Excerpt from my newest Ebook, FITTING IN
Because
I was so quiet in school, nuns always asked me for favors. They asked me to collect everyone's
homework, to monitor the classroom when they stepped out, to collect milk money,
to clean the erasers, to wash the blackboards, to pass out art materials, to
lead the group to First Friday services, to straighten the closets, dust the
windowsills, and carry their book bags.
My classmates would make fun of me for being a teacher's pet. "Teacher's whale, you
mean!" Laugh, laugh. Before long, even I was convinced I'd
enter the convent one day, where no one who didn't want to tangle with God
could insult me.
Perhaps
it was the painless delivery I allowed my mother that convinced her I had a
religious vocation. I was
practically diapered in chapel veils and nursed on holy water. For years on Halloween she dressed me
as a dead saint. Maria could fit
into ready made costumes like Bugs Bunny and Cinderella. I was Saint Catherine in a bed
sheet. Or Saint Theresa with
plastic roses sewn to my bed sheet.
Or Saint Frances of Assisi with farm animals stapled to my sheet. Lucky for me I never got to be Joan of
Arc.
And
trick or treating was always an experience.
"And
who are you, little girl?"
"Saint
Theresa."
"Oh,
wait a minute. Jim, get the holy
cards, it's the Pioricci's girl."
"The
fat one?"
"Shh. What's the matter with you? The one who wants to be a Saint. Here's a picture of St. Peter. Pray for us, dear."
Lying
about who I was dressed as was out of the question. I kept telling myself it was an honor to look like a holy
person.
"Trick
or treat!"
"And
who are you?"
"I'm
a dead saint from heaven."
"You've
come a long way. Here's a picture
of the Sacred Heart."
Then,
after posing as a saint all day I'd steal Maria's candy all night long. It bothered me that my effort was
wasted. I'd cover the block and
never get more than a nibble. I
kept telling myself all saints were usually persecuted, and what did I expect if
I kept dressing up like them. No
one wanted to give a peanut butter cup to a dead saint. Saints were taken seriously. I kept asking my mother to make a nun
costume for me, but that just got her crying.
"Someday,
Gina, you'll be a nun forever," my mother told me.
"No, I won't."
"Yes,
you will. Your father said
so."
"But
what if I don't want to be a nun?"
"What
are you talking about? You saw a
vision when you were three. I
remember."
"What
did I see?"
"That
bright light near the church, Gina.
I'm surprised you don't remember."
"But
I was three." At three, it
could have been a car headlight!
Clearly this family was looking for a nun, and if my life didn't
miraculously change, I was going to be it.
"So
what? Don't you remember the
stories? Hey, listen to what I'm
telling you. Many children are
holy."
"You
think I'm holy?" I asked, suspiciously.
"Not
yet. Do the dishes, then
maybe. Holy people work very
hard. Ask Maria," she
answered.
"Maria!"
I screamed.
"That's
right. You can be holy without
being fat enough to be a nun. And
I work like a dog around here," Maria complained.
Maria
swept crumbs off a table right onto a floor, dusted around furniture, forgot to
use two clothespins when hanging out the wash, never ironed because she was
"allergic" to starch, washed floors with a damp mop, and committed
several other housework crimes I couldn't remember. After Maria had been in the kitchen, there was chaos. Open any cabinet and everything would
come crashing out, forks would be in with spoons, pots would be left to soak
for weeks, the top of the stove would be drowning in a sea of oil, and a clump
of something that used to be onion would have clogged the kitchen sink.
"So,
Maria, are you going to be a nun?" I asked.
"Are
you kidding? I have a life. I have friends. I'm getting married."
"But
I'm not sure I want to be a nun," I whined.
"You
could lose weight and try being normal," she said, as if she were the
first one to think up such an idea.
My
weight was ruining my life. My birthday
gifts left much to be desired. A
ticket to the Union City version of "Veronica's Veil." A new chapel veil. Handkerchiefs that had been blessed.
My
Godmother gave me a solid gold medal the day I had entered St. Michael's
Grammar School. To her, my purpose
was clear. I was her fattest
niece. I had seen a vision. I was a perfect candidate for the
convent.
Religion class depressed me.
I was told I was dust. I
was told I was a sinner. I learned
I missed my chance to be in Paradise where I could eat all the fruit I wanted
for free. It didn't seem fair that
my parents had to pay for food because Adam and Eve listened to a stupid
snake. I was surprised that snakes
could talk and asked the nun if she ever talked to a snake. She charged a quarter for not raising
my hand; I couldn't afford to be curious.
It
was difficult memorizing the Ten Commandments. For years I thought adultery meant growing up. Every time I had a birthday I felt
guilty. There was nothing I could
do about it except kill myself, and that, too, was a sin. I went to the pigeon park often hoping
God would set a bush on fire so I could talk to Him. When I asked a priest why God wouldn't answer my prayers, he
told me I wasn't worthy. I was
only eight and already God didn't like me. I always wore a hat in church, I always ate fish on
Fridays. Moses must have had a
contact, a dead mother perhaps.
Being
holy was defined by my fourth grade teacher as sitting without letting any
underwear show. Every afternoon at
one o'clock, a priest would take the boys away so we could practice. The nun would place a chair in front of
her desk and line us up against the blackboard. Then she'd sit opposite the chair and get ready to look up
our dresses. One by one, we'd take
turns sitting and crossing our ankles.
To the girls whose underwear didn't show, she'd say "God loves
you. Be seated." I was always at the end of the line
which meant I had one nun and twenty girls about to look up my dress. In fourth grade it was hard to keep my
underwear clean until one o'clock.
I dreaded every afternoon.
On
February thirteenth, nineteen sixty-four, twenty-one people saw my dirty
underwear. I had to write an
apology to the Virgin Mary because the nun thought I was trying to tempt the
boys into sin. My parents had to
sign Mary's letter. The nun wanted
them to be embarrassed enough to donate cakes to the convent. I was told to bring the letter to the
principal when I returned to school empty-handed.
If
ever I needed a guardian angel, it was then. No such luck. She was probably flying around somewhere, not
knowing I was about to be killed.
The nuns told us to call on Saint Anthony when we wanted to find
something. I recited the standard
prayer in hopes of locating my angel.
"Saint
Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come round. My angel's lost and she can't be found."
No
reply. I began making confessions
and Acts of Contrition as fast as I could to anyone in heaven who cared to
listen. The principal entered the
room smiling. I knew I was in
trouble. I imagined if I were
really going to nun school, I'd be trained in all martial arts, assuming of
course I lived through grammar school.
Luckily, my penmanship saved me and I only had to address six or seven
hundred envelopes. I realized if I
ever did become a nun I could probably have one or two penmanship slaves of my
own. But to get housework slaves,
I was sure I had to be a mother, and that meant marriage which meant dieting
which meant cupcake withdrawal--something I wasn't ready for.
There
were times when being considered religious had its advantages. When I didn't feel like cleaning I'd
kneel down and my sister would do my work. She was afraid I'd tell God about the time she let Robert
Farley rub her leg. When the
grammar school nuns saw my medal, they didn't make me sit in alphabetical
order. I sat near the door and
coughed when a parent was in the hall and someone was being interrogated. I had the responsibility of timing my
classmates' confessions when the nuns cleaned the wine bottles in the
sacristy. Because my Italian
heritage provided an introduction to wine bottle cleaning, the thought of being
a nun bored me. It took a while
for me to realize the nuns' profession hardly stemmed from grapes.
I
had nightmares. After all, God was
making me an offer to work for Him and I was thinking about turning him
down. That could mean hell. I
didn't think I'd know anybody there.
I mean if I couldn't be instantly thin and in heaven when I died, then I
at least wanted to be where I could hear the familiar, "Gina, come set the
table."