The Frozen Daffodil

By Sunday Greene

www.sheilalaureta.com

This is a story of a modern-day woman stranded in her apartment in Ohio during a severe winter storm. While memories of her colorful and extraordinary life flash through her mind, she finds herself back amidst the WWII bombings of her childhood home in London and traces her early life in an orphanage, then a modeling career, to America as a young wife and mother. She becomes a professional singer-entertainer on stage, yet all the while, she is on a venture, a lifelong spiritual quest of metaphysical studies and Buddhist practice. It is a story of romance, abuse, rape, abortion, near homelessness, and earthquakes. It takes place in UK, USA, and Japan. It is a story of spiritual undertones, wild escapades, and quiet reflection on lessons learned. Sheila is no ordinary womanyou will marvel at her, pity her, love her, scorn her, but never forget her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466911758

Sunday Greene

Sheila Laureta—poet, singer, entertainer—was born and raised in England. She continues on her spiritual journey, a gentle brave spirit, and sincerely bares her soul to the world. Behind her thoughts and provoking poems and journey is a beautiful rainbow of hope. “Filled in this beautiful jewelry box is your precious life and out shines the brightness of hope toward the future. Through reading aloud over and over again. I would like to further enjoy your universe spread throughout your sonnets.”

Book preview

THE

FROZEN

DAFFODIL

By Sunday Greene

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©

Copyright 2012 Sunday Greene.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-1174-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-1176-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-1175-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012902025

Trafford rev. 01/26/2013

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North America & international

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

"A great Human Revolution

In just a single individual

Will help achieve a change

In the destiny of a nation

And further, will enable a

Change in the destiny of

All humankind."

—by SGI President Daisaku Ikeda

I am deeply appreciative to SGI President Daisaku Ikeda for this quote which caused me to pause and question my journey in life and ask the questions, How was I contributing with my life and how could I make a difference? Thank you for all the wisdom you have shared with me Sensei.

I am thankful for my family and friends… because of you my heart sings.

In remembering my beloved friend, Karen. I miss you… thank you for gracing my life.

"A great Human Daffodils, by William Wordsworth (1804)

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

CHAPTER 1

There is a saying: Life lives us until we learn to live Life. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. We become what we think, feel and act upon. This is the LAW OF CAUSE AND EFFECT. Life is like a revolving door—it keeps coming around. Which leads me to question my journey here on earth and in order to find the answers, I know I must journey back deep into my beginnings. But right now I find myself in a small apartment in Ohio in a blizzard, alone.

The snow is falling heavily; winter has truly arrived. I just completed my morning prayers when more than one hundred birds flew down outside my window all together in formation, gracefully dancing for me. I am struck by the contrast of the beauty they portray in the midst of this snowstorm, their unity, their oneness. It just takes my breath away. I feel so connected to this scene, I just want to spread my wings and fly away with them. Perhaps this is a sign, but what message? Whatever the message, I am quite sure it will be revealed to me. One thing for sure, this storm is not about to let up. I can see where the word homebound came into existence. Be creative and find things to do. Like write a book.

The icy storms of winter isolate. Everything feels naked, stripped of life, and yet there is a simplicity of beauty to the eye. All at once I feel chills go down my spine as I attempt to write in my journal. I’ll just have to be a bear and hibernate until the sun melts this ice away. If these trees can endure, then so can I. It’s hard to believe that inside those barren, stark naked trees life goes on. Under the earth their roots are sunken deep where no harm can come. I’m often amazed at the strength and endurance. I guess that is why I have always had a love affair with trees. I am glad they are here to share my winter with me. Together we will survive.

The words of Emily Dickinson float through my mind as I begin to relax:

He ate and drank the precious words,

His spirit grew robust;

He knew no more that he was poor,

Nor that his frame was dust.

He danced along the dingy days,

And this bequest of wings

Was but a book—what liberty

A loosened spirit brings!

I am experiencing the harshness of winter in my life and I am surviving. I am here and I have questions. WHO AM I? WHY AM I HERE? WHAT DIFFERENCE CAN I MAKE? I can begin—right here—right now, just as a phoenix rises from the ashes, by taking a look at myself.

A voice comes channeling through me: Remember these words; remember them well. Pay heed to the message that the Messenger brings. These words would come to haunt me one day. The voice of the people will be heard. The pen is mightier than the sword. Words keep flooding through my mind. Stop it I scream, Who is this? Why am I receiving such messages? A voice within says: Write the story, but don’t get caught up with it. It has its purpose. Come from LOVE. REMEMBER LOVE. I almost feel like singing back what’s love got to do with it? just like Tina Turner. But I resist. This voice will not go away until I begin.

I light a candle and play some soft music, and feel myself drifting away from Ohio, back into time—everything was pitch black, I felt scared. There were loud sounds that I discovered later were the bombs dropping. They were called doodle bombs that the Germans had invented. You could not hear them until they were on top of you and that meant it was too late. Everyone in London had to have black curtains up to hide the light, so the Germans could not locate our houses. There were the bomb cellars that we went to when the sirens went off. This was one of those nights we would sleep in the bomb shelter.

Daddy was away in the Royal Irish Fusiliers and was only able to make it home once in a great while. How we loved those moments with him. He would sing to us and make us feel safe. I was given Daddy’s gift of singing and would sing before I could talk. These first years were filled with love and even though it was wartime, I could feel safe in my own home with family. My mother loved my father deeply; he was the Love of her life and she happily made babies one after the other, first came my sister Eileen, three years later, me, then Rosie, and last Michael. My father finally got a boy. It was after Michael was born that things began to change.

Daddy became wounded and then contracted TB. We were visiting in Wales at the time. We were aroused from a deep sleep and told to get dressed and go back to London. The train ride was long and Mother had a frown on her forehead like she always had when she was worried. A child learns all of her parent’s feelings just by observing them. I went and sat next to her and put my head on her lap. Somehow I felt that might make her feel better. The train pulled into London and we were met by one of Mother’s friends. They began to whisper and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mother had to leave us with her friend and needed to go see Daddy. It was then I felt something was very wrong, little did I realize how our lives would be affected after that day.

Mother came and got us a few days later. Her face was very pale and I could see she had been crying. I thought it would be OK once Daddy was home. He always made her smile. She asked my sister and me to sit down. Rosie and Michael were too small to be included. I held my sister Eileen’s hand. The words that were coming out of my mother’s mouth didn’t make sense. She was saying our house was bombed and we had lost everything and we were to be very brave for our brother and sister because we were older. She continued to say that our Daddy was seriously ill and they did not know if he was going to make it. I remember looking at my sister Eileen. She always knew more than me. I just loved to sing and make everyone happy. But I couldn’t tell by her face, it seemed very blank as if she was in disbelief. So I thought this was all make believe, and we would wake up in the morning and everything would be back to normal. But it wasn’t. Nothing was ever the same again. I was barely four and I had lost my Daddy and our home.

We were to begin life anew in a small flat with many other people living alongside us. There was no place to bathe. No hot water. Mother had to boil the water and we bathed in a tin tub. I was lucky to get the second bath. Life was difficult. Laughter went out of our home. Mother was mostly cross and tired. War had done some terrible things to my family. We were torn apart. Everything was on ration. Not enough room, not enough food, and more important, not enough love.

I remember my Mother taking my hand and putting it into my sister Eileen’s hand and saying. You take care of her now, I have enough to do. So at the age of seven my sister became a mother. I would help out with Rosie and Michael the best I could. I longed to feel safe to be a little girl, but war had taken all that from us. I had to become a grown up. Help clean house. Oh Daddy I would cry out Why did you leave us? I couldn’t understand. Mother was becoming so angry that she would release her pent—up feelings on us. How I wished I could remove the frowns from her face, see her smile again and bring Daddy home. But the wishing only brought more fear. Mother’s moods took a violent swing and life no longer became safe.

The war ended, the black curtains were taken down. The streets in London were filled with people rejoicing except in our house where it was quiet. Daddy wasn’t coming home. We could never bring back the past, we had to move forward. I wanted so to go out and celebrate. After a while, when no one was looking I did. I felt guilty, but it sure felt good to celebrate life. Even a child understands that. But the end of the war also revealed what destruction had occurred.

There was no place to play in the streets of London. War had taken its toll. Quite a somber look for the world to see. I decided that I would make the world a better place. I would sing and dance the world better. It was then my world changed into a world of make believe. Through the music, song and dance, and poetry, I was able to remove myself from the harshness of reality.

My sisters and I had to sleep together as there was only the one bed. However, we would sleep with one ear open, just in case we would need to jump out and hide. It wasn’t the bombs going off this time, but our mother’s violent temper. We knew by her tone if we were in for a beating. But sometimes her voice was sweet and we knew she had company. Some friends she had been drinking with at the pub would come home and want to hear us sing. I remember going downstairs half asleep, rubbing my eyes trying to wake up. I could hear the laughter, smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke. As we sang and danced, they would want to hug us. I hated that and would beg to go back to sleep. But this set in motion the thought that I would be loved if I sang and danced, something that stayed with me. Up until now I was always learning new ways to protect myself. I would go into the stillness where creativity lived.

Eventually the neighbors talked and we were taken away. A part of me was relieved that I didn’t have to be scared all the time yet another part of me loved my mother so much that I couldn’t bear to be away from her. Throughout the years my sisters and brother were parted, going into separate homes. But Mother would get well and we were able to go back to live with her.

We became resilient children. Knowing how to make a shilling. We created so many ways to make money. One way was to sell paper, glass or clothes to the rag and muff man. We were so proud. Another way was to sing on the synagogue steps. The rabbi would turn his back and smile. He loved our courage and pretended not to see. We would charge the children that came to see our show one-half penny each. We felt very rich. Mother never did find out about it.

Living in the children’s homes was another story. You were just a number. You didn’t own anything or anyone. Not even yourself. But you did learn to go within and listen to yourself. I had become a wild thing. Everyone called me a Free Spirit. The truth was nobody cared enough to teach me right or wrong, but a child has instincts and an inner voice that speaks to her. I prayed in my own way and I asked whoever was in charge to never let my heart become bitter, but to always have a song in my heart like my Daddy. I would ask to be able to see the best in others even if they couldn’t see it in me. The children’s home I was in was about to close.

They had sent me out to different foster parents. But I couldn’t fit in with any. Deep in my heart I knew they didn’t want me and was either doing it for money or work they could get from me and so I rebelled and wouldn’t allow them to break my spirit. Each one returned me to the home saying I was out of control. They got that right—I was out of their control. I longed for my mother to come and get me. I would endure anything for my mother’s love.

Fragmented, by Sunday Greene

I felt as a spider

trapped in a cobweb

while the web was

falling apart

So fragile

so small

falling apart

at the seams

Not knowing

how to mend

or put myself

back together

Myself as a child

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CHAPTER 2

It was then fate started to change, the winds turned in my favor. I was to meet a wonderful woman. I was now eleven years old. An impressive age. As she walked into the room, I had noticed this beautiful elegant lady but kept my face pushed against the windowpane, just knowing my mother was going to come up the walkway anytime now. At the corner of my eye I saw her pointing to me. She was inquiring into why I had my face pressed against the window. The lady had come to adopt a small child a girl, as she had lost hers and longed for another.

The teacher was shaking her head and telling her I would be a disaster and not to think of it. Apparently this encouraged her to get to know me. As she walked over to me, I tried to ignore her. But she just smiled. There was something about her that made me trust her. Perhaps it was the gentle tones of her voice. Would you like to come home with me and see how you like it? I can always bring you back if you don’t, she asked. I put my little hand in hers and said, It will be all right for a while until my Mum comes and gets me. This was the first time I felt an immediate trust. I stayed for four years. My life opened up. I was made to feel special, wanted and worthy of love. She would teach me how to speak, walk and act like a lady but more importantly she opened my heart and taught me how to trust.

An angel was watching over me after all. My first few weeks there were challenging. The first being I wanted to hide my food so nobody could take it from me. Her boys would giggle to see my arms wrapped around my food. But she understood and guided me to the kitchen to show me that there was more than enough food for everyone. She opened the cupboards and said, You will never go hungry and you never have to go back to the children’s homes. No one is going to hurt you here. She then took me into her arms and I began to feel safe. There was more than enough for everyone. Christopher, Kenneth and Michael stopped teasing me and we grew very close.

I loved the holiday camps we went to. They were so much fun and we were very pampered and catered to. I just ate it up. I still missed my Mum and sisters and brother. I loved them very much and sometimes felt guilty about being so happy with this new family. I would secretly pray that they, too, could have such love and peace in their lives.

My mind often drifted back to the times where I learned valuable lessons from my mother. Sometimes it takes distance to see things more clearly. One such memory was the year we were offered workers holiday. You must understand many of our buildings had been bombed during the war and it was quite dangerous for the children to play around them, but we were recalcitrant and it took quite a talking to keep us off them.

We did have opportunities to go to the movies. One of us would pay and open the back door for the others to get in. Or the smallest one, yours truly, would climb in the bathroom window and open the door. Most times we didn’t get caught or the usher pretend not to see. Either way, it was blissful and we were swept away into adventure, romantic endings, Happy Ever After. We could pretend, even just for a while. What a contrast to the devastation of the bombed ruins of our beloved London. The Londoners had a spirit of their own: A pint of ale and a good ole sing-song.

I entered every talent contest I could and always came out a winner. Mostly I won books—brand new. Oh, I remember the fresh smell of the pages. I would hold the book up to my face: the newness, the magic, within those pages. This was such a contrast to the smell and stench of London, black tar and soot. The air had become so thick with soot from the factories you could hardly see your hands in front of you. In winter it was so cold and bitter I would hold my hands to my eyes and ears to keep them from freezing.

We would take turns getting the coal. It was heavy, but as little as we were we always found the strength. Everyone worked hard in our house, especially our mother. She would come home from the business, a little café that served breakfast and lunch, feeling exhausted. These times we all huddled around the fireplace. Our mother, being Welsh, was proud and accepted no charity from anyone, so we did everything ourselves. I longed to feel safe, but somehow I never quite did. Deep inside I always wondered if I would die young and go with Daddy to Heaven. No future to look forward to. So each day was a blessing to me. Each day I gave thanks and continued to sing and dance.

I thought about my present situation living with this wonderful family, the Kinghams, who had taken me into their home and hearts and expected nothing from me except to do my best in school and to share my feelings when something was bothering me. Now here we were at Butlins Holiday Camp, being pampered and spoiled and my mind drifted back once more to the year we all went to the workman’s holiday, out into the country. I was so excited I could hardly breathe and I was doing my best not to get on my mother’s nerves. My sisters and brother were so excited that we were pinching each other’s arms and giggling like the little children we really were. When we arrived there was a horse and buggy to greet us. We drove clear out into the country. I thought this must be Heaven. As we arrived on the farm we were greeted by the horses and cows and shown to the horses’ stables. We had our very own stable with a whole bunch of hay. Mother looked around and said, Never mind, we have a roof over our heads and we can make a palace out of a stable.

She was in fine spirits and the lines upon her brow seemed to ease. We all started laughing as we filled the pillowcases with straw for our beds. Mother hung some things on the walls. It was really cozy. Yes, I thought, I am going to love it here. There was a smell of food coming from the outside. Mother had built a fire on some stones outside and was baking potatoes. My mouth was watering. We told stories that night until I blissfully fell asleep.

Morning came too early. We had to be up at the crack of dawn to begin picking the hops Mother said if we worked hard we could take the afternoon off to play. I hated the smell of hops but I was determined to work hard so I had my time to roll down the hills and sing. We had been saving up our food rations for this holiday and were able to have eggs and bacon. REAL EGGS AND BACON! Most time we used powdered eggs. The war may have been over but Britain was still recovering financially and physically. Our candy was licorice wood and to this day I love real black licorice. Everything was recycled, including our clothes, but twice a year we managed to get two new outfits. We all dressed the same. When we arrived at the hop fields there were a lot of other Londoners there, but mother never allowed us to mix with them. She said they were common people and that we were to play with each other. I never questioned her but bowed my head and began picking the hops. Boy, did we work hard.

I never looked up, just kept picking hops and thought about the afternoon and the many adventures I could have in this vast countryside. I could hear the birds singing out in the trees and the thought of flowers just waiting to be picked. No matter how tired my body felt the joy of the afternoon beckoned me. At the end of one long day, I stole away and picked some daffodils, put them in a tin can and took them back to the stable for my mother. I learned a lot from this holiday. It didn’t matter where you were, you could make a home for yourself. Even as a child I could appreciate the many gifts unseen. A child is always willing to open her heart and eyes, given the chance. As I flash in and out of the most difficult times of my life I can feel the thread that connects it all. Everyone and everything has a purpose.

Bits and Pieces

People come and go, fading from your life

Drifting far apart—yet when they come to mind

You find them in your heart.

Bits and pieces come to mind

Memories come to view

When did the time just slip away?

When did the past become the new?

Living life with a lot more questions than before

The well goes deeper and deeper into who you are.

Myself 13 years old with family friends

at the holiday camp

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CHAPTER 3

The phone is ringing. I find myself back in the room, in Ohio. The snow still had not let up. I decide to let the phone ring, I will answer it later. As I go back in time, I am feeling an intense pain in the middle of my back. There is some resistance. I tell myself, Breathe, breathe deep—you can do this. Just allow yourself to relax, let go and allow the memories to flow. In order to know myself better I must be willing to remember, willing to open up and face any fears that may be blocking me from my wholeness. Breathe deeply, just allow myself to flow back, back, back into time.

I was 15. I was developing into a young lady and had acquired good taste and was leading a very full life. I had just come back from playing badminton with a friend and was heading to the kitchen for refreshments when I ran into my foster mother. Sunday, your mother is on the phone and said it’s important. My heart skipped a beat; still my mother had that effect on me. I rushed over and said Hello Mum. I could tell my mother had been crying. Mum, what’s wrong? In a quiet voice unlike my mothers, she said in her thick Welsh accent, Sunday gal, it’s Mum. I want you to come home. I need you. How could I refuse? I had been longing to hear these words. OK, I replied, and hung up. I had such mixed feelings. I broke down and cried.

Mrs. Kingham ran over to me and wrapped her arms around me and said You don’t have to give birth to love a child. I love you as my own. But you must make the decision, for I cannot stop you. I loved her too, but she didn’t need me as much as my mother did. I remember feeling so torn apart, confused, not really wanting to leave the security and comfort of a home with love and laughter. In a way I wanted her to take the decision for me, yet a part of me knew she wouldn’t for she had taught me to believe in myself.

The next day she helped me pack. I had accumulated so many beautiful clothes, shoes and purses. Many of my outfits she had made lovingly by hand. I could tell she had been crying and I felt awkward knowing I had caused her to be sad. It seemed the choices we make can hurt others. She held me close and hugged me so tight that I had to pull away. But she whispered in my ear, I will always love you and be here for you. Never forget that. I hugged her back and quickly pulled away for I was scared I would fall apart and I had to be strong for my Mum.

As the bus pulled away, once more my face was pressed against the window, only this time it was for my foster mother. The bus was pulling into Stoke Newington, London. I was amazed at the contrast between where I had come from and where I was now. London still was sooty and dirty. They had a strange cockney accent. I touched the silky curls in my hair, and the softness of my clothing and shuddered. I had changed and grown into a lady. How was I going to fit in, I thought. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door, that same door where as a child I would tremble as she approached and would stop just inside to feel her Mum’s mood just in case I needed to run and hide. All these emotions were rushing through me. Once more, I took a deep breath and with courage knocked louder.

My sister Rosie swung open the door. There stood my other sister and brother. It was wonderful to see them! Where’s Mum? I asked. She’s working, they replied. I was so excited to see her. When I saw her walk through the door I ran to her, but she held me back saying, Got yourself all fancied up. I could see she felt uncomfortable with me and she went on to say how bad things had been for her, how everything had become so dear and gone up in price. Still, you’re home now and you can help out. Maybe get a job. I thought What have I done, why did I feel I could change things for my family? I wanted to run back to where I came from. I didn’t fit in anymore. But it was wonderful to see my brother and sisters. So I resigned myself to fit in.

I took some scissors and cut off my curls. This would make my mother feel more comfortable. I tucked my fancy clothes under the bed. No need for her to see them. As I walked into the kitchen, I saw a big smile come over her face. Now that’s my Sunday. I went into her arms and resigned myself to do whatever to make her happy and closed the door to wherever I’d been. I managed to get a job in a tobacco factory. Can’t remember what I did except the money was good. Except I knew I hated the taste of the tobacco leaves on my hands and would try to scrub the taste off, kind of like hop picking. Life was good. I was so happy to help make life a little easier for Mum.

But the honeymoon was soon over. I noticed her mood swings were returning, her anger and rage escalating. I became fearful; she was swinging for my brother and sister and my sister was already injured. RUN! I screamed out as I threw the washcloth at my mother. I grabbed her arms and asked her to stop, but she was swinging wildly. I held her down and screamed again RUN! GO! I can’t hold her much longer! Once they were out of sight, I ran too. The next thing I knew the police were looking for me to take me away. My mother told them I had beaten her and I was wild and she was scared to let me back into the house. Her act was one of innocence and she was being very kind to my brother and sister.

I was taken to a holding place until they could decide what to do with me. Soon a policewoman came to see me and took me for an examination at the doctor’s office. They wanted to see if I was still innocent. In other words, still a virgin. The examination was very painful and made an imprint that would affect me for many years to come. The next thing I heard was the doctor speaking to the policewoman, She is untouched, so she can go to the convent. I dressed very slowly, my body had numbed out. I was so confused and lost. I was only trying to protect my brother and my sister. And now I was told I was the bad one and was to be taken away into a convent until a certain age, never to feel the sun on my face or the wind in my hair. All freedom was gone until I was of age to stand-alone.

The train ride to the convent was long. The lady who was accompanying me had a long pinched face. I was handed a sandwich and drink and given the silent treatment. And so I entered my own world. As the train speeded through the countryside, I pressed my face into the window as if by some miracle I would be set free. I hummed the song I had written on my first visit to the countryside:

Buttercups and Daisies by Sunday Greene

Buttercups and daisies, daisies and bluebells,

Some for my darling and some for me

We’ll be together, no mind the weather

Buttercups and daisies my darling for thee.

I just kept singing silently to myself, thinking time will go fast and one day I will be free.

Photo of me at 15year old in Darby with Mrs Kingham

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CHAPTER 4

As the train pulled into Darby, I noticed how quaint it all was. Darby was such a tiny village that was hidden amongst those beautiful emerald green rolling hills and countryside. Oh how I loved nature. The air was crisp. Perhaps it won’t be so bad after all, I said to myself as I drew a deep breath of the fresh air. The staff at the convent met us. I will never forget my first sight of the convent. It looked like a miniature castle, Spartan, grey, drab. Just like the uniforms that were given to me later. There were tiny slits for windows with bars across. This must be a prison, I thought. I wondered if the bars were to keep people out or keep them in. I was soon to find out.

The large heavy door swung open and as I walked through an eerie feeling rushed through my body and I wondered what was in store for me in the days ahead. Something happened to me in the convent where life became a blur. We were treated as slaves, as nonexistent persons. Our feelings did not matter. We, meaning eleven other girls around my age, and myself, were to learn how to be obedient. We were not allowed to gather close and speak. We needed permission for everything. I remember the long woolly grey frock they handed me. They acted as if I should feel honored to be in the convent. How could I when it was not my choice to be there.

We each had our own rooms; small, bare, except for a tiny steel bed with a thin mattress. They didn’t believe in making you too comfortable. I felt