in themselves, as much as their basis in a dualism of body and spirit, of reason and faith, which undercut my quest for wholeness. The anti-physicalism, and even more the anti-intellectualism, felt like a constant assault on my character. Yet others seemed simply to accept these impossible contradictions without torturing themselves the way I did.
We were divided into two groups. It was never said, but clearly understood, that one was considered to be of a higher academic standard than the other. Except for one sister who had graduated from college before entering, we all took courses at Chestnut Hill College that would count toward our degrees. There was no consultation or differentiation in what we would study. We would all pursue a B.S. in education, to prepare us to teach primary school. After several years, some might be selected for higher studies and teaching at high school or college level. I hoped I would be chosen. Our college classes were a series of introductory courses in literature, art, and music, as well as religion. Unlike some orders, we did not take classes with ordinary college students. Our nun instructors came to the postulate and gave special classes for us alone. I also suspected that marks were not given strictly on academic merit. If it was thought that a sister needed to be humbled or boosted, her marks might be adjusted accordingly. The ban on “particular friendships” was a constant source of tension. We were not to be more friendly with one person than any other, but it was of course impossible to like everyone equally, and we naturally preferred the company of some sisters to others. Lesbian tendencies were evident, though in a deeply sublimated mode. Some sisters had a crush on a high school teacher-nun, who had inspired them to join the convent, and soon developed new crushes in the postulate and novitiate as well. Even those who would not have been so inclined in the outside world developed infatuations toward other women that in another environment would have been channeled toward men.
Meanwhile, my family’s status in their local parish was enormously enhanced by my entrance into the convent. They had always been regarded as a good Catholic family, and my mother was admired as a daily communicant, even with her squirming toddlers in tow. But they never put themselves forward to be leaders of the Catholic organizations to which they belonged: Sodality, Holy Name Society, or Knights of Columbus. They had not been among those on the most favored terms with the priests and nuns. All this changed suddenly. My brothers reported being singled out to take messages from one classroom to another. My father was given the privilege of driving nuns attending Saturday classes to and from Chestnut Hill. Yet there was no question of his seeing me while he was there waiting for them. Week after week, they made the most minimal small talk, and otherwise recited the rosary all the way to school and back. After a while, my father had enough. He found the sisters’ behavior inconsiderate and rude. He was a working man with a house full of young children and lots to do on a Saturday.
As the months went by, we were gradually introduced to a series of secret practices: things never to be discussed outside the order, or even inside it, except to our superiors: Examen, penances, acts of humility, chapter of faults, and what was called “the discipline.” We knew nothing of the discipline until Holy Week. We had moved from the postulate up to the mother house to begin our novitiate. We were in deep retreat, preparing for the ceremony on Easter Monday when we would be formally received into the order. We had been immersed in the Good Friday liturgy, full of the vivid imagery of scourging at the pillar, bleeding from the wounds, carrying the cross, crucifixion, death for our sins. We then met with the mistress of novices; she produced an instrument, a chain that branched out into a number of sub-chains, each with a hook at the end, and instructed us in precise techniques of self-flagellation. Every Saturday night from then on, the bell would ring, the lights would go out, and the shades would be drawn. We would pull our veils over our faces, our sleeves over our hands, our skirts up over our backs, and expose our bare flesh. We would then use our instrument to inflict as much pain as possible without drawing blood, while reciting prayers in unison. We were shocked, but we had come this far, and had accepted so many things leading up to this, that we accepted it and moved on to the excitement of Easter and Easter Monday, which, in total contrast, brought the most absurd fussing over our physical appearance, as we set our hair in rollers, practiced walking in high heels, and broke the solemnity and self-abnegation of the novitiate with girlish giggles and the silliest ceremonial preparations. Of the original ninety, seventy-nine of us were left, all to be dressed as brides the next day. I was uncomfortable with the bridal imagery, but others gushed with sublimated eroticism and embraced it.
On Easter Monday, clad in long white dresses and wedding veils and new hairdos, we solemnly filed into the chapel of the mother house to the strains of the novitiate choir singing “Veni Sponsa Christi”: “Come, bride of Christ, receive the crown that has been prepared for you.” At the appointed time, we prostrated ourselves in the aisles and gave the prescribed answers to the prescribed questions asked by the bishop: “What do you ask, my children?” “I ask for the grace of God and to be admitted into this congregation.” It went on in this vein. We promised to live by the rules of the congregation. We declared ourselves dead to the world, dead to the flesh, dead to our old selves. Then, one by one, we approached the bishop, who placed in our hands the habit of the order. Out we processed in white, carrying the black habits reverently. Outside, in a designated room, we were undressed down to our slips by our sponsors. Then much of our hair was chopped off (the next day our heads were shaved). We were then clothed in the habit: the long black serge dress, the cincture around the waist with a heavy rosary attached, the stiff white guimpe covering the chest, the white linen cornet framing the face, the band across the skull, and then, crowning it all, the flowing black veil. We processed back into the chapel, where the bishop then read out our names: “Helena Sheehan will be known as Sister Helen Eugenie.” These, we were told, were the names by which we would be known in heaven. We had been asked to submit three names in order of preference, but the name given might not be any of these. In my case, it was not. Many sisters wanted to take the names of their parents. I did not, but my superiors decided otherwise. After the ceremony, we were allowed in the grounds to visit with our invited guests. My relations fussed over me. What meant the most to me was that Ken was there. He was a Dominican seminarian now and I was so happy to see him. It was also a measure of the disparity in freedom between male and female religious orders, as I would never have been allowed to attend a comparable ceremony for him. It was the only time I saw him during my convent years. I was deeply disappointed that Greg could not come. He had been transferred to Weston, Massachusetts, and I missed him terribly.
Our mistress of novices seemed ancient. She had been in the position for decades, presiding over the formation of several generations of nuns. She saw no reason to do anything differently from the way it had always been done. She was the type of old nun who had lived in that world for so long that she had no idea what went on outside it, no idea even of what certain words meant in the wider world. She warned us to avoid unnecessary “intercourse” with seculars and to encourage those in our care to “ejaculate” often. In her world, short prayers were called ejaculations. Life in the novitiate, especially during what was called the canonical year, was even stricter than life in the postulate. We went into deeper cloister. We had even less contact with the outside world, and no more university studies other than theology. We endured more meditation, more penance, more severe scrutiny, more merciless admonition. The occasional letters we were forced to write home were bland beyond belief. Any mention of what went on behind our cloistered walls was out, as was any reference to our personal feelings. Most letters were lyrical descriptions of nature and the change of seasons, with dutiful and clichéd praise of the glory of God. Even in such passages, any real literary flair would result in the letter being handed back for rewriting, with a strong rebuke for vanity and another exhortation to empty the self.
Meals were full of tension. Except on Sundays and first-class feasts, they were taken in silence, while a sister read aloud the assigned book of spiritual reading. Several factors contributed to stress in the refectory: the difficulty of keeping custody of the eyes when a senile older sister started acting up, the challenge of not laughing when something struck us as funny. Every morning the lives of the saints on their feast days were read at breakfast. One day it was the story of a saint who was so chaste even from infancy that he refused even his mother’s breast. It set off a giddiness in me that I could not repress, no matter how hard I tried. In fact,
