Mercy on 27Th Street: A Memoir

By Marian T. Call

This book deals with the lives of several women who have been connected for almost fifty years, first as members of a religious community together, then as friends after most of them left the convent. The first part focuses on the author’s childhood and teenage years, while the remainder concentrates on the years she lived in a small community of six women who were all members of the Religious Sisters of Mercy, under the auspices of the Province of Cincinnati. Many changes occurred in their lives over the six or so years they lived in this community. Most of them were teachers, one a librarian. They made many friends with the people they encountered in what was primarily an African American population. Their neighbors were nothing if not gracious and welcoming. They learned many things about themselves as they struggled together and attempted to deal with various issues they had grown up with, including sexual abuse, alcoholism, and depression. At one point in their community life, they all attended therapy, both individually and as a group, hoping to learn how to better communicate with each other. They enjoyed good times and endured some hard times. They formed a group to study feminism, and other women they knew joined this group. It proved to be an eye-opening time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796099799

Book preview

Prologue

The inevitable process of subtraction by death began in 2009, reducing our long-time, close-knit group of friends from nine to eight. On July 5th, a couple of months before her 62nd birthday, Karen Harrigan died after a relatively short illness. Diagnosed with kidney cancer in late 2008, she was dead a few months later. Her absence was keenly felt at our first Thanksgiving gathering after her death, as well as the Christmas celebration which followed. A year earlier, right after doctors had delivered the terrible news, she hadn’t let it stop her from having a wonderful time at the last Christmas party she would ever attend. The anticipation of sickness, and looming death, had sharpened the focus of that evening’s activities for everyone. But Karen danced and sang the evening away. She had brought her guitar and copies of Christmas carols to the party as usual, and hearts filled with ambivalence—and dread—we sang and contemplated what might lie ahead for her—and us.

Ironically, she was the youngest member of the group.

But let’s go back to where the story begins.

In the fall of 1973, with the approval of our superiors, Sisters Mary Ann Ballard, Mary Rosella Fitzmayer, Jane Leis, Marian Theresa Call, Catherine Ann Bohler, and Mary Karen Harrigan, chose to move in together to form a small community on the corner of 27th & Magazine Streets in Louisville, Kentucky’s west end. Sister Mary Joyce Ogden would join us a couple of years later. This small community was under the auspices of the Religious Sisters of Mercy, Province of Cincinnati, Ohio. In the sixties, Pope John XXIII had presided over the Second Vatican Council, which opened the windows of the Catholic Church, allowing in winds of change. Thus, when we formed this new community, we brought with us inchoate ideas about how to live our vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience in new ways. Having been members of the Sisters of Mercy for various lengths of time, each of us had been living in other communities scattered throughout Louisville. Our time together brought about many changes, the most profound being that when we disbanded six years later, several of us chose to leave religious life altogether.

For years, I had toyed with the idea of writing the story of this small community. In fact, on a couple of occasions I had sat down and attempted to put some thoughts on paper. It proved to be a daunting endeavor. I also invited the others to share their memories on tape. Sometime in the late nineties, Mary Ann and Joyce took me up on my offer. But the resulting tapes lay silent for years, biding their time, buried deep at the bottom of a box of other tapes that had long since been forgotten as they were slowly replaced by CDs. Each attempt to find words for what I wanted to convey found me overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, and I quickly set it aside, expecting to begin again someday. But Karen’s death served as a stark reminder that none of us is assured of a future time to finish anything. I figured I’d better begin now.

In November of 2009, I finally quit dilly-dallying and became serious about writing this collective history, brief though I anticipated it to be. I asked Mary Ann Ballard, Jane Leis, Cathy Bohler, and Joyce Ogden, the other original members of the 27th St. Community who were still living, to join me around my kitchen table, where I’d set up a tape recorder to capture as many of the important details of our lives together as we could remember. Hoping to shake up memories, before our first meeting, I emailed everyone a list of questions, asking them to jot down their responses and bring them to this gathering. A couple of weeks later, they drove out to my home in Pleasureville, Kentucky, and, after sharing breakfast, we cleared the table and fortified ourselves with steaming mugs of coffee. In no certain order memories began to emerge.

One thing quickly became evident: the same event was often recalled differently by one or the other of us. We sometimes attempted to sway one another with a corrected version of the story as we remembered it. At times a storyteller expressed reluctance to let go of her version of events. At first, I was puzzled and dismayed by this phenomenon. How was I to choose a correct version to write when the facts didn’t always match? I was lucky to receive some insight into this issue when I read these words in Kitchen Table Wisdom, by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.:

All real stories are true. Sometimes when a patient tells me their story, someone in their family will protest. But it didn’t happen quite that way. It happened more like this. I have come to know that the stories both these people tell me are equally true, equally genuine, and that neither of them may be correct, an exact description of the event much as a video camera might have recorded it. Stories are someone’s experience of the events of their life; they are not the events themselves. Most of us experience the same event very differently. We have seen it in our own unique way and the story we tell has more than a bit of ourselves in it. Truth is highly subjective. All stories are full of bias and uniqueness; they mix fact with meaning. This is the root of their power. Stories allow us to see something familiar through new eyes. We become in that moment a guest in someone else’s life, and together with them sit at the feet of their teacher. The meaning we may draw from someone’s story may be different from the meaning they themselves have drawn. No matter. Facts bring us to knowledge, but stories lead to wisdom. (Introduction, pp. xvii & xviii)

Her words cleared up my confusion: Stories are someone’s experience of the events of their life; they are not the events themselves. Based on her observation, I realized how rich the tale of our time together could be.

But she added another wrinkle. On the one hand, her words provided me a sense of relief; on the other, they intimidated me. I now felt charged with the more difficult task of telling our story in a way that captured wisdom and not simply facts. Was I up to the task? I didn’t think so. But at least I wanted to try. And I thought, no matter how it turned out, it would be fun. I just needed to get out of the way and let the stories speak for themselves. Nike’s famous slogan reverberated over and over in my head until I decided to Just Do It.

As I plunged further into the project, I found myself thinking I’d have to maintain neutrality as I wrote the book. How I expected to accomplish this, I don’t know. My intention had been to listen and record the experiences that the others described. I would observe, ask questions, sit back and listen, take copious notes, then write down what I heard. But gradually I realized it would be impossible to leave myself out of the mix. I wasn’t an objective reporter. I had lived through all that I was hearing.

Over the next few weeks, I also began to understand that I was being challenged to go deeper. The more I wrote, the more I realized I wanted to place this six-year period into a larger context. None of us had lived in a vacuum before moving in together, so it seemed important to provide a broader background. I decided to introduce each of us and include information about our lives before we joined the convent, as well as after the group disbanded.

During the various taped sessions, as I encouraged and cajoled each person to be as honest as they could about their lives, I realized that I wasn’t willing to do the same. In fact, each time I glibly made my request for honesty, I felt like a fake. I had no intention of doing what I was asking them to do. Events had occurred in my life that were deeply buried, secrets that few people knew about, that I could not, did not, and would not ever consider including in this narrative. But you hear it all the time: books write themselves, sometimes despite the author’s original plan, and the focus of this one gradually shifted until it began to emerge as a memoir. It now includes details that have pushed me way beyond my comfort zone and contains more information about me than anyone else.

I also realized I didn’t want to write a book filled with stories about Roman Catholic nuns (mostly now ex-nuns) without examining the strong influences, both positive and negative, that Catholicism had exerted on all of us.

Something unusual was at work in this small community from the very beginning, something that drew us together and keeps us connected, even as we approach almost fifty years of being linked. While my voice may be the predominant one, this book isn’t only my story. It tells pieces of others’ stories, each as she remembers it, however she remembers it, weaving itself into the fibers of the cloth that shelters those who rest beneath its threads.

Part I

Chapter 1

I was born and raised a Catholic. All my school years were spent in Catholic schools, except for a few short months in the first grade when my family lived in a small town where there was only a public school. Catholicism was the umbrella under which we lived. It shielded us from the heresy of other religions, as well as the worldliness and secularism which supposedly existed outside its boundaries.

I loved being a Catholic. I loved our rituals, our music, and our symbols. I possessed that air of superiority which was common to many Catholics. I felt smug when I learned that non-Catholics were encouraged to attend our Mass, but we weren’t allowed to take part in their Sunday worship services. Secretly, I felt sorry for them. I prayed for their conversion. After all, we had the true faith. We were assured of going to heaven. Even as a young child, I worried about babies who died without being baptized, because they were going to limbo. Was it true that they would never see God? I prayed ardently for the souls in Purgatory. I wondered who they were, how they had gotten here, and what they might have done that kept them from going straight to heaven when they died. I spent a great deal of time as a child reading the lives of the saints. They were my heroes and heroines. Never mind that their lives were considered a bit bizarre by modern standards. They had made it to heaven. They were with God. I wanted to be just like them.

I took seriously the maxim which we learned early on as children. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam. All for the Honor and Glory of God. In my prim and proper handwriting, I faithfully placed the letters, AMDG, the abbreviation for this Latin motto, at the top of all my school papers. I fiercely loved and wanted to please this Almighty Being who had created me to know, love, and serve Him so that I might be happy with Him in the next world, even if it meant being unhappy in this one. In fact, it seemed that the unhappier one was in this life, and the more suffering one endured, the greater chance for happiness in the next.

Catechism classes provided me a lot of joy. As encouragement to study our lessons, the Sisters would conduct contests to see who could remain standing the longest by giving the greatest number of correct answers to the question in the Baltimore Catechism. We could line up along the classroom wall, each anticipating the sweet taste of victory. However, no one ever wanted to be first. If you answered incorrectly on the very first try, you’d have to slink silently back to your desk, head bent in shame and disgrace.

Who made you? Sister would begin.

God made me, the first person in line replied, followed by a huge sigh of relief. That one was easy.

Sister’s head turned slightly down the line to the next contestant.

Why did God make you? she continued.

God made me to know . . . uh . . . God made me . . . um . . . God

Next! Sister would bellow.

There was no room in these hotly contested battles for the timid or weak. Sister figured you either knew the answer or you didn’t. Period. She showed no mercy for the fainthearted.

At a young age, I had already set out on a desperate and frantic quest to become the most perfect little girl I could. I wanted to be enrolled in the school of perfection! As a result, I prepared diligently the night before each of these contests. My mother would listen to my lessons until I thought I knew them inside and out. The Sisters kept holy cards, small statues of various saints (some of which glowed in the dark), and rosaries to hand out as prizes to the winner. I fought to win these precious trophies. They meant a great deal to me. Years later I discovered some of these treasures hidden away among my mementoes. And I remember feeling a quick surge of affection for my mother when I accidentally discovered a few holy cards she had saved from her own childhood. They were dated May 12, 1920 when she was eight years old, October 14, 1922, and January 16, 1924. I carried them out to the kitchen and showed them to her.

My heavens! she exclaimed, obviously pleased at my discovery. I had forgotten all about those cards. Where did you find them?

Way down at the bottom of your jewelry box, I replied, hoping she would elaborate. My mother often entertained us with stories of her days in boarding school. She immediately pulled out a chair and, as we sat down at the table, she began to reminisce about the Sisters whose names were scrawled on the back of each card in her own childish handwriting.

Sister Carmelita. I loved Sister Carmelita. She was strict but fair, my mother said affectionately. Flipping over the next one, she continued, This one was given to me by Sister Jane Frances. She was the superior of the boarding school I attended, Cardome Academy in Georgetown, Kentucky after my mother died. Let’s see, I believe she gave me this card after room inspection one Saturday afternoon. My section was spotless. She laughed. I had worked so hard all morning, but I never expected to win the prize.

While she spent a few more minutes describing the details of how she had won each of the other cards, I marveled at her remarkable memory. It was wonderful for me to experience in such concrete terms that my mother, too, had once been a little girl. Like her, I held the Sisters in awe. Most of my childhood crushes were on these women who taught me so much. Monday mornings usually found me eager to get back to school.

One of my fondest memories occurred when I was in the fourth grade at St. Clement’s School in Birmingham, Alabama. One afternoon after school was out for the day, Sister Josephine appeared out of nowhere, riding a bicycle around the playground. She had pinned up the hem of her long black habit as she pedaled around in a circle with her veil flying out behind her. When all the kids who had stayed after school to play spotted her, we began to clap and cheer. I loved Sister Josephine. She was kind and good. Her laughter was music to my ears, and I wanted to be just like her. Watching her that day planted the first seeds in my mind of wanting to become a nun. But I can’t say that I was close to her. That’s the way it was with the nuns—you didn’t exactly get close to them. You admired these mysterious women from afar. Enshrouded in yards and yards of fabric, most of them seemed to slip quietly through our lives, leaving only the sound of their rosary beads clicking in the distance.

Another time, I was asked by my teacher to deliver a package to the convent—a secret mysterious place in my child’s mind. Package tucked tightly under my arm, I skipped off to the small structure that sat off to one side of the church. One of the nuns greeted me at the door, and as she accepted the box I handed to her, I surreptitiously peeked around her, attempting to take in as much of the layout of the convent as I could from just inside the door. She did not invite me in. Again, I remember being seized by a desire to live like these women when I grew up.

We expected them to push us to do our best, even though it wasn’t fun, when occasionally their efforts collided with what they considered laziness at best or disobedience at worst. These lapses in behavior could bring about a thump on the head or a rap across the knuckles. For example, my second-grade teacher, Sister Mary Perpetua, was young, inexperienced, and volatile. One example comes to mind which left me feeling shamed, humiliated and embarrassed. She had observed me jumping up and down in the line of second graders as we marched back into the classroom after recess.

Marian Call, she shrieked before I even reached my desk. Her anger echoed around the room, bringing everyone to fearful attention.

Come up here. I have a few things to say about your silly behavior.

I was puzzled because I had no idea what I had done.

Boys and girls, she said, rotating her head back and forth from me to the twenty-five or so pairs of eyes that followed her every move. The starched garments around her bright red face creaked ominously as she reached out and grabbed me by both arms. "I want to show you how not to walk in line. She then forced me to jump up and down to illustrate the behavior she had observed as she watched from the window. I thought she would never stop. Her grip was tight, and she was hurting me. I don’t remember if any of the other kids laughed, but I felt devastated. Now go back to your seat, young lady, and don’t ever let me catch you acting like that again," she said coldly.

I fought unsuccessfully to hold back tears as I stumbled back to my desk, but I had no more than sat down when I realized she wasn’t finished with me, yet. Oh, so you will be sure to remember what I’ve told you, come right back up here and remove your rose from its bucket, she demanded.

The rose chart! How could I have forgotten the rose chart? She had contrived an ingenious plan that was intended to reward good behavior and punish those students who failed to measure up to her high standards. Sister had printed each of our names in horizontal rows on a large poster, then taped it to the wall. Over the top of each name she had glued a tiny bucket she had formed from stiff cardboard, and then inserted a miniature rose. Adding insult to injury, she pointed me toward the chart and stood there triumphantly as I pulled my rose from its place and handed it over to her. She marched over to her desk, pulled out the long middle drawer, and flung my rose down next to several other pitiful looking specimens. Glaring at me, she loudly proclaimed, You will get this back when you show me you are worthy of it.

As I recall this incident nearly sixty years later, I can laugh about it, though my cheeks still burn. It may be funny, now, but having to remove my rose from its rightful place on that wall filled me with utter shame and delivered a devastating blow to that little girl who believed anything short of perfection could result in dire consequences. That ever-elusive goal. Perfection! Where had I gotten the idea that one had to be perfect? I have no clear answer to that question. I just knew that making mistakes and messing up could turn the world against you very quickly.

Sister Mary Perpetua could also occasionally be the bane of my mother’s existence. Sister latched onto the idea that my brother, Mickey, who was small for his age at the time, was suffering some type of nutritional deficiency. She carelessly remarked to him one day that she believed my mother wasn’t feeding us properly. Sister had the idea that the daily diet of peanut butter sandwiches Mother packed in our lunch bags constituted an inadequate diet. Of course, Mickey went home and told Mother what Sister had said. She was incensed. I remember her marching down to St. Anthony’s School the next day to give Sister a piece of her mind. She never told us exactly what transpired, but I could tell by the way she banged the pots and pans around in the kitchen that night that she was still angry. I don’t think she ever forgave Sister Mary Perpetua for that accusation. Given that these were the days when whatever Sister said was considered sacrosanct, my mother’s behavior was out of the ordinary.

An incident happened when I was in the third or fourth grade that sheds light on just how obsessive I had become about doing things right. Sister Mary Teresa had drummed into our heads that when we left our pews to receive Communion. we were to return to the exact same place in the pew in the exact order in which we had left it. A stickler for precision, she had brought us over to the church one morning during religion class to practice. I was terrified of failing to carry out her directions. After all, Perfection Points were always available, waiting to be earned. My seriousness and earnestness were fast becoming burdens for me.

The next morning during Mass, when I arrived at the communion rail to receive the host, I was so anxious about returning to my proper place in the correct order that I jumped up and went back to my pew before the priest even reached me. When I glanced to my right, then my left, and discovered that the same classmate was next to me on each side that had been there when I left, I was so happy. (I still have never figured out how I managed to get back to my pew in the proper order when I had left the communion rail early, but perhaps the answer will come to me one of these days as I sit in Purgatory, burning off vestiges of sins I have committed, waiting to get into heaven.) It wasn’t until a few minutes later, while basking in the sense of relief I felt at having accomplished my feat, that I realized what had happened, and I panicked! I had been so nervous about messing up that I had failed to receive Holy Communion. I was also upset that I had broken my string of First Fridays. (A special indulgence was granted to Catholics who received Holy Communion nine first Fridays in a row. Now I would have to start all over again.) I was so ashamed of myself. I was also worried that one of my classmates might have noticed my terrible transgression. If they did, no one ever came forward to report it.

Priests were far removed from my daily life as a youngster. I remember little about them except that when one was in their presence, a special deference seemed to be called for. They occasionally visited our classrooms to teach religion. When preparing for their visits, Sister would demonstrate exactly how to greet Father when he arrived.

Now children, when Father comes into the room you will all stand up and say, ‘Good morning, Father,’ she instructed.

We practiced how to get it right. Sister would leave the room, only to return as Father. We all stood to greet her, our chorus of voices swelling in unison as she swished back into the room, Good morning, Father.