Perhaps another teacher might have said, “Whoa! Move over, Carole King! Girlfriend here just killed ‘You’ve Got a Friend!’”
Or maybe my promise of talent was iffy, at best.
The real question came down to this: Was vocal training something I wished to continue? Or, should I tell myself I gave it a shot and simply ought to move on?
I put my singing lessons indefinitely on hold. Even if I never resumed them, I told myself I hadn’t failed. I sang in front of a professional while knowing I was being appraised. I gave this performance my serious all without my usual escape mechanism of hamming it up.
The year still held many new opportunities for me to expand my horizons. I would laugh and scream and even sing through some of those.
Yet I would never manage to vocalize a sound of any sort from my damn diaphragm.
Chapter 19:
REVOLVER
I’d long been an advocate for gun control. Since the first time I became aware of a school shooting, by a San Diego teenager in 1979 who offered the simple explanation of “I don’t like Mondays,” the subject of guns appeared black-and-white for me. Too many guns possessed by too many people, and too many resulting in tragedies. In fact, was the gun invented with any purpose except to kill?
Still, I found the issues of gun possession and gun control teeming with questions. Why did people own them? How did they get them? What was the appeal of owning the most dangerous kinds, the sort most often used in shooting sprees and murders?
Years ago, when a close family friend in Indiana invited me to accompany him to a shooting range, I politely declined. I believe what I said was, “Um, no. Not gonna happen, ever. But thanks anyway.”
Spending a couple hours at a shooting range with my lifelong friend, Kent, who subsequently had become a gun dealer, fell way outside my personal limits. But several months into my year of new experiences, I contacted him and finally agreed.
My first up-close encounter with firearms had taken place only weeks before, during my police ride-along and raid. I gained a deeper understanding of the need for and use of guns in law enforcement. But as far as the Average Joe’s desire and right to own a pistol or semi-automatic weapon? I figured my shooting range experience would either solidify my stance or broaden my thinking about that.
As a .38 Special recoiled in my shaky hands, I feared the afternoon was just as likely to result in a premature end to my 52/52 journey.
Note: A year later, while I edited a story about this experience, news hit of a nine-year-old girl who inadvertently shot and killed her shooting range instructor with an Uzi submachine gun: a nine-year-old girl, whose parents took her to a shooting range and allowed her to handle a powerful weapon, as a fun vacation outing.
As I reflected upon my own first-time shooting experience, I wasn’t so certain that couldn’t have been me. My coordination had forever been my weak point, and I possessed no more experience than this young girl.
The biggest difference may have been that the gun expert accompanying me that day was a skilled, trustworthy, and lifelong friend. Kent and his young adult son, Bryan, understood my uneasiness, and they mastered the art of patience by answering my litany of questions and trying to alleviate my worries.
That professionalism proved even more essential as they taught me the proper way to stand, hold and handle a gun, and shoot. More than trying to sway my opinion or ensure I had a good time, their primary focus was on my safe handling of a gun.
I attempted to put aside my nervous misgivings and focus on every aspect of the experience. I tried my hand at shooting a .38 (a revolver), plus a .22 and a CZ-P01 (both semi-automatic pistols).
With the .22, I hit my target nine out of ten times. The .38 proved the toughest to handle. It weighed too heavy in my hand, and even with my legs positioned to balance my strength—as Kent instructed—the gun resulted in a recoiling I couldn’t quite control.
That was a hell of a lot of deadly power I held in my shaky, inexperienced hands. And knowing that most people wielding such weapons possessed more physical control and shooting expertise than I did gave me no additional comfort, especially when I considered how easily an estranged spouse or school shooter could aim and hit a mark.
Kent’s preoccupation with safety proved just as important for him and Bryan as it did for me. Maybe we just got lucky.
The most surprising outcome I was forced to admit? Target shooting was a blast. It invoked my childhood memories of shooting a water pistol at balloons on an amusement park midway. Each time I hit the target, I smiled with satisfaction. I felt pretty pleased with my prowess.
“See?” Kent said. “You get it now, right? This is a sport.” Yes, I could see how many people viewed target shooting as a sport. And I was intoxicated by what only can be described as the thrill of the hunt.
Still, I found that momentary exhilaration a bit disturbing. Each time I felt the force of the gun in my hands and then felt gratified by the holes ripped through the torso of my human-shaped paper target, my reaction dropped from delighted to unsettled.
If I, a presumably rational person, found pleasure in hitting a paper bullseye, what kind of satisfaction or thrill might an unbalanced individual anticipate by the thought of shooting a human target?
Kent and I engaged in a great deal of discussion that day about guns: their recreational use, the constitutional right to bear arms, and the need for average citizens to defend themselves. Even after we left the shooting range and continued our conversation over bratwursts and a couple of beers, our opinions differed. We managed to be respectful and polite, as it should be with the oldest and truest of friends.
Unfortunately, in the wider world, politics and passion make calm and logical discussions about such issues far less possible.
I came away that day with a much greater understanding of target shooting as a form of recreation. But, I didn’t sway from my discomfort with the “constitutional right” to bear arms. I wasn’t so sure current gun laws—especially with the modern, more deadly types of guns—were what our forefathers had in mind when that law was written more than two hundred years ago.
What I learned and experienced also didn’t change my unease about masses of people owning guns for safety purposes. While I could cite dozens of examples of guns being used in domestic quarrels or mass killings, or accidentally killing children, I could name very few instances of a person successfully using them for protection.
Kent told me he assumed everyone in Indiana, an open-carry state, carried a gun. Carried openly or not, loaded guns were out there everywhere: in automobile glove compartments, pockets or purses, and—as I found out during my visit that day with Kent’s elderly father—in the side pockets of living room loungers.
I didn’t anticipate a couple hours at a shooting range would fully change my stance on guns and gun control. That might forever be a more in-depth and intense debate than I was equipped to win.
Many responsible people, like these longtime family friends, owned guns. Yet many irresponsible or unstable people had easy access to guns, too. For me, that remained the real and troublesome issue.
I succeeded in pushing my boundaries that afternoon with a more opened mind—while my fists were tightly closed around the butt of a gun. Through this experience, I gained a bit more understanding.
Acceptance was far more elusive.
But if my goal was simply aimed at going outside my comfort zone, I clearly hit my mark.
Chapter 20:
GET THEE TO A NUNNERY
I had an aversion to guns most of my life. And, ever since my first-grade teacher Sister Mary Estelle refused me an emergency trip to the little girls’ room, resulting in an ill-fated accident at my desk, I’d remained wary of nuns, too.
By the time I graduated from eighth grade at St. Patrick of Heatherdowns, I’d had enough of nuns, and they of me. Most of my Ursuline order teachers—and my lay teachers, for that matter—would never have guessed I ultimately turned out respons
ible and nearly respectable. I wondered if I might view them differently, too, if given the opportunity to know them on a more level playing field, now that I was an adult.
Would spending twenty-four hours at a convent be a hoot or a horror? Or might it simply provide me with a whole new insight?
Sister Lourdes was my first cousin once removed. She was the second-youngest of my very Catholic great-uncle and great-aunt’s ten children, and one of three daughters to become a nun. (One later left the sisterhood, married, and raised a family.) Sister Lourdes was twenty years older than me and left Toledo for a convent in Joliet, outside Chicago, before I was born. We’d never even met.
We knew each other only through a sprinkle of comments on an extended family website. Yet after a few emails about my including a visit to her Joliet convent for The 52/52 Project, she appeared enthusiastic.
It would be awkward, I was sure. After all, we were virtual strangers. And there was the little detail that she was a nun and I was a middle-aged pagan child.
In one day and night, I gained more understanding of nuns than I did through my eight years at St. Patrick’s or my lifelong and intermittent relationship with the Catholic Church.
INSIGHT NUMBER ONE: NUNS HAVE LIVES OUTSIDE THE CHURCH. Somehow, in my Catholic schoolgirl mind, I had assumed that when nuns weren’t busy putting me in a classroom corner for my irreverent attitude and nonstop talking, they spent the remainder of their waking hours in the church, praying—quite likely for my depraved soul.
When I accompanied Sister Lourdes for her weekly bowling league, I discovered she competed nationally and placed second in the state for the over-seventy division the past year. I watched her joke and interact warmly with the rest of the local women. “Sis,” as they called her, appeared to be just another one of their bowling buddies.
In between her throwing strikes and spares that night, we chatted over a beer and a plate of cheesy fries. I figured that was as close to decadent as nuns got.
Afterward, Sister Lourdes and I headed back to the convent. I grew uneasy as we sat down at the communal kitchen table. Without the diversions of a crowded bowling alley, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe a marathon prayer session? Instead, Sister Lourdes and her neighbor, Sister Odelia, taught me how to play dominoes. We laughed and made small talk, like old girlfriends, while they totally kicked my ass at the game. Neither of them used that particular language, but somehow I doubted they would think less of me if I did.
INSIGHT NUMBER TWO: NUNS DON’T ALWAYS JUDGE US. Those choosing religious vocations may adhere to a different way of life and set of beliefs. Yet that doesn’t mean they all judge or condemn our words, actions, or lifestyles. All of the nuns I met there, the working professionals and the elderly ones residing in the convent’s affiliated nursing home, were nothing but warm and welcoming. I never pretended to be someone I wasn’t—and I was likely a sinner by official definition—but they never made me feel like one.
After a question about my marital status, I hesitantly discussed my divorce. I wasn’t certain if Sister Lourdes agreed with my explanation, but she listened and nodded in empathy. It struck me that while we often seek total affirmation of our beliefs and decisions, some people agree politely yet insincerely. Empathy signifies understanding. It is perhaps the most supportive reaction of all.
We agreed divorce was never ideal. When I told her I thought it may have been the right decision at the time, Sister Lourdes grasped my hand. She reassured me that my ex-husband and I had done what we thought was best and that we appeared to manage a better job in co-parenting our two sons than many people did. She was glad I went on to find happiness on my own.
Did I need reassurance about a decision made more than a decade ago? Yes, somehow I still did. I hugged her afterward.
Throughout our visit, Sister Lourdes and I touched on several other provocative issues, including birth control, abortion, and gay marriage. I wasn’t eager to go there, since several of my left-leaning beliefs didn’t coincide with those of the Catholic Church.
I didn’t anticipate we’d agree on everything. However, based on her subtle comment about the “negative and extremely conservative” thoughts that people expressed on the Internet, I concluded she was less black-and-white about some things than I expected. I wondered how many other religious professionals saw both sides, or at least acknowledged some gray areas, of these issues.
We didn’t dwell on these controversial topics for long. Inevitably, Sister Lourdes would segue into a humorous anecdote, and the conversation would leave us both laughing.
INSIGHT NUMBER THREE: NUNS CAN BE PRETTY DAMN FUNNY. Here are a couple quips from Sister Lourdes:
While we studied old photographs of the Sisters of St. Francis, she pointed at a photo of the nuns’ traditional habits from the sixties, featuring that era’s fully concealing robes, long veils, and tight headbands. She mentioned this was the dress code when she first entered the convent.
“I’ll bet you don’t miss that,” I said.
She laughed. “Oh, God, don’t you know it.”
Later, as she made an abrupt left turn into a parking lot, veering across a line of fast oncoming traffic, I jumped up straight and clutched the sides of my seat. Sister Lourdes grinned over at me, shrugged, and said, “Meh. They’re aiming at your side of the car.”
This sense of humor was not an anomaly among her religious order. When I met the congregation president, Sister Dolores, she asked if I was visiting because I was interested in joining. I stammered some awkward response until Sister Lourdes finally cut in and explained The 52/52 Project.
“Oh,” Sister Dolores deadpanned. “So, I guess I should toss that application I had waiting for you.”
INSIGHT NUMBER FOUR: WE’RE NOT SO DIFFERENT, ANY OF US. What set these women apart from even the most religious lay people I knew was a primary commitment to serving God. As a midlife agnostic, I wanted to better understand that. I asked Sister Lourdes why she became a nun.
She shrugged and said, “I never had a desire to do anything else. I knew this was what I wanted to do since I was in the eighth grade. When you love the Lord, you love the Lord.”
I contemplated this later that night, as I lay in the small convent bedroom that held simply a twin bed, dresser, night-stand, and table light. I opened the Bible, the only other object in the room, and paged through it. It was difficult to grasp such lifelong dedication to a spiritual being and belief that still left me questioning so much.
I can’t say I came away from my experience with any element of these women’s commitment to their faith. I remained a lapsed Catholic and agnostic. That may or may not ever change.
However, my time at the convent did change the stereotype I’d held for so many years. The Sisters of St. Francis were real and ordinary people in so many ways. They bantered and laughed. They cried. They experienced frustration with their jobs and with the daily life occurrences that plague us all. They found enjoyment in everyday things. They even managed to find joy when it seemed most elusive.
That proved evident on my last evening in Joliet, when I attended a wake and prayer service for their friend and colleague, Sister Alcuin Kelly. I sang hymns with them and listened to their uplifting stories of their ninety-three-year-old friend’s life and work. Perhaps it was these memories that made a normally grief-filled occasion less sad. Or perhaps it was due to their unwavering belief that death led to something far more beautiful than life itself.
As Sister Lourdes pointed out, the Sisters mourned death, but more important, they “celebrated life.”
It’s unlikely my time at the convent ensured my own spot in heaven. That remained debatable, even if such a place truly exists. I wanted to believe this afterlife was real, but too many questions remained in my mind. Maybe I would never find my way to a conclusion about any of them.
Heaven or no heaven, I did conclude that hanging with nuns could be one hell of a good time.
Clearly, they weren’t all replicas of S
ister Lourdes. Regardless of her vocation, this delightful woman might have been one-of-a-kind. In many ways though, she and her colleagues altered my lifelong views of nuns.
As a thirteen-year-old Catholic school girl, I never would have dreamed it possible. But God knows I wasn’t that girl anymore.
Chapter 21:
OLD FOLKS AND NEW FRIENDS
Like many people, I generally squirmed my way through visits to hospitals, hospices, and nursing homes. Attempting to comfort or make small talk, especially with individuals in irreversibly failing health, made me uneasy and anxious.
I’d always admired people who chose to work or volunteer with sick and elderly strangers. While I liked to consider myself a caring and strong person, my shoulders were not nearly broad enough for that.
And so, I slumped and forced a smile as I followed Sister Odelia—or Sister Odie, as she was known—through the doorway of Our Lady of Angels (OLA) in Joliet, Illinois. The nursing facility was affiliated with the Sisters of St. Francis, and many of the residents were retired religious professionals.
Sister Odie, who served as OLA’s coordinator of music therapy, was recovering from rotator cuff surgery. She required assistance with her daily responsibilities, especially transporting immobile patients. Aiding her in the physical tasks was no issue; I could handle pushing a wheelchair. The idea of personal interaction with residents and patients was a different story. I wasn’t sure how I would react to the physical frailties or, even worse, the failing mental states and dementia of the people I encountered.
When Sister Odie asked me to round up the members of OLA’s chime choir, I felt a rush of relief. Anyone able to play a musical instrument must still be somewhat physically apt and mentally sharp.
I knocked on the half-closed door to Sister Bernadette’s room and then peeked inside.
Finding My Badass Self Page 9
