by Robin Farmer
I breathe with ease for the first time since being summoned. “Yes. I’m curious about the attributes. What are they, please?”
“We want young people who are outspoken, fair, and independent thinkers. I also look for students who have something extra. Students with grit and grace.”
I have never felt so flattered. Then desperate. “Can I still participate if I attend a public high school?”
Sister Carol remains smiling but her eyes don’t.
“There’s prejudice there. Everywhere, really.” I lean forward with enthusiasm.
“I thought you would be attending East Catholic? I agree the program is needed in public high schools, too, but that’s not our focus.”
“I’m going to Girls Academy.” I cross my fingers. “If I get accepted.”
“I’ve seen your records. You are an exceptional student. I’m sure you’ll get in. But why are you leaving Catholic school? If it’s the tuition, we can help with that.”
“May I be honest? It’s the racism. And hypocrisy. Those are biggies for me.”
“That’s not confined to Catholic schools. I’m the first Black nun in my order. I know.” As if reading my mind, she says, “My faith is stronger than any obstacle.” Sister Carol looks directly at me and takes my hand. “You’ve had some painful lessons this year. I’ve learned truth is often seen from different lens. It’s a challenge to live in a religious world you don’t always feel invited to. God called me to do this work—from within. I forgive those who hurt me to heal myself.”
Her words make my throat tighten. “Do you know what happened between me and Sister Elizabeth?”
She nods.
“We’re almost at the end of the school year, and Sister Elizabeth still hasn’t apologized.” I speak low, straining not to tear up at a familiar rawness I thought was long gone.
“Forgive Sister Elizabeth anyway. Sometimes people express their regret in other ways. I can tell you with confidence she is sorry.” Sister Carol fishes in her bag and hands me a tissue.
“Thank you,” I say, surprised my eyes remain dry.
“When I was about your age, my father told me that when you stay angry at someone it’s like being a bucket full of acid. And you know what acid will do.”
“Corrode my insides.”
Sister Carol nods. “Don’t do that to yourself. You’re a special young lady. As far as your high school selection, maybe we can make an exception and still allow you to participate in some capacity. As you know, the church needs to do a lot of work to bring people together. Of all faiths. We’ll see.”
I am surprised at how her presence soothes me. “Will the student leaders in the program meet with you?”
“Yes, once a month at East Catholic, where I teach. I’m the advisor to the Black Studies Club, which I started five years ago. East Catholic provides many opportunities for girls with leadership potential. You’d have your pick of potential colleges in four years. Although you certainly will at Girls Academy as well.”
“Does the Black Studies Club discuss Malcolm X?” I ask.
“Of course. His book is very popular with high school students.”
“I read it twice this year. Malcolm said one book could change your life. That’s exactly how I feel about his autobiography. I’d love to encourage students, Black and white, to read it.”
Sister Carol nods. Her Coca-Cola colored eyes glow. She hands me a brochure. “Read this and call me if you have any questions about the Bridges Program.” She glances at her watch and adds the clipboard to her bag.
“Did you graduate from East Catholic?”
“Yes, way before you were born. I was the second Black student there out of 2,200.”
“I know it was difficult.”
“At times. But then I thought about Sister Theresa Maxis Duchemin.” Off my blank expression, she tells me about a founding member of the Oblate Sisters of Providence in Baltimore, the first Black order, who also co-founded the Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary (IHM). Turns out Sister Duchemin was exiled for many years after a bishop she angered revealed her mother was Black. “She lived with an order in Canada before returning to Pennsylvania. But she never lost her faith.”
“So she was passing?” I ask, head about to explode. Is Sister trying to tell me something without saying it outright?
“She was very fair. Clearly at one point she identified as being Black with the Oblate Sisters of Providence. When she left Baltimore, maybe she found it easier to stay quiet.”
“I never heard of her.” What else could I learn from Sister Carol, I wonder.
She hands me a small envelope and tells me to open it when I get home. Then, she hugs me and I never want to let her go. I take in her Afro so proudly displayed and think of Sister Elizabeth’s. Maybe when Sister Carol and I get to know each other better, I’ll ask her how well she knows Sister Elizabeth.
I’m at the door when I turn with a sheepish smile. “Sister Carol, if you’re not in a hurry, can I ask you for a favor?”
A crowd of students, Black and white from all grades, encircle Sister Carol while she jumps rope with Bonnie. One hand holds down her crucifix, the other clutches her habit. Sister Carol’s sturdy shoes keep pace with Bonnie’s monstrous platforms.
My girls, along with lay teachers and other Sisters, cheer and clap for the odd duo moving in sync. More teachers watch from their class windows.
Bonnie deftly jumps out to allow Sister Carol to continue alone. Bonnie hugs me as Sister Carol jumps on one leg.
“This is better than Shock Theater and the Soul Train line!” Bonnie slaps me five.
Sister Carol motions for me to jump in. I rock my body to the beat of the ropes. Timing my entry with perfection, I join the first Black nun I ever met in a game of double Dutch. Sister knows the moves. Our brown eyes glimmer with glee while our Afros bob to the rhythm of the ropes.
Later that night, resting against my headboard, I open the envelope from Sister Carol. I pull out a small card headlined “The Serenity Prayer.” I read it: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
I hear the front door shut. Mom is back from getting us hoagies and fries for dinner. Today’s the 69-cent special. I smell the onions from here.
“Mom, can you come upstairs for a minute?” I yell.
I hear her footsteps disappear into the kitchen then head my way. She arrives with a paper plate overflowing with French fries.
“Just because I’m eating upstairs, don’t you do it, too. You know Charles follows behind you. What’s up, buttercup?”
I grin at Mom’s new nickname for me. “Today, I met Sister Carol, that mysterious Black nun.”
Mom’s eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t say anything.
“You know, the one I thought Bonnie was lying about since third grade. Sister Carol called me a leader.”
Mom munches on a fry. “Congratulations! I’m happy but not surprised. You’re smart and outspoken. You got dozens of students to refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance for valid reasons.” Mom hands me her plate.
“She says I should seriously consider attending East Catholic.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Well, she says I can get a scholarship to help with tuition.”
“This is an interesting development. You must like her if you are considering it.”
“There’s a program for student leaders to address racism. The Bridges Program. She wants me in it.” I nibble a fry. “It’s overwhelming.”
“It’s an honor,” Mom says.
“Not that. For months, I thought God stopped answering my prayers. Stopped listening and talking to me. But it was me who stopped. I thought he had forsaken me, our family. The broken people. But he fixed us, right? God bought us through.”
“Roberta, that’s beautiful,” Mom says, her tone a combination of love and pride. “This has been a doozy of a year for you. For a
ll of us. But we’ve come through, yes, thank God. Sometimes faith is all you have. To God be the glory.”
“I still don’t believe it rained forty days and Noah built an ark,” I say.
“Oh, I knew I was speaking too soon,” Mom says laughing.
“But I believe in God. I love God, just not religion,” I say chuckling. “And Catholic school is far from perfect. But I’m not afraid to stand up for myself and others. To speak the truth to power.”
“Or forgive,” Mom says. “How many girls your age would let Sister Elizabeth’s secret remain? Of all the things you have done, that one right there speaks volumes about the young lady you are becoming.”
“Thanks, Mommy.”
She does a double take. She gives me a quick hug and then grabs my dirty clothes off my floor. “Unfortunately, some habits are harder to change,” she says with a wink.
We laugh together.
CHAPTER 31
Hate to admit it, but I am bona fide jealous of Charles. Four years younger and he manages to win a first-place award for his grade in the annual science fair.
I shake my head at myself in the mirror. I’m not just jelly, I’m super proud, too. He gets to add a top award to Mom’s curio. Looking in the mirror, I pick out my hair and admire my denim outfit.
“Come on, we’re running late,” Mom yells upstairs.
In the car, Mom-Mom and Mom beam as if Charles is the Second Coming. Charles fidgets with happiness in the back seat next to me.
I nudge Charles. “Now you’ll be pressuring yourself to win every year. And you know what?”
“What?” Charles’s eyes narrow.
“You will! Mom will run out of room to display all of your awards.”
Mom-Mom looks back. “Praise God! That’s beautiful, lamb!”
She watches Charles hug me. Mom smiles at us in the rearview mirror. Warmness spreads inside. I’ll clap until the insides of my palms turn red when Charles walks across the stage.
“I hope Daddy isn’t late.” Charles checks his watch. “We get our awards first.”
“Good,” Mom says. “We can leave early and get something to eat.” Mom double parks. “Go ahead, we’re right behind you,” Mom says. Charles and Mom-Mom get out so he can line up since fourth-graders do their presentations first.
I spot a parking spot directly across from the church. “There, hurry,” I say pointing.
Another driver sees the coveted spot, slams on the brakes and starts to back in. Lead-foot Mom swoops in, causing me to apply imaginary brakes.
“Whiplash,” I shout, laughing. I stop when the driver who wanted our parking spot backs up next to us.
He flicks his middle finger at Mom then peels away, a cloud of rubber his hasta manana. Mom shakes her head along with several nuns watching from across the street.
I scan the crowded sidewalk for my friends huddled with their families. Carrying a bouquet of roses, Eileen approaches a group of nuns by the main entrance. Leaving early, after Charles gets his award, spares me from watching her receive the first-place award as the winner of our grade’s essay contest. Still, I’m proud of myself for congratulating her for winning second place in the archdiocese competition.
Her father trails her with a camera. One sister steps away from the cluster to pose with Eileen. When they turn to face the camera, I gasp. Sister Elizabeth said she would be out of town during the awards ceremony.
“Mom, there’s Sister Elizabeth.” I speak louder than intended, especially with the windows rolled down. “You finally get a chance to see—” I whisper, “—she’s Black.”
“Which one?”
“The tall nun with Eileen, the girl holding the flowers.”
Mom looks at Sister, and time stands still. I nearly tip out my seat, I’m so eager to hear what she thinks. Mom turns back to me, eyebrows knitted. She shrugs.
“It’s hard to say, especially from here. Not all white people are the same pale shade, just like all Black folks aren’t the same color.”
She studies my overeager eyes and seems amused. “My supervisor is taking evening classes. She’s writing a paper about ‘internalized racism,’ a five-dollar phrase for self-hating. I told her maybe my daughter would write a poem about it. She said she’d love to read it.”
I feel like I just won an award. “Wow, I never had someone say they want to read a poem I haven’t written yet.”
Mom looks back at Sister then faces me.
“I don’t care if she’s Black, white, or polka dot. What she said to you was racist. Wrong is wrong, but look at all that has happened that turned out right. Talk about turning lemons into lemonade, Miss Soon-to-Be High-School Leader.” She pats me on my shoulder and grabs her keys and pocketbook. “Part of growing up is knowing when to let go of what’s gone.”
There’s an odd glint in her eyes, and my gut clenches. I don’t know if she’s referring to my obsession with Sister possibly passing as white or if she’s talking about Dad, who waves at us from across the street.
Sadness waters down my happiness every time I see him now. I hope such feelings fade with time. He’s handsome in the brown suit he picked out when he took Charles Easter shopping, so the few Black mothers and grandmothers attending the awards program watch him head in our direction. We wait by the car so we can all walk in to together.
He smiles at Mom and pecks me on my cheek.
As we cross the street, Sister’s eyes light up at my parents and linger on Mom. No doubt she is surprised by how little I resemble Mom, whose face remains unreadable as Sister approaches us. Mom sizes her up in a casual way, the kind that sees everything in quick flashes without letting on that she’s scrutinizing the person down to their pores. I do the same thing, and I get it from her.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Forest.” Sister extends her hand.
Watching Mom and Sister greet each other, I compare their complexions and features. Aside from sharing different shades of pale skin, they look nothing alike.
“After all of our conversations.” Mom voice is all business.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Forest.”
Dad nods. “Evening, Sister.”
I wonder if everyone feels as uncomfortable as I do.
“You must be so proud of your son’s win and Roberta being accepted to the prestigious Bridges Program.”
“Yes, we are.” My parents say in stereo. We all chuckle.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Forest for your responsiveness this year.” Sister looks directly at Mom. “And all of the conversations.”
Mom starts to respond, but stops and nods.
Sister and Mom look at each other until Sister breaks her gaze first. “I’ll see you good people inside.”
That’s the cue for Sister to continue making her rounds with other families.
I wait until we get beyond her earshot. “So, what do you think now about my theory?”
“She still looks as white as the driven snow to me,” Dad says. “She doesn’t sound like a sistah, either.” I know he means a Black woman, not a nun. He shrugs. “Race is funny. I work with Italians whose wives look Blacker than your momma.”
I sidle up to Mom, whose opinion I most need.
“It’s hard to say. And it’s not like she would ever admit it. If she is and doesn’t want the world to know, she picked a good place to hide.”
I mull that over as we move up the steps to celebrate my brother, whose award unites us, if only for a celebratory dinner.
On the landing, Mom gives me a full-on Mom look. “Always be true to yourself, no matter where you are, who you meet, or what you do.”
And I wonder, was that the biggest lesson I needed to learn this year?
Unable to sleep, I turn on the light and grab my poetry book. I’ve been mulling something since Sister met Mom. I’m now unsure about Sister Elizabeth’s race. On one hand, if she’s mixed, maybe she’s hiding it to avoid excommunication like Sister Duchemin dealt with. I’m kicking myself for not
asking Sister Carol if that still happens. Doesn’t seem godlike. I hope not. Understanding what’s swirling in my head requires a poem. It takes three attempts.
I once thought truth was black or white back in the day
Before life turned complicated and truth turned gray
Growing up sure is challenging, it can be so tough
One day I’m certain, the next not confident enough
There’s a puzzle I’ve yet to solve, one that makes me feel dense
When it comes to racial identity, some math makes no sense
People with a drop of Black blood are considered
Black, they say
What about white people with drops of Black blood, same rule in play?
Sister’s hair is “Black” and my Mom’s is “white”
What makes one race “wrong” and the other “right”?
Me gusta. I turn off the light feeling satisfied even though the answer about Sister’s race remains elusive. The truth sometimes is.
CHAPTER 32
I am lost in a racy book I swiped from Mom that I have no business reading when the phone rings. “What’s happening,” I say coolly, expecting to hear Bonnie’s breathless voice spilling the latest gossip.
“May I speak to Roberta Forest?” a woman’s prim voice says.
“This is Roberta.” I sit up, with a puzzled frown. Whose mother is this?
“Hi, Roberta. This is Donna Nelson, editor of Right On! magazine.”
I grip the phone tighter.
“It is my great pleasure,” she continues, “to let you know that you won first place for your age category in our National Black Awareness Contest.”
My jaw drops. I stare at the magazine’s glossy pin-up posters on my walls. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it!” I squeak.
“You deserve it, young lady. We read many compelling entries, but yours stole our hearts. Your writing conveyed a lot of emotion. It’s unfortunate that your teacher said those things to you, but it looks like you made lemonade out of lemons. We need to verify your address so we can send you all of your prizes.”
