and neighbors and siblings, looked around the house for what I believed to be the last time and got in the car. My parents and my cousin-sponsor chattered away about what a beautiful autumn day it was, how it was better to be early than late, how long it would take to get to Chestnut Hill, how I would never again worry about having a roof over my head. I let it all pass over me, impressing on myself the enormity of what I was doing and anticipating the contemplative silence that lay ahead. When we arrived at the postulate, a new building about a mile away from the mother house and college, I was taken away, given my number in the order, shown to my cell in the dormitory, and brought to a hall to say my goodbyes. When the bell rang, we formed ranks in the order of our numbers and processed into chapel. One by one, we approached the altar and received the postulant’s veil. There were ninety of us who entered that day.
From that day on, we followed the strictest regime: mass, meditation, meals, manual labor, spiritual reading. We were given precise instructions down to the smallest detail: how to walk (noiselessly, eyes down, hands inside cape, close to the wall, measured steps), how often to wash our hair (once a week), how often to change our underwear (every three days), how to undress without looking at our bodies (slip the nightdress over the head before taking underwear off), how to make our beds (square corners), how to eat a banana (with a fork) and an orange (with a spoon). Between night prayers and morning mass, we were to observe a grand silence, which could only be broken by a major emergency, and an ordinary silence at all other times, punctuated only by speech necessary to the execution of tasks. When the bell rang, it was the voice of God, and we were to stop sewing in mid-stitch, stop conversation in mid-word, stop anything we were doing that very second. We were assigned fixed places in refectory, chapel, and recreation. Recreation was the one hour a day when we were allowed to speak. There were rigid guidelines about topics that could and could not be discussed. We were not to speak of our past lives or to speak critically of our present ones. We were not to criticize our superiors or even comment on the food. We were forbidden to use the adjective “my.” It was our book, our veil, our slip, and so on. If told to put my name in something, I was to write “For the use of Sister Helena Sheehan.”
Communication with the outside world was severely limited and subjected to tight surveillance. There were no letters, except to and from our parents (but not during Lent or retreat), and even these were censored. Any letters we wrote that were judged insufficiently edifying or marred by sub-par grammar or handwriting were handed back to be rewritten. Some sisters smuggled letters out on visiting day. I didn’t, although I wanted to do so. I composed letters in my head to Ken and Greg, but I didn’t want to violate either the letter or spirit of the rules by writing or sending them. Many sisters were homesick, but I wasn’t. I didn’t miss my home, but I did miss the wider world. Postulants were breathless with excitement when visiting day came and they could sit in a circle in an auditorium and talk—of elevated subjects, of course—with their families. I was glad for the break in routine and interested to see how my brothers and sisters were growing up, but the people I most wanted to see were not allowed to visit me.
There were no newspapers. There was no reading of anything not assigned. There was no radio or television. Sometimes we laid newspapers (which could be read by superiors) over newly scrubbed floors, and it was hard not to peek at the articles. When parents came to visit, it was difficult not to ask about current events. Occasionally we were told about news. The inauguration of Vatican II was announced, although the spirit of renewal surrounding the council made little impact on our congregation during my time there. I was attuned to such trends before I entered, and it was deeply disillusioning that this new thinking had almost no discernable effect on our religious “formation.” The winds of change did not blow through our postulate or novitiate. It seemed so solid, even though it was about to be blown to bits. Just as Vatican II began in October 1962, the Cuban Missile Crisis rocked the world, even our cloister. The mistress of postulants announced it in a most apocalyptic way. We fell to our knees with a strong sense that the end of the world might be near. I trembled with world-historical fear. The Cold War was threatening to become a hot one, the ultimate one, and peaceful coexistence seemed in shreds. Then, after some days, she announced that it was all over. Naturally I wanted to know far more—how? why?—but that was forbidden.
Our mistress of postulants terrified us at times. We met with her regularly, primarily as a group, but also one-on-one. She told us God would decide who would stay and who would go. Not everyone who was a postulant would become a novice. All the doors opened out, she reminded us. Observing some behavior not to her satisfaction, she solemnly pronounced, “God will not be mocked.” As the months went on, postulants disappeared one by one. They were not allowed to tell anyone they were leaving or even to say goodbye, and their departure was never announced. There was only the empty space in chapel and at the breakfast table. Later that day, numbers would be reassigned. We were never to mention them again, but we could not help wondering who went willingly and who was asked to leave. For a time, things regularly went missing, and we gossiped about “the klepto.” When one postulant disappeared and the thefts stopped, we assumed that she was the one, though we would never have suspected her.
During these months, we received instruction in the Holy Rule and in the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The chapter of the Holy Rule on chastity was remarkable in that it dealt with virtually everything except sex. It began: “The sisters shall live in the congregation as the angels live in heaven, that is, their life is to be altogether interior and spiritual and detached from everything sensual.” We were never to look anyone in the eyes. We were never to touch another person. We were never to converse with one person alone, instead always gathering in groups of three or more. We were to have no “particular friendships.” We were to have no unnecessary conversations with men “whether lay or ecclesiastical.” For conversations necessary to our daily tasks, another sister was to be present and report to the superior. All the while, something in me rebelled against this monastic ethos, against the whole negative vocabulary of death and renunciation. We were to be “dead to the self,” “dead to the flesh,” “dead to the world.” The habit we were sewing and would soon be wearing for the rest of our lives was to be our shroud. Yet wasn’t it God, I wondered, who had created the world, the flesh, ourselves, our feelings for others? But according to Thomas à Kempis, “I go into the world of men and I return less a man.”
I couldn’t accept it. The attitude of blind, unquestioning obedience was alien to me. I often thought of a line from the film The Nun’s Story, spoken to the protagonist, Gabrielle, by her father on the day of her entrance into the convent: “I can see you poor, I can see you chaste, but obedient—never.” I believed in discipline. I wanted to purge myself of all indulgence and give myself to something greater, but I could not renounce my standards of intellectual and emotional integrity, which, however immature, were nevertheless very strong. But this, of course, was intellectual pride. I was constantly reprimanded for this particular sin, even when I said nothing. They knew the signs. They could read it on my face, which had not yet gone blank the way it was supposed to do. We were to do our best in the tasks we were given, yet when we did them well, we were accused of pride. When others came to me for help with their studies or sewing, at which I excelled, I was caught in a contradiction: I felt confident in my abilities and wished to be gracious and generous toward others who were not so confident or able, but feared that to help them was to be proud and arrogant.
For feast days, we had celebrations with songs and pageants performed by the postulants. My role was writing and delivering a script about the meaning of the feast. My work was very well received, as I found fresh language to articulate what they believed, delivered in a way that moved them. This too was treacherous territory, as any resulting self-affirmation and acclaim posed a danger to my soul. To keep me in check, I was never assigned to read in the refectory. Every time our weekly assignments were read out, I hoped for it, whereas most dreaded it. I was told I had to conquer my pride, and though I tried to be humble, no sooner did I make some progress than I took pride in my humility. Such a spirituality built around constant self-scrutiny and striving for perfection was torment to me, taking my already extreme self-scrutinizing and perfectionist tendencies and turning them from constructive into destructive forces. The problem was less
