summer and sat in the small bus waiting to take of us back to Louisiana and eighth grade. I sucked in the warm air and let out an audible sigh. Never had losing felt so right. In the battle for souls, I was the misshapen bullet at the artillery factory. There were worse things at which to fail, like having compassion, empathy and a sense of humor.
I walked out into the clear light of summer and sat in the small bus waiting to take of us back to Louisiana and eighth grade. I sucked in the warm air and let out an audible sigh. Never had losing felt so right. In the battle for souls, I was the misshapen bullet at the artillery factory. There were worse things at which to fail, like having compassion, empathy and a sense of humor.
