DAMN NUNS

     I sat down in my therapist’s office.  Mrs. Smartypants was her name.  We had made zero progress in all of our previous sessions.  She begged me to keep coming to see her, though.  She said that of all of her patients, I was her favorite.  She assured me that my great medical insurance had nothing to do with it.  I thought she only wanted me to continue because I made her laugh.  She always made it a point to say that she was laughing with me, not at me.  Every time she said that, though, I noticed that she was the only one laughing.

     One morning, when I went to sit down in her office, I spilled my coffee.  “Damn Nuns.”  I said under my breath.  Mrs. Smartypants froze solid and her eyes opened wide.

     “What did you just say?” she asked me.

     “What do you mean, what did I just say?” I asked.

     “You just said something.  What did you just say?”

     “I didn’t say anything.”

     “Yes, you did Tony.  I heard you.  What did you just say?”

     “Well Mrs. Smartypants, if you heard me say what I did not say, then why don’t you tell me what it was you think you heard me say?” I said as smugly as I possibly could.

     “You said ‘Damn Nuns’.” Mrs. Smartypants answered.

     All of the air in me left.  In a split second all of the air around me vanished too.  I plopped back down on the couch and stared at the coffee dripping from the coffee table onto the carpet.  I was frozen.  I looked at Mrs. Smartypants.  She was smiling back at me.  I needed air.

     “Tony, tell me about the ‘Damn Nuns’."

     I sat there for a second to let the air come back.  And when the air came back, I filled it up with stories about the Damn Nuns.  Mrs. Smartypants was about to earn her money.

     I told her about my friend Albert in the first grade.  He had twice raised his hand and asked if he could go to the bathroom.  Sister Caesar Augustus told him each time that he had to wait until recess, when everyone else went to the bathroom.  Those were the rules, she explained, and they were to be followed at all times.  If you didn’t follow the rules, God would be unhappy, and we all knew where you went if God was unhappy.  H, E, Double Hockey Sticks, that’s where.  When Albert peed in his pants so he wouldn’t go to Hell, she made him wear diapers over his uniform pants.  Albert didn’t come back for second grade.  I hope he is doing well.

     In second grade, it was Sister Genghis Khan who forced my left handed brother to do everything right handed and then nearly failed him for his penmanship.  My mother almost fought Sister Khan on the playground about that after school one day.   My friend Jimmy Donovan and I hoped they would fight.  They didn’t, though.  My brother is an amazing artist, though he seldom draws anymore.  I hope he starts drawing again soon.

     The Nuns taught us how to pray too.  I had to learn the prayers by heart.  If I didn’t I would get smacked on the head with an eraser.  From first grade to sixth grade I left school every day with a headache and white hair.  I was guilted and shamed into submission, year after year.  Class after class.  So I learned.  I learned everything there is about Math, and English, and Science, and History, and especially Religion.  The Damn Nuns made me a scholar in short order.  And I learned.  In those days no child was left behind.  If they fell behind, they were bound and gagged and dragged along with the rest of us.  ADD was addressed by standing in a corner with the eraser from the chalkboard stuffed in your mouth.  HDD was addressed by being tied to your desk.  Autism was not even a word then.

     And I learned.  I learned that I was Damned if I did and Damned if I didn’t.  I began to refer to them all as The Damn Nuns.  My creativity was deafened by their screams for conformity.  My individuality was torpedoed and left to drown in their sea of blind obedience.  It wasn’t just in school.  The nun that tutored me in algebra was a relative.  I learned the most from her.  She was the straw that broke my back.  I watched her cheat every time we played Monopoly.  I listened to her say that lying was a sin and then watched her lie and lie.  I heard her say to always forgive and never saw her forgive a single soul.  She preached to never turn your back on the needy and I watched her turn her back on those who needed help the most.  Damn Nuns.  They taught me everything I know, and all it cost was a lifetime of guilt and shame and resentment.  A bag of guilt in one hand, a bag of shame in the other, and a bundle of resentments balanced on the top of my head like those women you see pictures of in National Geographic.  Damn Nuns.

     I told Mrs. Smartypants all of that in one breath too.  She was still smiling.

     “Did you ever know a good nun, Tony?” She asked.

     “Yes.”  I answered.

     “Tell me about her.”

     “Sister Helen, she was president of a hospital. I saw her not long ago.”

     “Is she the only good nun you have ever known?”

     “No.”

     “There is another good nun?”

     “Sister Carol.  She is the president of the high school my oldest daughter, Sissy, went to.  She is a good nun.”

     “That’s all of them then.  Two?”

     “No, Sister Irene is a good nun. She is the principal at the school my youngest daughter, Sugar went to. Sugar loved her when she went there and she still hugs Sister Irene every time she sees her.”

     “Ok Tony.  So, you know three good nuns. Now...”

    

Sister Mary Lou

“Four.” I interrupted.

     “Four?  There is another one?”

     “Sister Mary Lou.  Her real name was Sister Mary Louise, but she said it was ok if we called her Sister Mary Lou.  She was my favorite nun.  She liked to laugh and she liked to talk.  She would talk about most anything.  Some days we would get her talking and we wouldn’t even have class.  We would just talk.  I learned more from her in one year than I had in all of the years before that.  I remember that she was grading a paper that I had written. ‘Tony, did you write this?’ she said.   I just stared at her.  She had a trained eye, so it was easy for her to see the guilt and shame that was written all over my face.  Then she said, ‘Ok then, who is “Mr. Mojo” and why exactly would he be “Rising”?”

     Mrs. Smartypants laughed.  “I was laughing with you, not at you.”  I was not laughing at all.  I was back in the eighth grade.  I kept going.

     “I was busted.  I had a solid C in her writing class and a C to me was like an A to the smart kids.  Trying to stretch that C into a B with a little help from The Doors had taken me too far.  But she did the most amazing thing.  She didn’t punish me or remind me that I was heading to Hell with a hand basket.”

     “What did she do then?”

     “She told me that she knew that I could write.  Then she told me that to be a good writer I just had to write what I felt.  Writing always helps you feel better, she said.  When you feel bad write about it and you will feel better.  And when you feel good write about that too, and then maybe someone else will feel better.  If you have a question write about it and you just might find the answer.  She told me that writing could set me free.  I loved that nun.  Sister Mary Lou was the greatest Nun I have ever known.”

     “Four then?  Four good nuns?

     “That is all I can think of.”

     “Tony, tell me in one sentence, what did the Damn Nuns do to you that makes them bad?

     I laughed at Mrs. Smartypants this time.  “They gave me a bag full of guilt and a bag full of shame and a bundle of resentment and told me I had to carry them forever.”

     “Ok. What did the good nuns do to you that makes them good?”  I looked at her.  I had nothing.  “What did the good nuns do that made them good?” she asked again.

     I still had nothing.

     Mrs. Smartypants laughed and said, “I am not laughing with you this time, I am laughing at you this time, Tony.  The good nuns are good nuns because they made you feel good.  Nuns are people.  They are people before they are nuns.  They are good nuns and Damn Nuns because they are people.  People make mistakes.  What people were and what they did in the past makes no difference now.  That was then, this is now.  Let the Damn Nuns go.  Keep the good nuns.  Stop looking at yesterday’s problems and start looking for today’s answers.  Why is Sister Mary Lou your favorite?  Sister Mary Lou is your favorite nun because Sister Mary Lou gave you the answer to all of your problems.  That’s why she is your favorite.  She told you what you need to do.  All you have to do is do it.”

     Just like that it all clicked.  Mrs. Smartypants was right.  I started writing.  I will never stop, either.  Writing has set me free.  That bag of guilt?  Gone.  That bag of shame?  Gone.  That bundle of resentments?  This is it.  Right here and right now. This is the last one.  The last one left.  And when I post this piece, thanks to the greatest Nun I have ever known, I will be free.   Good people don’t tell you to deal with their baggage.  Good people help you deal with your own baggage.

     That is all.

Afterword

I must point out that I realize the Damn Nuns meant well.  I must also point out that the Damn Nuns were only doing what Damn Nuns had been doing for years. I must mention, as well, that the teaching ability of those Damn Nuns was amazing. I use what those Damn Nuns taught me every day.  The most important thing I must point out though is that some of the Damn Nuns that I mentioned were the greatest nuns of all time to some of their other students.  So I am grateful for those Damn Nuns today. The days of the Damn Nuns are gone now. God Bless'em.

Not only is Sr. Mary Lou one of my heroes, Sr. Mary Lou continued teaching until recently. She was diagnosed with cancer and after a hard fought battle, she went home.  Before she passed I was able to speak with her on the phone.  I was surprised that she remembered me. She sounded exactly the same as I remembered her. I told her how much she meant to me and how she impacted my life.  I thanked her for that.  Like most good Nuns, she was uncomfortable with praise.  Humility.  We spoke about other things too.  Important things. Life things. 

When we said good bye, I knew it would be the last time that I would ever speak to her.  And as I sat there, after I hung up the phone, my mind began to overflow with memories I never knew that I had, and my eyes overflowed a little as well.  I said a prayer to make sure God knew that she was one of the good Nuns, then I replayed our conversation again in mind.  And then again. And again. Our phone call was so perfect somehow, that I decided right there and then, that I would not go to her funeral.  

I didn't need closure. Sr. Mary Lou gave me that during our phone call.  

I didn't need to pay my last respects. My respect for her will never end.