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A t the time, The Star of the Sea convent seemed to me a very big, forbidding, grey Gothic building with a tarmac yard like a prisoners' exercise yard. Of course when I went back there 17 years later it was just a little place, a sweet, little school. I remember all the nuns vividly. There was Sister Raymond who taught me about art. She had big round bosoms and big round hips and she loved art even though she'd never seen any. She had never seen anything. Yet she used to stand there pointing to these pictures saying: Oh look, it's really beautiful!
Well, this is Chartres and this is what it looks like. Then there was Sister Cyril who taught us French and who was very frail, and rather sensual and feminine. When men came into the room to do things like mend the window catch she used to practically writhe herself into conniptions. We decided she was a pretty sad case.
There was Sister Philip who taught us chemistry and who I remember because I hit her with a softball straight into the front of her coif, which crumpled it and knocked her flat.
Sister Michael who taught me German and who had a face that looked as if it had been scrubbed hard with steel wool. And Sister Attracta, who taught us singing. I'll always remember Sister Attracta. She really did wonders with us. I sang three or four times a week in a madrigal choir. We sang Masses, we sang operetta, we sang everything.
I'm still singing the same things. I remember especially Sister Eymard who tried to teach me the philosophical proofs of the existence of God, and thereby destroyed my faith completely because she didn't know them. Rather, she did know them but they weren't valid.
She was always in a hurry - the sort of nun who would go through a room rearranging all the furniture with her habit. In the end she got run over, probably because she was charging across the road without looking.
I think one of the reasons why I was never properly domesticated is because I was actually socialised by a gang of mad women in flapping black habits.
I am more like them than I am like my mother. I owe them more in a way because they loved me more and they worked harder on me than my mother did. They really loved us. I realise that now, although I didn't realise it at the time. They were very excited to have such a clever little girl in the school and anything I did was all right with them. I was forgiven within two seconds because I would say something funny or clever. They brought out the best in me and it needn't have been brought out - it could have stayed right where it was.
I could have married a stockbroker and settled into a life of three cars and a carport. They made that impossible because I was hungry for something else - spiritual values.
Just not their spiritual values. I think all girls' schools are fairly hysterical institutions. I am very fond of women in groups. I want to see women being happier in their groups and less apologetic for them. I like the way women laugh without self-consciousness when there are no men around. If you go into a pub you won't hear women rolling on the floor with laughter. You'll hear the polite responses to men's jokes.
You won't hear too many jokes by women either, because they are watching someone else's performance. When you are within convent walls or college walls, then the women's innate creativity has to come out.
So, we were uproarious and the nuns were uproarious too. They were all droll and mad in their particular ways. They didn't conform to any stereotype, they were all different.
The one thing the nuns don't do is take sex for granted or trivialise it or turn it into a sport. For all convent girls, sex is hugely attractive: I hesitate to suggest for one moment that the tabloid press is perceptive, but I think convent girls do have a special kind of intensity, a special kind of physical awareness.
The nuns wanted us to know that sex was something very powerful that you fooled with at your peril. They convinced us that our bodies were just charged with this amazing stuff and if we did so much as bare the top part of our arms, we could be an occasion of sin.
It could cause lascivious thoughts to come into somebody's head. I think they were too innocent to realise that there are a lot of men out there who have lascivious thoughts when they see school uniforms. They thought the school uniform was the armour of chastity. It was only when we got dressed up in our ghastly frocks for the ball and dances that they would fill our fronts with Kleenex in case a taller boy should peer down them.
I was already six feet tall and there wasn't a boy in the room who was going to see down that cleavage. I did think that sex was something extremely powerful and holy, to be approached with great trepidation. It has been an ongoing disappointment in my life to discover that other people don't give it that much importance.
I really expected the stars to shoot from their spheres when I finally undid more than one button. We were all sex-struck and that's the nuns' fault entirely. When I left schooI I was faced with this ghastly thing called dating. I didn't know what the hell it was supposed to be about. All I knew was that as soon as you went anywhere with a young man, whether he paid for the tickets or not, he was all over you, putting all kinds of pressure on you.
I decided that dating was the pits and that was my convent training. It's vile and it's called hypocrisy. It's no use being a demivierge; you have to be either fiercely virginal or fiercely non-virginal. I do think there is a lot to be said for segregation. The more I look at segregated societies in different countries, the more it seems that women have a more satisfactory life when they are less dependent on a single man. Constant consorting with men is very alienating for women eventually.
Women discover this at menopause if they don't discover it before. At menopause they suddenly become invisible to the people they've spent their whole lives truckling to. I think it is important to separate Catholicism from conventism. To be a Catholic is one thing. To be a convent girl is another. I am still a Catholic, I just don't believe in God.
I am an atheist Catholic - there are a lot of them around. One thing lapsed Catholics do not do is go in for an "inferior" religion with less in the way of tradition and intellectual content. So, when the vicar comes round and tries to enlist my aid for the building fund of the Protestant church in the village, I say: I am sure the nuns would much rather I had a change of heart and became a great Catholic polemicist and was as noisy about Catholicism as I have been about everything else.
I don't really think there's much chance of that, although the nuns will be praying for it. That's the worst thing about the blessed nuns, they're praying for you, hell for leather, every day. This gang of Presentation nuns are going to haul me up to heaven whether I like it or not. When I was at school the nuns got an allowance for basic bodily necessities, which included sanitary napkins, soap and hairpins. They got 15 shillings a week. They had no money because of their vow of poverty, yet the Australian education system would have collapsed without the exploitation of this group of women.
Having said that, they generally lived in nicer houses with gardens and ate better food, than the average single-woman teacher could ever manage.
Their communal life did make for a good lifestyle with good conversation, good books, lots of travelling from one house to another and lots of time for contemplation. I think it is a good life. I just wish it hadn't lost so much of its inner justification. As long as it is done out of passionate love for Our Lord, it cannot be regarded as simply oppressive.
For many centuries the convent was the only way out of oppressive marriages and they were often very epicurean places where nuns made great music, put on plays and saw the best of everything. There is no reason why it should not be like that again. People ask me what I want my house to be like. I think there is something to be said for nunneries. I am not sure that there's anything to be said for Catholicism. My father married my mother in a Catholic church, so he had to make a promise that I would be brought up in my mother's religion.
That was ironic seeing as she didn't even observe it, but I think she knew that the convent would give me a better education. My father, on the other hand, always believed I was taught badly. Even when I won a scholarship to university, he did not revise his opinion.
Can you even imagine this scenario in reverse? You will want to read and share and talk about and re-read this book. It uniquely and powerfully fills a big gap in the Christian world: It answers questions plainly, and helps the reader differentiate between what current Christian culture says and what Christ Himself says about sex.
The world keeps it murky, y'all. This book keeps it clean. Aanna has given us a graceful yet clear resource that engages a topic that can be so shrouded in mystery and shame, yet her sweet words and helpful insights are a balm of healing. My therapist recommended this book to me and I read the first two sections in one sitting because it was so helpful! My mother never had the "sex talk" with me growing up so I learned a lot of anatomy and sexuality from friends or online. Now as a married woman I still struggle with viewing sex as good, pure, and God's gift.
The last section is on being married so my husband and I have been reading this together. It's so good to read this book to my husband, with a female perspective. Sometimes I don't even know how to describe to him what feels good and what I wish he knew. We keep saying, where was this when we had our honeymoon?! See all 17 reviews. Most recent customer reviews. Published 1 month ago. Published 5 months ago.
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