Waiting…

In some…well most aspects, Maryville had more in common with a state prison than a boarding school.  All mail going out or coming in was read and censored before being mailed or received.  Parental visits were only allowed every other Sunday between 12:00 to 4:00 or 1:00 to 4:00… I don’t exactly remember which time slot it was.  If parents came out on a different Sunday from the one which they had been allotted, the children were not allowed to see their parents.  Maryville could get away with this because most of us were wards of the Catholic Church; our parental rights had been surrendered. I remember the Sunday I learned I was no longer under my Mother’s responsibility, but a ward of the Catholic Church...  My Mother was visiting and she was complaining about Maryville and I said to her “why don’t you take us out of here”, and she said “I can’t” and I said “why can’t you … you are my Mother” and she said “I have surrendered my rights to you” and I said “you are no longer my Mother, why did you do that”?! And she said “yes I am still your Mother but I cannot take you out of Maryville without their permission”.  I asked her again “why did you do that?” and she said “because I can no longer afford to pay to keep you at Maryville, it is too expensive”. I just looked at her - I was so angry and devastated and also very frightened. My status in this world had been decided by a billing matter.

So, every other Sunday parents were allowed to visit.  It’s not that they did, they were allowed to.  Who was going to show up on any particular Sunday was anyone’s guess.  The kids were informed their parents had arrived through a public address system which was piped into every hall room.  Every other Sunday two girls would volunteer to sit near the PA system and listen for the announcement of whose parents had arrived – one would listen for the names and the other was the runner.  I always volunteered to be one of the two. In some ways it was boring and monotonous to sit there for hours listening, hoping and praying I would hear my Mother had arrived.  Being close to that speaker and being the first to hear anything gave me a sense of control that I so badly craved.  Sometimes she visited, but often, she didn’t.  Sometimes, she would arrive so late we could only visit for a few minutes. The nuns lived their life by a schedule, and they were not about to make an exception for anyone in the outside world.  If you had 3 minutes left in your visitation window, you received 3 minutes… that was it.   This whole process was torture – needing and loving someone so much as I did my Mother and yet having no control to get or give the love I needed and deserved…and in my 5 years at Maryville I ended up enduring this Sunday ritual roughly 162 times.

Religion

As Maryville was a Catholic facility, religion played a very important role in our lives.  We were young, vulnerable and did exactly what the nuns wanted.  If you did not go along with whatever they preached, you paid a terrible price.  Power and fear are deeply motivational tools when you want children, or anyone for that matter, to obey; just look at any dictatorship. 

Most mornings Sister Madelyn would flip on the overhead dorm lights and start yelling “let us praise the lord, let us praise the lord”. Now, although it was her request for us to praise the lord before thinking of anything else, praising the lord was rarely the first thought in my mind.  The idea of going back to sleep usually won.  We were expected to fall out of bed, fall on our knees and pray.  The prayer we were demanded to recite went like this: Jesus hanging on the cross, tell me what did I, did I make the tears drop dear lord, did I make you cry, I’m a naughty child, as naughtiest as can be…….. It wasn’t bad enough that we felt destroyed because our parents didn’t want us, but we had an additional burden that we were the children who made Jesus cry, because were so bad - it is truly remarkable that any of us survived.

Every Sunday and on other religious holidays we attended Mass. We were expected to kneel through most of the Mass which was hard and challenging for small children.  There were five priests assigned to Maryville and we never knew which priest was going to say Mass.  This was important because of our desire for breakfast.  At Maryville, our meals fit in around Mass.  We would eat dinner at five every day, so by eight the next morning we were famished, the only obstacle between us and breakfast, was the speed with which the priest could orate the Mass. Some priests said Mass with a rapidity that kept the service moving and breakfast closer, while others languished on their words in a way that made you wonder if it would ever end.  As the priest entered the church, there would be either a collective sigh of relief or a very unhappy quiet groan; all of us knew who said Mass quickly and who drug it out endlessly. 

Despite my general desire not to be there, there were certain good moments that came during the services. In the 50s, the Mass was given in Latin and there was a lot of singing of the hymns – I liked the singing particularly during the Christmas season.  During Christmas we would sing the Gregorian chants as well as other well known Christmas songs – it was fun, it made me feel like a kid. It was nice to get those windows of happiness no matter how small. I still miss that part.  

Émilie Dionne

The nuns of Maryville were all French Canadian.  Being from Montréal, French was their first and preferred language, but they all could speak English as well.  They never taught us French, I don’t think they thought we were good enough to deserve being taught.  I never asked to learn it because, well, the vast majority of interactions with the nuns were unpleasant to say the least, and I did not want to have to beg them for something they dangled above us.  When speaking with each other, the nuns always spoke French.  My name being French in origin, Geneviève, I always new when they were talking about me (some of the girls’ names did not translate so literally).  I did pick up on some of the words and phrases simply because they were said so often.  I still remember when Sister Madelyn was frustrated she would always say Mon Dieu! (My God!).

A very small number of nuns were kind and displayed a soft heart.  Most were mean and vindictive and many displayed no emotion what so ever.  I have always been struck by an individual choosing a life dedicated to charity and love, when their own hearts were so devoid of those exact feelings. My hall room nun, Sister Madelyn was one that showed no emotion, I always felt she just didn’t like us, a curiously poor way to begin every day. 

As if hall room was not enough, Sister Madelyn had a way of showing up in far too many other episodes of my life at Maryville. One summer day, I was walking into the cafeteria for either lunch or dinner, I don’t remember which, and Sister Madelyn was standing there as if she were a greeter at Wal-Mart. Normally I would say nothing to her unless I was spoken to first, but as I approached her I saw she was crying.  I had never seen her cry before, this was very strange; I don’t remember seeing her laugh before either, most of the time I felt she showed us a total indifference and an unchanging cold demeanor.  Exactly why I engaged her I do not know, but maybe it was because it was so frankly shocking to see her cry...  I stopped and said “why are you crying”?  She said “Émilie Dionne has died” I just looked at her for a minute, thinking who is Émilie Dionne?  “Is she a relative of yours” I inquired, trying to make sense out of this encounter. “No!” she snapped “she is one of the Dionne quintuplets”…I had no idea who the Dionne family was (they were a French Canadian family that had quintuplets naturally in the 30’s and became something of a phenomenon for that fact). I also had no idea what a quintuplet was, so essentially, I understood none of the words that came out of her mouth at that moment. I looked at her for a second and just walked into the cafeteria and started to eat, never knowing why Sister Madelyn was crying. Had I known who she was talking about, I would have been struck by the irony of the situation; that she felt so emotionally struck by the death of a 20 year old Canadian girl, whom she had never met, while she was so thoroughly cold, uncaring, and removed from the hundreds of children, orphans, right before her, who were all facing crises of their own.       

Jimmy Dorsey

There were many do’s and don’ts at Maryville.  We were not allowed to read comic books; we had to eat every bit of the food they served, even though much of it was uneatable (the putrid and at times rancid food had such an effect on me that to this day I cannot eat bread pudding or Spanish rice). We could not say shut up to anybody, so we learned to say “up shut the other way” with as much vehemence and ire as one would use to say Shut …Up (or anything else).  Parents could come and visit every other Sunday but if they came out on the wrong Sunday, we were not allowed to see them. .  We could go home every other month for a week end except in the summer. During June, July, and August, we were not allowed to go home as it was thought that polio was contracted during the summer months, and that our isolation might spare us from that illness. In addition to a large and formidable list of other restrictions and rules, it was known that we were not allowed to order anything and get it delivered to Maryville, and while I may have abided by most rules, this was one I decided to break.

One day, during one of my visits home, I went to a candy store and bought a Nestle crunch bar.  Upon opening the wrapper the wrapper contained an offer.  It said, with two Nestle Crunch wrappers and 15 cents I could get a Jimmy Dorsey record.  I had no idea who Jimmy Dorsey was, but I assumed he had something to do with music because why else would he make a record?  It did not matter that I had no idea who this person was; I was thrilled with the idea of getting a record (or just anything) that I could call mine.  I would get 15 cents from somewhere, buy another candy bar and send it in and wait for my record.

A few weeks passed, and Sister Madelyn came over to me one day, and she had in her hand my Jimmy Dorsey record.  She said “you know you were not supposed to do this”, I didn’t respond.  An 8 year old is really not prepared to make rational arguments, so I stood there, silently, it was all I could do - she handed the record to me and said with a stern tone of institutional distance and indifference, “don’t do this again.  I put the record in my locker and just smiled. I felt like I had won – it was a wonderful feeling. I couldn’t really explain my excitement over the record, I had no way of playing it, no record player, no turn table, but I didn’t care, my desire wasn’t about playing anything, it was about having something.   It is now 58 years later and I still have my Jimmy Dorsey 45 and I have never really cared about the way it sounds.

Employment

At Maryville all the boys and girls were expected to work a job, separate from going to school and sports.  Some of the jobs were decent others were right out of Oliver Twist.  If you were liked by the nuns you got one of the better jobs, but if you were disliked for one of the seemingly endless myriad of insensible reasons out there, you ended up scrubbing stairs and cleaning toilets. Almost every year, I ended up scrubbing the stains from old worn stairs and floors or cleaning up soiled public restrooms, but once… just once, I got lucky…or so I thought.

I was eight years old and I was assigned to work in the Convent, believe or not that was a great job… for an eight year old in an orphanage. I was thrilled with my new assignment and I also learned that my older sister Kathleen was also assigned to the Convent – It couldn’t be any better.  At every opportunity, I would find my sister and talk to her. Without a mother or father in my life, I always found myself reaching out to my older sisters for warmth and affection, often with shallowly disappointing results.

Shortly into my new assignment, the nun in charge of the Convent came to me and told me I was being re-assigned to another job. I was devastated, with all the turmoil and uncertainty in my life, I cherished being close to one of my sisters and actually being able to talk to someone in my family. I began to sob and asked her why?  With a cold and distant tone that the nuns of Maryville seemed to own, she told me that my sister Kathleen had asked that I be removed from the Convent job, because, as the nun put it,” you bother her too much”.  Bewilderment, fear, sadness and rage poured over me.  I started to scream and I begged the nun that I wouldn’t bother Kathleen any more, and to just please let me stay… but my pleadings were to no avail, I was removed.  I don’t remember what job I was re-assigned to; it just didn’t matter.  I felt abandoned that day my mother left us at Maryville, but my sister Kathleen having me removed for “bothering her” made me realize that I was truly alone. It’s not as if I should have been particularly surprised, at how Kathleen treated me.  This was not the first time she had been selfish, insensitive, and cruel, and it was surely not to be the last.     

Christmas Gifts

Christmas was quickly approaching and I wanted to buy some Christmas gifts for my four sisters.  But what does an 8 year old buy with only 30 cents… not much, even back then.  The other challenge was that the Maryville commissary stocked lots of candy but not much else and that was the only place I could do my shopping.

It was Saturday and I ventured out to the commissary.  I kept asking the nun, who was in charge of the commissary, how much this and that cost.  I ended up buying a spool of thread (I don’t remember the color), some 3 ring note book paper, a small statue of the Mary, the blessed mother and another item I cannot remember.  I paid for my gifts and ventured back to Isabelle hall.  I put the gifts in my locker and went out to play.

When I returned to my hall later that night, I went to my locker to look at my gifts but they were gone. Somebody had stolen them.  I was devastated.  I just didn’t know what to do.  Finally, I decided to go to my hall nun and tell her that one of the girls in my hall had stolen my Christmas gifts.  I wasn’t sure what she could do, and I surely did not hold out hope for her interest or dedication to my wellbeing, but I needed to tell someone, and in our world at Maryville, the nuns were all we had.

A couple of days later, Sister Madelyn, my hall nun called me over as if she wanted to speak with me privately.  She told me she knew who had stolen my gifts and that she had retrieved some of my gifts but the others were gone.  This particular nun had never shown emotion in the past but I’ll always remember what she said to me.  She said “You know why this is particularly cruel... because, you never bother anybody”.  I put the gifts back in my locker but it didn’t feel the same anymore, my Christmas spirit was gone.

     

             

  

First Communion:Trauma and Happiness

I made my First Communion at Maryville, I was seven years old and as you might imagine it was frothed with anxiety and trauma. It was a cold January Sunday, but the weather was of no concern to me. I was singularly focused on the dress, veil and shoes I was going to wear that day. As I stared at the outfit laid out on my bed that morning, I couldn't help but wonder, was I going to look like everyone else, or could I stand out as the prettiest little girl on that day.

Weeks before I made my Communion, I asked my Mother if she would buy me a First Communion dress, veil and white patent and leather shoes; I didn’t want black patent and leather, I wanted to wear all white that day. She said she would and I was thrilled.

As the day approached, she had not bought or at least had not delivered the dress to Maryville. The day before my First Communion, Sister Madelyn came to me with some hesitation; it was one of first times she showed some emotion indicating she understood how I felt. She said “it doesn’t look like your Mother is going get a dress to you and we can’t wait any longer”. Sister Madelyn brought out these ugly, grey used dresses (they were once white, but soil and wear left them worn and grey) – she said “try them on and see which fits”. I tried them on and looked like the orphan I was. I was devastated. We settled on a dress and veil and I went to bed hoping the day would never come.

Late on Saturday night Sister Madelyn woke me up and told me my Mother had come to Maryville in a cab and had dropped off my dress; I was elated and relieved. The next morning Sister Madelyn woke me up before the rest of the girls showed me my dress, veil and black shoes… apparently the laws of winter prohibited the sale of white shoes which let my feet set the example for Michael Jackson sporting white socks and black shoes. They were the most beautiful clothes I had ever seen; I was as excited as a new bride. I brushed my teeth, being careful not to swallow any water, due to the laws of communion. I combed my hair into two layers of curls, put on my beautiful white dress, white veil, and white sock and… black shoes, oh well. I looked beautiful.

I walked to Church and waited for the ceremony to begin. The music started and all the boys and girls making their First Communion started walking down the middle aisle. As I started to walk down the aisle, I looked for my Mother, so wanting to show her how beautiful I looked. I finally saw her, and as our eyes connected, I smiled at her and for a brief moment my life was perfect.

Stranded.

When we first got to Maryville, Pat was in high school so was placed in the high school dorm, Sharon, Kathleen and I were in grade school  so the three of us were placed in Isabelle Hall together and Suzanne my four year old sister was placed in Mercy Hall, all by herself. I was so desperately trying to deal with my feelings I didn’t think to feel or understand how lonely and scared Suzanne must have felt. I was soon to see a demonstration of exactly how she felt.

The following Sunday after arriving at Maryville my Mother was allowed to visit us. The six of us sat on chairs outside talking; it was a beautiful sunny day.  I don’t remember any of the conversation but I do remember when it was time to say good-by to my mother.

As I saw my Mother say good-by and start to leave, I stood there motionless, too scared to do or say anything but Suzanne wasn't.  As my Mother started to walk away, Suzanne ran up to her, took her hand and said “OK mom let’s go”. My Mother said “oh no you have to stay here” but Suzanne persisted “no I am going with you!” and with that my mother let go of Suzanne’s hand and just walked away.  Suzanne began to scream and cry, then fell to the ground screaming and kicking her legs in to the concrete walk. Seemingly oblivious to the situation, my Mother just kept walking away.  A nun came over picked Suzanne up and tried to comfort her, but there was no comforting to be had; that time had passed – it was the most painful day of my life. 

The Ride

The day we drove to Maryville took forever. I am not sure why - a friend of my Mother drove us and she kept getting lost.  It didn't bother me how long it took because I didn't want to go to Maryville anyway. I guess there are times when I should have been scared but I wasn’t. I can still remember that bizarre lack of feeling that somehow it hung low in the car that day as me and my four sisters meandered without end.  As it would have it, if I did not know how to feel, then my mother and her friend did not know how to navigate the roads of suburban Chicago.  What should have been a two hour drive, ballooned into an epic eight hour journey. Up until that day, I had never been away from my mother.  Being that I had always been a child glued to her side, I had never learned to fear abandonment.  My education in this area proved to be both quick and brutal after that day.

My father’s absence from the car may have been conspicuous to the outside world, but it was a reality that we had all came to grips with that previous November.  My father, a decorated Chicago policeman had died due to a hear attack, and complications from long standing ailments.  At 35, he was taken from us all too soon.  My father was always me and my sisters’ greatest advocate so it was telling that a mere nine months after his passing my mother, who typically placed her convenience at the center of her being made the decision to give us up.