MOTHER HOUSE

My mother pointed out nuns on the street like they were movie stars. Look there's a Dominican, look a whole bunch of Ursulines, there's a pair of Franciscans, oh my God there’s a Benedictine, that’s rare. She rated their habits for style and flashiness. She didn't like the old black habits; she liked the more modern ones. She got all excited when she saw grey and white habits with knee-length skirts and shorty head veils.

She told me a million times that when I graduated from high school, I wasn't going to college or to work. I got to go right into the convent. Got to go. Like that was the biggest prize of all. Like that was the ticket to the best life. Like I was special. Much more special than my six little sisters. Much more special than my classmates who would only get to be housewives and mothers, or the few who would rise to be teachers or nurses.

I teased her about it all the time. She was in a wheelchair now, so she couldn’t get away from me so fast anymore.

Ma, I said, why’d you sign my life away? Why’d you make me go to the nuns? I was only a teenager. Who knows how far I could have gone, if you hadn’t thrown it all away?

Now Sister, she said. You had a choice. You chose the Franciscans, not me. Their motherhouse was here, the big convent where all the sisters started out